What?
He would hide a spare key somewhere on the ATV. If not for himself, then for his son.
He would.
Turning, Remington rushes back and begins to search the machine.
Falling to his knees, he checks beneath the tire wells, under the suspension, around the motor. Looking for a small box with a powerful magnet, he scans all the metal parts first. What he finds instead is a hard blue plastic Stor-A-Key device with an adjustable cable and a built-in combination lock. Fastened to the chassis, the small box dangles down, but can’t be seen unless you’re underneath the vehicle looking up.
Three numbers.
One thousand different possible combinations. Just three little numbers determine his fate.
What would Dad use?
Of course.
For most of their marriage, Cole had told is wife he loved her with three numbers, writing them in rose petals on her bed, drawing them on napkins, the margins of magazines, newspapers, books.
1-4-3.
The number of letters in each word of I love you. 1-4-3. He tries it and nothing happens.
He was sure that would be it.
He spins the numbers, clearing and resetting the lock, and tries again.
1.
4.
3.
The cable releases and the small plastic box pops open. The key is inside.
25
Now
* * *
I meet Charles Masters at his family’s bee business in Land’s Landing.
Though there is an actual Land’s Landing with a boat launch and small park next to the river, the entire area around and between Old Transfer Road and Land Drive is referred to as Land’s Landing.
It’s tupelo season and the Masters family is hard at work, getting ready to transport their bees to places along the river swamp near the soon-to-be-blooming tupelo trees.
Tupelo honey is a light golden amber honey with a slight greenish tint that smells of cinnamon and flowers and tastes like something they’d serve in heaven.
In addition to its distinct, delicate, and delicious taste, tupelo is popular for two additional reasons—it doesn’t crystallize like other honeys, and because of its high fructose content, diabetics can use it as a sweetener.
Tupelo is also extremely rare.
It is only produced commercially in our little corner of Northwest Florida—and then only once a year for a very short time.
The tupelo tree, first discovered by William Bartram along the Ogeechee River in Georgia, is also sometimes called swamp gum, bee-tupelo, and tupelo gum.
Because tupelo trees grow in the river swamps along the Chipola and Apalachicola rivers, beekeepers have to move their hives as close to the trees when they’re blooming as they can. Transported on barges and boats down the river, the hives are placed on elevated platforms along the banks or left on the barges, allowing the bees to fan out through the area that is pregnant with tupelo blossoms during a few short weeks each spring.
As soon as the tupelo flow is completed, the hives must be moved again and the honey harvested to avoid dilution with gallberry and other blooming flowers.
In addition to the annual festival, tupelo has been celebrated in Van Morrison’s 1971 song of the same name, as well as featured in the critically acclaimed Victor Nunez film Ulee’s Gold, starring Peter Fonda, which was shot right here in Wewa.
Hundreds of bee boxes in various states of disrepair are piled in front of the honey house where the tupelo will be slung from the hives once they return from their journey down the river. Beyond the unused bee boxes and the honey house, bees buzz and swarm around the stacks of boxes in the back lot, as Charles’ father and brothers in full beekeeper suits use smoke cans to move the hives about.
Charles is not what I expect.
He’s both short and small, his body resembling that of a boy instead of the thirty-something man he is. He has blondish hair and glasses and is dressed in clothes that look like they came from the boy’s department at Sears.
I’m here to talk to him because he briefly worked for Robin Wilson, and I’m hoping he can give me some insight into the investigation into what happened to Remington, and who may have killed his old boss and coworkers.
“I appreciate you talking to me,” I say. “I know how busy y’all are right now.”
“Not a problem. Happy to help. Besides . . . weather’s not cooperating this year. Looks like there’s not going to be much of a harvest.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
In addition to being so small, he’s bookish and cerebral, and I wonder what made him want to become a deputy.
“What made you become a deputy?” I ask.
“Not what you’d expect, is it?” he says. “To be honest with you, I . . . wanted to be sheriff. Planned on living here my entire life and wanted to make a difference, take care of this area and people. Figured I’d start as a deputy and work my way up through the ranks. Do every job I could. Just didn’t work out. I’m sure you’re loyal to Reggie or may plan to run yourself one day, but the truth is . . . I haven’t ruled out running for sheriff and may even do it next time around. If not, probably one day in the future.”
I nod. “Well, I am loyal to Reggie, but you don’t ever have to worry about me running. I’ve got the jobs I want. Have no interest in being a politician.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m looking into the Remington James case and the murders of Robin Wilson, Donnie Ray Kemp, Skeeter Hamm, Skip Lester, and Dahl Rogers.”
“You think they’re connected?” he asks.
“Do you?”
He shrugs.
“You were there at the time both things happened, right?” I say.
He nods. “I was a deputy.”
I would think his diminutive stature would disqualify him from being a deputy, and I wonder if Robin Wilson, who seemed to do what he wanted to, regardless of laws or regulations or even public opinion, had made an exception for him for some reason.
“Which means I wasn’t involved in the investigation—I mean as an investigator, but I was close enough to witness a lot. It’s a very small department.”
“Was it a real investigation—the one into what happened to Remington and the others involved in the shootout—or was it just going through the motions, pretending to investigate?”
“Can’t say for sure, but . . . I’d say it was meant to look like an investigation but wasn’t.”
“Like maybe Robin and the others were involved somehow and were covering it up?”
“Maybe. I really don’t know.”
A noise from the backlot where his dad and brothers are working with the bees draws our attention and we both turn to look, watching without talking for a few moments.
Observing the beekeepers at work, I’m reminded how labor-intensive tupelo production is, how fragile the bees and the blooms are, and how often, in spite of all the effort, very little honey is produced.
Charles turns back toward me and I continue.
“I keep hearing how corrupt Sheriff Wilson was,” I say.
“Don’t believe what you hear,” he says. “Whatever you’ve heard . . . what he did was far, far worse. Never met any career criminal that was a fraction as corrupt as that cop was.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Never seen anything like it.”
“I know he was under investigation by FDLE when he was killed. You have any idea what it was about or any conclusions they reached?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“How were you able to work in such a corrupt department?” I ask.
“Didn’t for long. When I first started I didn’t know about any of it, and it didn’t have a direct impact on me or the other deputies for a while. But as I began to see and hear more about what he was doing, how he and the others you mentioned were running the sheriff’s department like an organized crime syndicate, I got out.”
“I noticed you quit ar
ound the time the Sheriff was killed,” I say.
He nods. “It was just before he was, but even then . . . I stayed longer than I planned.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“FDLE asked me to,” he says.
“FDLE?”
“I was what Robin and his boys would call a snitch. I was the one who reported him to FDLE, and when they started investigating him, they asked if I’d stay to help gather more information. I didn’t mind. I was happy to bring down that evil bastard. Of course, ultimately someone beat us to it.”
“Any idea who?”
He shakes his head. “Wish I did. I’d buy ’em a beer. Like I said, that was after I left. But . . . it’s not a coincidence that the ones who were killed were his buddies from high school who he hired after he got elected. They were all involved in the crime and corruption.”
“What kind of crime and corruption we talkin’ about?”
“You name it. Extortion. Kickbacks. Violating civil rights. Theft. Sexual harassment. Rape.”
“Rape? You sure?”
He nods. “And not just inmates—though there was plenty of that. I’m not talking violent or brutal rape. Robin was the Bill Cosby of law enforcement—he used date rape drugs. It was found in his house when he was killed. Reggie can tell you all this. She was investigating him at the time. Hell, he died in her jail cell when she was still the chief of police of Wewa.”
“I’ll talk to her again. Who else should I talk to?”
“Merrick helped her I think. At least he wrote some articles about it. Don’t know exactly how, but . . . Harvey Harrison, the big gay guy who lives in the church, and Reggie’s high school sweetheart, Allen Maddox.”
“Except for the date rape drugs, you didn’t mention drugs in their list of crimes,” I say, “and yet everyone keeps telling me that to have a shootout like that and law enforcement officers killed like that, drugs have to be involved.”
“My list wasn’t comprehensive,” he says. “They were into everything. Things you can’t imagine. Of course, drugs and drug money were involved. Sex, drugs, money, and power. All of it. You know how there are seven deadly sins? Before Robin and the rest of them, there were only three.”
26
Then
* * *
Shoving the radio into his pocket and slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder, he straddles the seat, pushes the key in, turns it, presses the ignition button, and thumbs the gas.
Even in the cold, the motor coughs to life on the first try.
Giving it enough gas to keep it going and warm up the engine, Remington is careful not to gun it, keeping the powerful motor as quiet as possible.
Placing his boot on the brake, he shoves the shifter out of neutral and into reverse.
Without turning on the lights, he backs up enough to turn around. Brake, shift, gas, he’s racing down the small dirt path toward his dad’s old Chevy, certain he’ll be almost as happy to see it as he was the ATV.
The four-wheeler feels powerful beneath him.
Cold wind.
Stinging face.
Watering eyes.
Hope.
It’s the first time since Gauge triggered the flash on his camera trap that he feels truly hopeful—and that his hope just might be justified.
The path is narrow and overgrown, branches whipping at him, occasionally slapping him in the face.
Running with the lights off, he turns them on periodically to get his bearings and check the path. He can’t do anything to lessen the sound of the machine, but by keeping the lights off, he can lessen his conspicuousness—something the full moon helps make possible.
Don’t panic.
Stay in control.
He’s tempted to leave the lights on and drive as fast as he can—more than tempted, a strong urge inside compels him to, but he reminds himself that even if the men weren’t out there looking for him, it’d be a bad idea because of the condition of the path.
Part logging trail, part fire line; the woods that form the walls of the path encroach on the cramped opening, and he rides low, his head just above the handlebars, to avoid the branches and limbs of the drooping canopy.
The small lane is littered with stumps, limbs, branches, and fallen trees, uneven, and pocked with bumps and holes, but the Grizzly’s traction, high clearance, tall tires, and double wishbone suspension make the brambly, cragged terrain seem almost like a smooth recreational path.
Reluctant to accept such a large gift from his son, Cole quickly came to love the Grizzly, grateful not only for the present, but Remington’s knowledge of what he needed.
Over the years, as a child and as an adult, try as he might, for Christmas and birthdays, Remington had never found many gifts his dad liked or used. In the last few months since his father’s sudden departure, he was often profoundly grateful that he was able to get him the Grizzly before he died.
Driving as fast as he dares.
Lights on.
Lights off.
Much of the brightness of the moon is absorbed by the canopy and walls of the overgrown path.
When the lights are on, they illuminate only a small area directly ahead, when they’re off, he’s flying blind through the blackness.
It’ll be okay. The path is straight. Just hold it steady. Stay straight.
Still, what you’re doing is dangerous.
More so than making a great big visible target for Gauge?
The intermittent light flashes, more often now, strobe the path, giving it a staccato, stop-motion, horror film quality.
* * *
Incandescent.
Luminous.
Radiant rain.
Suddenly, the dark lane sparkles with the swarm of a thousand fireflies.
Shining.
Burning.
Minuscule Milky Way.
It’s as if he is traveling at the speed of light through the universe, shooting past stars and planets inside an enormous black hole.
Darting about like arcing sparks and falling drops of fire, the Lampyridae flies give the enclosed area a surreal, magical quality.
These days, he sees far less of these phosphorescent flying beetles than when he was a child, which wasn’t that long ago. Development of land causing loss of both habitat and food supply, use of pesticides, and harvesting for their luciferase has led to dwindling populations of the lucent lightning bug.
Are these fireflies left from summer? he wonders. It’s been warm enough—up until tonight.
Or are they juveniles of the more mysterious and interesting winter firefly?
No way to know. And it doesn’t matter.
He slows without stopping, pulls his camera bag around to the front, and withdraws it.
* * *
Power.
Lens cap.
Exposure.
Focus.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He can’t help himself. He’s got to capture this increasingly rare spectacle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
In a matter of seconds, he snaps several shots—some with the flash, others without, some with the Grizzly’s headlamps on, others with them off.
Within moments, he has ridden past the lustrous, shining swarm. Replacing his camera in the bag, and spinning it back around, he glances over his shoulder. The fireflies are gone. Back to the hard, cold bark of the trees lining the lane.
They must have been responding to the intermittent illumination coming from switching the Grizzly’s lights off and on, on and off.
Certain he got some good shots, he looks forward to showing them to his mother, to finally fulfilling his promise to bring her the pictures she can no longer take. She’ll love these—and those of the bears, and the ones from his camera trap.
This last thought reminds him again of the horrific images on the memory stick in his camera, and how far he still is from home and help.
Hopeful.
>
He’ll soon reach the truck. He might just make it.
Continuing to turn his lights on and off, he’s again tempted to leave them on.
Get a little closer first.
Okay. You can do this. You’re gonna make it. Don’t rush. Be cautious, but not hesitant.
He rides a little farther, branches slapping at him, one whacking him in the face, leaving a dotted line of cuts, the moist blood wet and cold on his skin.
Believing he’s nearing the place where he parked his dad’s truck, he slows the ATV and leaves the lights off for a few extra seconds.
When he turns them on again, the lights land on a man in dark camouflage overalls and a heavy black winter jacket, looking through a rifle scope at him.
27
Now
* * *
“Could I really have been married to a psychopath and not known it?” Casey Dalton says.
Her big blue eyes beneath her blond bangs really seem to want to know. The innocent eyes, blond bangs, and pale round face conspire to make her look far younger than she really is.
“It’s more common than you might think,” I say.
“Mask of sanity and all that, sure,” she says. “I’ve read all about it . . . Still, it’s hard for me to believe.”
Casey was married to Gauge three years before what happened in the swamp that fateful day a few years back. I was surprised she agreed to meet with me, but as she explained when I spoke to her by phone earlier, she’s still searching for answers.
She looks and sounds like a simple, small town girl, but I can tell there’s more to her than her lack of education and sophistication suggests.
Was the woman her husband killed similar? Did he have a type?
“All this time and I still can’t be sure,” she says. “Still haven’t found any real evidence that he was.”
I nod.
We’re standing in the large wooden gazebo out over St. Joe Bay because she didn’t want to meet anywhere near her home in Eastpoint or anywhere official over here. She’s wearing an inexpensive plain white cotton blouse and an unstylishly long denim skirt. Both the blouse and the skirt are thin and light and blow, not unlike her straight blond hair does, in the breeze coming in off the bay.
The Remington James Box Set Page 26
