—If it were anybody else, I’d say no, but I’m being overly cautious. Treating it like she is missing until—
—Even if her boyfriend has her—I want to move fast. And if she’s just being stupid, skippin’ or somethin’ . . . I still want to find her ASAP. If the storm comes where they say it will, in the next day or two we’ll need every man dealing with evacuations, looting, road closings, and shelter security. We can’t afford to waste a single second.
—I hear you. I honestly think she’s with Julian somewhere—everything points to that—but I’m not willing to say that yet. I’m on my way to talk to Julian’s mom now. Will know more soon.
—Let me know.
—Will do.
Just as he’s about to end the call . . .
—Hey, Will?
—Yeah?
—Can I ask you something?
—Sure, boss. What is it?
—If you’d won the election instead of me . . .
—Uh huh?
—What would you be doing?
—Exactly what we are, chief. Exactly what we are.
6
East end of town.
Sylvan subdivision.
One-acre lots.
Mostly mobile homes. Occasional brick or vinyl-siding house.
Julia Flax’s place. Chain-link fence creating a rectangle around a manicured lawn and aging-but-clean, well-maintained, and freshly painted single-wide mobile home.
Inside. Immaculate.
How the hell does a single mom with three jobs and a teenage son keep a place looking this good?
—Sorry, Will, Julia says, leading him into the kitchen, but I only have a few minutes. Got to be at the Owl by four.
After working at the Dollar General from seven until three, Julia works from four to midnight at the Night Owl Café. On weekends, she cleans condos at the beach.
Is Julian raising himself?
On the counter, a small television carries coverage of Hurricane Christine, showing the damage and devastation done to Cuba’s northern coast. Over 100-mile-per-hour winds. 50 serious injuries. 10 deaths. 360,000 displaced residents.
Six days ago, Christine had formed over the warm waters just north of the Virgin Islands. Four days ago, it reached hurricane strength over Puerto Rico. Yesterday, her ferocious winds and tsunami-like swells clouted Cuba with pitiless impunity. Today, she continues her relentless path over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico toward the northwest coast of Florida.
She grabs the remote next to the set and turns it off.
—What’s the latest? he asks.
—Headed this way. Don’t know yet where it will make landfall. There’s some high pressure that could move in and redirect it—maybe even push it back out into the Gulf, but that’s a very long shot.
Without asking, she pours him a cup of coffee, freshens up her own, returns the pot, then sits down across from him. Like Julian, there’s something dark and slightly exotic about his mom. Olive skin. Big brown eyes. Auburn-streaked wavy brownish hair.
He finds it interesting a single mom would make a namesake of her only son, but vaguely recalls Julia being named after her dad.
—Thanks.
She stirs some cream and sugar into hers, then slides them toward him.
—Have you heard from Julian?
She shakes her head.
—Did you know he wasn’t at school today?
—Not until you told me.
—He often skip?
—Never—at least to my knowledge, but then again I didn’t know he was today.
—Have you tried to call him?
She laughs.
—We can’t afford cell phones. He’s probably the only teenager in America who doesn’t have one—and he lets me know it all the time, but food and shelter first, you know?
He nods.
This is what a certain type of poverty looks like. Simple. Content. Spartan. Julia and Julian don’t have much, but they have everything they need and everything they have is neat and clean and cared for. No clutter. No indulgences. Nothing superfluous. Like her clothes and shoes, Julia’s household items appear nearly trendy and costly. Nearly. Their appearance is deceptive and a closer look reveals they are of an inexpensive, almost-nice, made-to-look-fashionable discount-store variety.
—You don’t seem very worried, he says.
—Should I be?
He shrugs.
—I’m a single mom. Julian is the man of the house. He’s the most mature young man I’ve ever known. I depend on him—and he’s never let me down. If he wants to blow off school for a day . . . Now, if you tell me you think he’s in trouble, that’s a different matter. But the fact that Shelby’s missing too leads me to believe they just wanted a little extra time together.
—I agree. I just . . . with what happened to her sister . . .
—I didn’t live here then, but I’ve heard things—about her mom too. To tell the truth, I was a little worried when he started dating her, but . . . she’s a real good girl. They make a great couple.
He nods.
The trailer is uncomfortably warm, and he wonders if it’s her preference or an attempt to conserve. He suspects it’s the latter—and for financial rather than environmental reasons.
—What does Julian drive?
—He doesn’t. You think I can’t afford a cell phone, but I can afford a car for him. Shelby chauffeurs him around in her little green bug. Without her, he’s grounded.
—Any idea where they’d go?
—Not really. But now that school’s over, I’m sure they’ll show up soon. Julian rarely misses school, but he never misses work—not ever. If he’s not at work this afternoon, then I’ll start to worry.
7
Pulling off Highway 67, Will’s tires crunch on the crushed-shell parking lot of TJ’s, an automotive repair shop and takeout fast food joint TJ operates out of his house.
Next to a small clapboard house, a two-story, two-car metal garage is surrounded by vehicles in various stages of repair. Inside the garage, a 50s-era souped-up Chevy truck is up on the hydraulic lift, TJ in oil-stained overalls standing under it.
Up near the road, a converted race car trailer advertises hamburgers, hotdogs, and barbecue. Behind it, smoke from a slow cooker drifts up out of the small, wooden screened-in structure that houses it.
Will steps out of his black second-generation Crown Vic police interceptor and walks toward TJ.
A huge commercial fan at the opening of the garage merely stirs the hot air around, providing neither comfort nor relief. From a high built-in shelf a cheap radio is tuned to a country station, blaring tragedy in a minor twang.
—Hide the weed, it’s the po-po, TJ shouts.
At a work bench on the far end of the garage, TJ’s dad, Buck, the black man who’s worked for them for decades, and a customer Will doesn’t recognize all laugh.
—Nah, Will’s okay. He wouldn’t bust a brother for a little grass. Would you?
Will smiles.
—Depends on how little, he says.
—Hell, TJ says, Will and me got fucked up a few times together back in the day.
—It’s true.
—Your dad didn’t jam us up when we got caught, did he?
—No, he didn’t.
—Knew what mattered. Not like today.
Will shrugs.
—Was a different time, Will says wistfully, but not so much has changed. You sure as shit ain’t.
—Ain’t intendin’ to neither.
—Wouldn’t have it any other way, brother.
—You lookin’ for Julian?
—How’d you know?
—His mom called to see if he had made it in. Said you might be stopping by.
—What time’s he supposed to be here?
—No set time, TJ says. We’re sorta what you might call casual ’round here.
The other men laugh again.
—But usually by four-thirty. ’Course, he ain’t workin’ toda
y.
—Why not?
—Told him to take the day off. Boy works too much. I worry about him.
—Do you know what he was gonna do?
TJ shakes his head and shrugs.
—Not my business.
Will recognizes the young brown-eyed, brown-haired girl with the olive complexion but isn’t certain of her full name. Whitney something. Anderson maybe. As she leans down to take his order inside TJ’s Takeout trailer, her small brown breasts are more exposed than he thinks they should be, and he locks in on her eyes.
—What can I getcha?
—Got it by yourself today? he asks.
—Yes, sir.
—Doesn’t Julian usually help you?
—No. I help him. But he took the day off.
—TJ told me he gave him the day off. Made him take it. ’Cause that’s the kind of compassionate boss he is.
—Bullshit he did. Julian asked him for it off a while back. Today and tomorrow.
—Any idea what he’s doing?
—Not exactly . . .
—But?
—I think he’s gonna propose to Shelby.
—What makes you say that?
—Just things he’s said here and there. Plus, he works all the time and never spends a dime. He’s got like a gazillion dollars saved up. About a week ago he had a jewelry catalog in here looking at rings.
—Thanks. That helps. Really does.
—I’m not saying that’s what he’s doing. He never said anything like that. It’s just a guess.
8
—Keith? It’s me. I think I know what they’re up to.
—Where are you?
—Just leaving TJ’s.
—Meet me at Lanier Landing.
—On my way.
—So tell me.
—I’m pretty sure they’re eloping. This was all planned. Julian’s been saving money for a long time. They may just be going to buy a ring and get engaged, but I really think it’s more than that. He asked for tomorrow off too. They could be running away together, not planning on coming back, or they could be getting married and returning by Monday, but I think that’s what they’re up to.
—They in his car?
—Doesn’t have one. In hers. We need to put out an APB for her lime-green Volkswagen bug.
—No we don’t. And we probably need to start the investigation over from the beginning.
—What? Why’s that?
—’Cause, we just found her abandoned car at Lanier Landing.
9
Transplanted palms.
Oak-canopied park.
Rustic picnic pavilions.
Boat ramp.
Cypress-rimmed river. Apalachicola.
When Marc and Taylor arrive at the landing, there’s no sign of Keith or Will, only a parking lot of trucks and empty boat trailers.
Convincing Taylor to wait in the car, Marc gets out in the oppressive heat and rushes toward the river, searching, scanning, scoping.
To his left, a couple of young mothers play with their small children in the park, eyeing him suspiciously as they do.
Beyond the green sign that reads Welcome to Lanier Landing: Discover Old Florida, a truck is parked on the ramp, its trailer down in the water, a couple in cutoff jean shorts and Dixie Outfitter and Mossy Oak T-shirts launching their boat, but there’s no sign of Shelby’s car or Keith or Will.
On the small floating dock, near the high-water marker, a black man in a Panama hat sits on a brown folding chair, fishing with a cane pole. Next to him stands a large-breasted black woman, life vest hanging from her neck, enormous floppy hat forming an umbrella over her head.
As Marc nears the wide green-blue-brown river, he glances to his left, down the small dirt road that runs behind the stilted fishing camps, cabins, and trailers lining the banks of the Apalachicola, and spots them.
In the carport beneath the elevated house of the third place on the left, he sees Shelby’s lime-green bug. Keith and Will are standing near it, a deputy by his car at the end of the driveway.
On either side sit old, small single-wide trailers in earth-tone browns and golds, popular in the 70s, atop some four feet of cinderblocks.
Dashing.
He runs so fast toward the car, both Keith and Will step away from it and over to meet him, hands up, attempting to slow and calm him, eyeing him carefully as they do.
—She’s not here, Will says. Just her car.
—You sure?
—Yeah, Keith says. Positive.
—You okay? Will asks. Take a minute. Catch your breath.
The tea-colored river flows on by, the subtlest of breezes blowing in off its mostly smooth surface. On the other side, two homemade houseboats are tied to cypress trees—one under construction, its walls built of blue insulation board.
Rustle of leaves.
Distant bird chirps.
Splashing. Yelling. Shrieking. Teenagers swimming around the dock at the landing.
Scrape of dead, brittle palm fronds on hardwood tree base.
Marc, settling down, breath and heart rate slowing, sweat still pouring. Clammy. Sticky.
—You looked—
—We’ve searched the area, Keith says. And there’s no sign of struggle. Looks like she just parked here, locked it, and left.
—Any idea why she’d leave her car here? Will asks.
Marc shakes his head.
—You checked the house?
The two men nod.
Marc glances over at Shelby’s car. Both doors are open.
—Thought you said it was locked?
—It was.
—We opened it.
—Anything inside?
—A few things. Nothing out of the ordinary.
—Take a look for us, Keith says, but don’t get in and don’t touch anything. Looks like she just parked here and went somewhere, but in case it’s something else and we have to process the car . . .
Marc steps over to the car, standing close, leaning in, careful not to touch anything.
Keith stands beside him, Will, on the opposite side of the car, looking in through the open passenger door.
New-car smell wafts out, and the cream interior is still spotless. Shelby is the one thing Taylor spares no expense on—especially when it comes to her safety and happiness.
Right away, he notices a few irregularities.
—Anything? Keith asks.
—What is it? Will asks, almost at the same moment.
—Her iPod is gone. It’s always there on the console, plugged into the auxiliary jack.
—She could’ve taken it with her.
—She has three. One in her car, one in the house, one in her purse.
The two men look at him with raised eyebrows.
—I know how it sounds. Her mom indulges the hell out of her, but she’s not spoiled. She’s not. She’s a good kid.
—What else? Will says.
—Cover for her sunroof is closed. Never seen that before. For a while, I’d remind her, but gave up because she told me she planned on leaving it open the entire time she owned the car.
—Okay.
—And her flower is missing.
—Her what?
—Julian—her boyfriend—gave her a flower for the little vase. See. On the dashboard just behind the wheel. It’s empty. The day she got the car, Julian gave her this elaborate paper rose he made. She’s never taken it out.
—Think they broke up? Keith asks.
—If they’re together, Will says, especially if they’re eloping, she may have taken it with her.
—Eloping? Marc says, his voice spiking.
Keith winces.
—It’s just one possible working theory, Will says.
—Less likely now that we found her car.
Out on the river, an aluminum bateau races by, its outboard motor whining. All three men turn toward it to see a young boy in the back, hand on the throttle arm, older man in front, capped head ducked down into the
wind, hand on bill.
—Where is she?
The three men turn again, this time in the opposite direction, to the road behind them, as Taylor comes running up.
—Where is she? she says again.
—She’s not here, Marc says. Just her car.
—You sure?
—Yes, ma’am, Will says.
—Where’s Steve?
—Who?
—Shelby and Savannah’s dad. This is his fish camp. Is he here? Is she with him?
10
The surface of the river swirls with bits of debris—leaves, blossoms, bugs, the occasional limb or log, the last, sometimes, with turtles hitching a ride.
Across the way, some two-hundred yards to the opposite side, rising out of the riverbank, an impenetrable thicket of trees lean toward the water, their tall, tilting bodies appearing wind-rocked and storm-ravaged––though that was yet to come.
With Taylor trying to get Steve on her cell, Keith and Will walk into the backyard, near the water’s edge.
—Should we call in Crime Scene? Keith asks. Process the car?
—We wouldn’t if it were anybody else, Will says.
—True.
—But it’s not, is it?
—No, Keith says, it’s not. I’m just not sure what to do.
Will realizes just how lost and unsure Keith is. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s just an elected official, a small-town boy with a little education and training, a deputy who won a popularity contest.
He’s never thought it before, but surely his dad must have felt the same way. His hero, his idol, the man he’s spent his life trying to please, impress, emulate, is just a man, had been just a public servant in over his head with the Savannah Summers case.
The way you and Keith are now.
Will is so appreciative of Keith treating him as an equal, as a confidant, he continues to like and respect him more than he ever imagined possible.
Hell, had I known he’d be like this, I’d’ve voted for him myself.
The longer he works with Keith, the more he’s around the man, the more he thinks the competition he feels—or has felt all these years going back to high school—is one-sided.
I’ve always been a step behind, a little slower, slightly, perhaps imperceptibly to others—even to Keith. I’m aware of it. He’s not. I make comparisons. He doesn’t seem to feel the need to.
The Remington James Box Set Page 43
