The fifteen-mile-long bay is formed by the mainland on the east, Cape San Blas on the south, St. Joseph Peninsula on the west, with a narrow opening out into the Gulf of Mexico on the north. At its widest point it is some six miles wide.
“I don’t just mean I haven’t found any evidence he was a sociopath,” she adds. “I haven’t found any evidence of any kind of illegal or even immoral activity. Think about that.”
The same was true of the investigations into him—by the Gulf County Sheriff’s office, the Franklin County Sheriff’s office, and the agency he worked for, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. I’ve read the files. No one had found a single piece of evidence to say that Gauge was anything but an upstanding citizen.
The men out there with him that night were a different story. Each one was crooked and corrupt in his own way, but the investigation showed that it was isolated to them and not a systemic part of the agencies they worked for—the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, St. Joe Police Department, Fish and Game, etc.
“But you’re here,” I say. “Talking to me.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still searching.”
“Yeah?” Her pale smooth skin furrows in confusion, but I can see in her eyes that she’s genuinely asking, really thinking about it.
“Why?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”
“If in all this time you haven’t found any evidence of . . . well . . . anything, why are you still looking?”
She starts to say something but stops.
Her eyes widen a bit and her mouth slowly falls open.
I can see the realization begin to spread across her pale round face.
I wait.
“If you had no idea back when you were together and you’ve searched for evidence in the years since and haven’t found anything,” I say, “why would you still be searching?”
“Because,” she says, and pauses a moment, “some part of me . . . some part deep, deep within me . . . isn’t completely convinced.”
I nod.
“Wow,” she says. “I . . . wasn’t aware of that.”
I can see she wants to think about that some, so I let her.
While I wait I determine to invite her over to the No Name Café and bookstore on Reid Avenue for a late lunch. She looks like she could use the food and the company—and one of their specialty coffee drinks.
She looks out over the bay and I follow her gaze.
The afternoon is overcast and foggy, pregnant with rain yet to fall, sky and water melting into each other where the horizon should be. Behind us, the planted palms lining the street and the park clack in the breeze, as tall pines stand by in stately silence, and it occurs to me that one definition of my part of North Florida might very well be where palms and pines meet.
As she turns back toward me, she sees the old lighthouse over my shoulder. “How long has that been there?”
I turn and look at it—the white tower supported by the steel structure and the black ball vent, dome, and service room—this centerpiece to the park next door that looks like it’s always been here. But several lighthouses have been built and destroyed out on the narrow hurricane-prone point of Cape San Blas since 1847. The one that was moved here is just the most recent, the last lighthouse standing. And because it was moved here, it is likely to stand a lot longer than it would have out on the eroding tip of sand that juts out into the Gulf.
“About three years,” I say. “They moved it over from the cape with the two Keepers’ Quarters and that oil shed.”
She studies it. “It’s so . . . I know . . . it makes me feel so . . . I like having it here.”
I nod. “Me too.”
She looks at me again and our eyes lock. “Thanks for not treating me like trailer trash. Most people—men and cops especially—can’t see past the dollar store clothes and Southern drawl.”
“I hope I’d never treat anyone like that, but it’s obvious you’re very intelligent,” I say.
“Don’t know about all that,” she says. “You helped me see in a few minutes what I hadn’t in years.”
“You saw it,” I say. “I just asked you a couple of questions.”
“I’ll tell you what I am,” she says. “I’m a hick who married a psychopath.”
“In spite of not finding any evidence,” I say, “you now believe you did?”
“Before this conversation I’d’ve said I didn’t and there was no evidence, or if I was being real honest, I’d’ve said I couldn’t be sure but there was no evidence, but now . . . well, now I think I was married to a psychopath.”
I start to say something but wait to see if she’ll expound on what she’s said.
“There’s no evidence that my husband was a psychopath,” she says, “but there’s no real evidence he was human either. It’s like . . . he wasn’t really there. I was married to a shell, a body with no soul.”
She looks away, shakes her head, and lets out a harsh little laugh.
“Been lying to myself about that for years,” she says. “Trying my best not to see the truth. Then . . . after he was gone and people would ask about him, I’d . . . I was so defensive . . . thinking it was a reflection on me that I wouldn’t even consider it. Not really. Now . . . it’s like I’ve known all along—at least somewhere deep inside. I was married to a soulless, coldblooded animal. Wow. Feels so . . . freeing to say that.”
She looks back at me. I give her an encouraging expression and little nod, but don’t say anything.
“I don’t know exactly what happened out there in those woods,” she says. “I hope you find out, I really do, but . . . I’ll tell you this . . . there is nothing in Gauge’s background or life with me that I’ve been able to find that sheds the least bit of light on it and that’s the truth. I wish it did, but it just doesn’t.”
“If anything comes up or you uncover anything that might be helpful,” I say, “would you let me know?”
“I will,” she says. “And who knows . . . now that I’m really able to stand the truth . . . maybe it will, but I doubt it. Would you do something in return for me?”
“What’s that?”
“Will you let me know what you find out about him in your investigation? It would mean a great deal to me. I really, really need to know. Anything. Anything at all. I . . . I’m just so scared his son’s gonna grow up to be just like him.”
“Gauge has a—y’all have a son?”
“He was only one when all this happened,” she says. “Is it nature or nurture? Is my little boy gonna grow up to be a monster like his daddy no matter what I do?”
28
Then
* * *
He squeezes the brakes so fast and so hard that the back end of the ATV lifts off the ground and he nearly sails over the handlebars.
The first round ricochets off the front bumper.
Boot on brake.
Shift down, past neutral and into reverse.
Gas.
Backing away as fast as he can on a path that was difficult in forward, he cuts his lights and ducks down on the right side behind the tire well.
Other shots whiz by, thumping into dirt and tree trunks.
Seeing a small opening in the thick tree line, Remington yanks the handlebars and throws the rear-end into the small gap.
Braking abruptly, he shifts into forward, turns the wheel sharply, and guns the gas.
Bullets continue to whistle by split seconds before he hears the crack of the rifle.
Racing down the way he’s just come, he crouches low and zig-zags as much as the narrow lane will allow.
Leaving his lights off as long as possible, he flashes them occasionally to peek at the path he’s bouncing down.
You’re driving too fast.
No choice.
If you wreck, he’ll shoot you for sure.
Not if I get far enough away first.
What if it’s a wreck you can’t walk away f
rom?
He thinks about all the children in these parts who’ve been killed in four-wheeler accidents, some racing down dirt roads, rounding corners full bore, colliding head-on into cars, others running into trees or flipping the machines and breaking their backs.
What’s more dangerous? Flying down a narrow tree-lined lane at deadly speeds in the dark or being shot at by a high caliber rifle? Before this moment, it wasn’t something he ever imagined having to contemplate.
Don’t think. Just react. Move. You’ve just come down this path, you know it’s clear.
This time, he’s in the middle of the field of fireflies by the time they light up and take to the sky, and he’s driving so fast, several of them splat against the ATV, strike his jacket, and pop him in the head.
Sorry guys. I wouldn’t do this to you if my life didn’t depend on it. Shots continue to ring out, rounds piercing the bark of trees next to him.
How long before he hits a tire?
Fearful the fireflies reveal his position, he ducks even lower, moves even more, jerking the handlebars from side to side, trying to find the fine line between being a difficult target and turning over the ATV.
In another moment, he’s through the swarm and the light-dotted sky dims again.
His radio crackles and he turns it up without removing it from his pocket.
—Is that you firing, Arl? Gauge asks. You got him?
—It’s me. It’s me. He’s on a four-wheeler. Nearly made it to the truck. Now he’s running down the little fire line.
—On foot?
—ATV. ATV.
—That’s what I thought, but you said running. Have you hit him yet?
—Not sure. Don’t think so.
—Don’t let him get away.
—Then let me quit talking and get back to shooting.
A moment later, the shots start again.
—Anybody on the west side close to the fire line? Gauge asks.
Remington lowers his head, straining to hear.
—I can be at the end of the lane in a couple of minutes.
—Do it. Anybody else?
—I’m a mile or two away.
—Me, too.
—Well get moving. Head in that direction. Let’s circle around and close in on him.
Lights off.
Rounds still ringing around him.
Distance.
Decision.
The farther away from the shooter he gets, the less accurate the shots become, but he’s speeding toward the spot where another shooter will soon be.
I’ve got to get off the path, but where? How?
How about here?
Too dense. Wouldn’t get far.
It’s the same farther down. He flashes his lights.
Nearly to the end.
Slowing, he searches for any break in the woods big enough to squeeze into. Finding one, he turns the ATV to the right, heading back in the direction he had come from just a few minutes before. East. Toward the river.
If he can figure out how to negotiate his way through the dense timbers and thick undergrowth, the flats up ahead will provide ample room to open up the ATV and race to the edge of the river swamp.
The tree bases are big and close together, the understory high, concealing cypress knees, limbs, and fallen trees.
He tries flashing his lights periodically again, but the woods are just too thick.
Slowly, the large tires of the ATV climb over unseen solid objects, around massive trees, edging the machine and its rider ever closer to the flats.
—He’s not here.
—What?
—I’m at the fire line and he’s not here.
—He turned off. Heading east.
—Okay everybody. East side of the fire line. Don’t just look for his lights. Listen for the engine.
Easing.
Crawling.
Inching.
Progress through the forest is so slow, it seems like he’s not making any.
It’d be a lot faster just to run.
I know, but there’s just a little more of this and then I can race through the flats.
But they’re headed this way. Getting closer.
Just a little farther. If I have to stop, I will.
They’ll be here by then.
The dense ground coverage is so thick as to be nearly impenetrable.
What should I do?
He wishes he could ask Cole. He might not be able to tell him what to do, but his answer would help calm him, clarify his thinking.
He remembers calling Cole from college once.
—If I take an extra class this semester and two the next, I can graduate in the spring. If not, it’ll be December of next year.
—Well, we’ve got the money, if that’s what you’re worried about.
—Thanks, but I just wondered what you thought I should do?
His dad had not attended college, had never been faced with a decision quite like this one.
—I can’t tell you what to do, he says.
Remington tries not to laugh. His dad had told him what he should do his whole life.
—It’s like you’re driving down the highway heading home.
Here it comes, Remington thinks. Conventional wisdom from the most practical man on the planet.
—There’s a car in front of you. There’s one coming in the other lane. You have time to pass. Do you? It’s up to you. You’ll get home either way. You can get there a little faster if you pass, but even if you don’t, you’ll get there just the same.
—Thanks, Dad.
—Whatta you gonna do?
—Pass.
—Let me know how much the other class and books are and I’ll mail you a check.
Tell me what to do, Remington thinks now. Do I abandon your four-wheeler and run on foot or stick with it and try to make it to the flats?
No answer comes.
Cole is gone.
He’s on his own.
The thought opens a hole inside him, ripping emotional stitches, tearing the inflamed tissue, reversing any healing his grieving had begun.
Gone.
Alone.
Stop it. Don’t think. Just move. Just react.
—See him?
Remington leans down to listen to his radio.
—Hear him? Anything?
—Nothing.
—He’s on a fuckin’ four-wheeler for Chrissakes. Why can’t we hear him?
—Big ass woods.
—Just keep looking. Listening. We’ll find him.
Full stop.
The bottom of the ATV gets jammed on an old oak stump, lifting the wheels just enough to prevent them from finding any traction.
Stuck.
Fuck!
Boot on brake. Jamming the gear into reverse. Thumbing gas.
Spinning.
Stuck.
29
Now
* * *
The next morning, having skipped breakfast, Merrill and I climb into an old model Cessna Skyhawk, smaller than most SUVs, in a grass field on a farm up near the county line.
Merrill shakes his head. “The shit I let you talk my black ass into . . .”
The pilot is a gaunt half-Asian half-African man in his late sixties named Clipper Jones, Jr., whose dad had been a pilot in World War II.
“Buckle up, boys,” he says. “Gonna be a little bumpy.”
Evidently Clipper Jones, Jr. is given to understatement.
The small plane bounces and rattles across the ruts in the roughhewn and uneven farm field so violently it feels as if it will vibrate apart.
Merrill is up front with Clipper and I’m in the back in one of the two small seats, trying not to regret either the decision to take this little trip or my seat selection for it.
When we do finally lift off the hard, bumpy ground, the jerks and shakes, rises and falls of the little craft become even more pronounced.
My stomach falls and lurches several times, convincing me skippi
ng breakfast had been the prudent thing to do.
We fly over the small town of Wewa, which looks even smaller from up here, the differing perspective disconcerting at first. Our house and yard and the lake they sit next to appear both larger and smaller than I expect, their relative sizes and relationships to each other odd and off.
In the far distance I can see thousands and thousands of acres of slash pines that once belonged to the St. Joe Company and are now owned by Deseret Ranches. Instead of uninterrupted acres of pines there are huge swaths of open, cleared cattle fields, mostly empty pastures where, one day soon, tens of thousands of head of cattle will roam.
We continue south toward Dalkeith and the swamp where Remington James had his camera traps and where the massacre took place.
As we near the place, Merrill says, “What we lookin’ for again?”
The small cabin is loud. The three of us are wearing headphones with built-in microphones, but even with them it’s hard to hear and understand what’s being said.
“Anything,” I say. “Got to figure what Gauge and the others were doing out here in the first place. Crops. Buildings. Anything suspicious.”
“It’s Dalkeith. Everything’s suspicious.”
“What kinda crops y’all lookin’ for?” Clipper asks.
“Marijuana mainly,” I say, “but anything worth killing for.”
“Y’all cops?” Clipper says.
“He is,” Merrill says. “I’m . . . sort of a private one.”
“My folks were sort of like detectives,” he says. “Started back during the war. Had some adventures, to hear them tell it. Worked with a white PI named Riley. They’s a book about ’em. If even half of what it says is true . . .” He shakes his head and smiles.
“Oh really?” Merrill says. “Like what?”
“For starters my mom was Japanese,” he says. “Broke out of an internment camp with her family in California and came here—well, Panama City Beach. They helped catch a serial sex killer, stopped an espionage plot. My old man even fought in a heavyweight bout for the chance to fight Joe Louis.”
The Remington James Box Set Page 27
