As volatile as anyone he’s ever known, and far more so than anyone he’s ever been in a relationship with, Taylor often retreats, withdraws, withholds—usually following times of intense intimacy, but this is different, this is . . .
Stepping over to the far corner of the studio, she grabs a length of galvanized pipe and begins to smash both her supplies and the art she has made with them.
Broken boards.
Splintered and snapped antique easels that had belonged to her grandfather.
Ripped canvases.
Scattered brushes.
Splattered paints.
Shattered glass.
As Marc grabs her, attempting to subdue her without getting knocked unconscious, her final reckless, violent act is to sling the pipe at the large, full-length mirror she’s been using to paint herself.
The angry image of the nude, scarred artist, paint-smeared and bleeding, cracked, fractured, and fragmented. Shelby’s disturbed mom revealed in splintered shards, as the last of the rolling and collapsing objects come to rest amidst dripping paint thinner and the utter silence bursts of unexpected violence bring.
16
As Keith pulls away from the landing, leaving behind Shelby’s now-processed car, he gets a call from Paige Hill, Tupelo High’s SRO.
—We are still looking for Julian Flax, aren’t we?
—Yeah. Why?
—Thought his whereabouts was some big mystery. Whole department’s looking for him.
It had been Keith who appointed Paige to the position of school resource officer, and he’s been pleased with her work, but she’s a bit dramatic—one reason he thought she’d fit in with the teens and tweens.
—Something like that. Why?
—’Cause, he’s right here. Plain as day.
—Where is here?
—The Courts. Playin’ a pickup game.
—On my way. Shelby Summers with him?
—Don’t see her.
—Keep an eye out.
—You want me to grab him?
—Nah. Just watch him ’til I get there. Unless he tries to leave.
—And then?
—Detain him.
—You got it, boss.
17
The Courts is a chain-link-enclosed asphalt lot with eight basketball goals—two on each side—a few random aluminum bleachers, a couple of ill-placed streetlamps, and a perpetual pickup game.
Julian and one other white kid are involved in a three-on-three half-court game with four much taller black guys—one of three games being played.
Keith walks onto the court in the middle of the game.
The action stops.
—Sorry to interrupt guys, he says. Just need to talk to Julian. It’s important.
—Yes, sir, one of the boys says.
—Sure thing, Sheriff.
Julian doesn’t say anything.
The tallest kid, and the one who appears to be the most alpha of all the males, looks over at the nearest set of bleachers where other guys are waiting a turn—occupying themselves with talking to girls, listening to iPods, fiddling with their phones, playing their handhelds.
—Ryan, he yells. Come in for Jules.
—This can’t wait? Julian says. I really gotta stop in the middle of my game?
—Afraid so.
—I’m back in next game, he says to the alpha who picked his replacement.
—Shee-it, a small kid with a do-rag says. Next time yo ass be playin’ it be in jail.
—What’s going on? Keith asks.
—Whatcha mean?
They are standing against the fence away from everyone else, Keith looking at Julian, Julian watching the games.
—We’ve been looking for you.
—Why?
—Where have you been?
—Here.
—How long?
He shrugs.
—Where were you before you came here? Keith asks.
—Just around. Why?
—Why didn’t you go to school?
—Just took a personal day.
Keith smiles and nods appreciatively.
—A personal day?
—Yeah. You know. Had the day off work, so . . .
—You hang out with Shelby?
He shakes his head.
—Just me.
—What’s she up to today? Keith asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
Julian shrugs.
—No idea.
—Where is she?
He shrugs again.
—I know everybody’s different, Keith says, but I tend to keep up with my girlfriends.
Julian doesn’t respond.
—She is your girlfriend, isn’t she?
—Was.
—Not anymore? What happened?
—We broke up.
—When?
He shrugs again.
—Had to be recently.
—Guess.
—This before or after you bought her an engagement ring?
Julian spins around toward Keith, then catches himself.
—How’d you know?
—My job to know shit.
—After.
—Where is she?
—Told you. Have no idea.
—It’s real important that we find her. You need to tell me what you know—no matter what it is.
—Don’t know anything. Haven’t seen her.
—If something happened, if you did something, I can help, but you’ve got to tell me now.
—Give me a lie detector test. I have no idea where she is.
18
—The fuck do we do now? Keith asks.
Will shrugs.
They’re leaning against the front of Keith’s car at the Courts, watching Julian, who has rejoined the game.
—We got nothing, he continues. Car’s clean. No sign of foul play. Boyfriend’s back. She’s obviously not with him.
—Doesn’t mean she wasn’t, Will says.
—No it doesn’t. Says we can hook him up to the machine. Seems like he’s telling the truth, but . . .
—What?
—Not sure. Don’t think it’s the whole truth.
—We gonna have another go at him? Will asks.
—Think we have to. Gotta be careful. Juvenile and all. Hasn’t done anything but skip school.
—We can bring in his mom.
Keith nods.
Each man looking at the games before him, but not watching them.
—What do we do? Keith asks. We got nothing.
—We’ve eliminated a few possibilities maybe.
—Maybe, Keith says. And maybe all we’ve done is waste some precious time.
—Maybe.
—Time to call in CART, you think?
—Be dark soon.
—Fuck, Keith says. I should’ve moved faster.
—Think you’ve done everything just right. Now we take the next step. Ramp it up. Begin a search. Call in CART.
—And if she’s dead because we didn’t do it sooner? Keith asks.
—Then we still did the best we could. And that’s the job.
Keith nods contemplatively.
—And that’s the job, he says. That’s the job.
19
People say life goes on, but it doesn’t.
Sure, the world keeps revolving, people keep rushing around, but not Marc. Not Taylor.
For them, full stop.
Ordinarily, he’d be writing right now, Taylor, painting, but there’s nothing ordinary about this.
Life isn’t going on. Not for them.
They breathe. Their hearts beat. But is this life? There is no normalcy. No mundane. No routine.
They sit on the floor, her beneath his arm, in the destruction and chaos of the studio.
She is calmer now, though continuing to catch her breath and sniffle from the hysterical cry following the ravaging of her art and creative environment.
Break things off now before you destroy him. It’s not f
air to keep torturing him this way. Do it soon before things go any deeper. He’s gonna do it if you don’t. Eventually. Inevitably. He’s gonna grow weary—hell, he already is—and he’ll leave you like all the others.
She takes in a deep breath and holds it, trying to still herself, shut off the voice inside her head. None of the thoughts are new, but when she feels like this, which she would even if Shelby wasn’t missing, everything is intensified—all the loss.
For her it all comes down to the same thing—from the very beginning, her parents wanting to kill her, the detachment and death of her sister, to the loss of a child, to the emotionally stunted and abusive men she’s punished herself with.
Separation.
She’s felt it her entire life—like something’s missing. Well, like something’s present and simultaneously something’s missing. It’s hard to understand, impossible to describe, but it’s something like experiencing both absence and the presence of that absence. As if absence itself is an entity.
She has rare moments when the pain and anxiety of it are nearly bearable, but they are rare.
Life is separateness.
The interval of space that defines separateness is, for her, the vacuous absence of her parents and sister and child and the death of God––the one who might have prevented it all.
You need to separate from Marc before you do any more damage to this kind, good man.
—We’ll have to take care of her animals, Taylor says eventually.
—Huh?
—Shelby’s little hospital. We’ll have to take—
—She’ll be back to care for them herself.
In the backyard, in cages down by the river, wild, wounded animals Shelby has rescued rest and recuperate, mend and recover. Part of Shelby’s environmental activism, one of many things she does, and because of her growing reputation, she routinely receives calls from up to fifty miles away from people who’ve encountered the hurt and helpless, the dying and endangered.
—I mean because of the storm. We’ll have to move them inside.
—I’ll take care of it, he says, thinking in some ways life does go on—even for them.
—Tonight?
—In the morning. Storm won’t hit for a while—probably tomorrow afternoon.
—I don’t want anything to happen to them. She’s worked so hard to heal them.
—I won’t let anything happen to them, he says. When she gets back, she’ll be so impressed she’ll probably put me in permanent charge of them.
—You are good at it, she says. I’ve often thought you captured me the way you do a wounded wild thing.
—Really? How’s that?
—Grab it and hold it firmly, but loosely. Carefully. Let it feel your heart beat. Breathe together. Be still, be patient, gain trust.
He smiles. It may be the nicest thing she’s ever said to him.
—You find me irresistible?
—Of course, you idiot. Isn’t it obvious?
20
—What’re you doing? Daniel asks.
He has just walked into what will be the guestroom to find Sam searching through the boxes.
—Looking for my box of broken hearts, she says.
—Old love letters?
Sam smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
—Unsolved cases.
—Oh. Sorry.
Having recently moved back to Tallahassee, their new-to-them home, an old two-story red brick and hardwood floor Southern classic atop a hill on Briarcliff, is a work in progress, but most of the remaining boxes are confined to this upstairs back bedroom with a window overlooking the oak-canopied backyard.
—What? she says, continuing to be preoccupied with looking through the boxes. No, it’s fine. I have broken a lot of hearts in my day.
He smiles.
The unlikely couple—him a professor of religion and philosophy, her an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement—recently reunited by, of all things, a serial killer, are far more in love and happier than either thought they could ever be.
They had first met when he was consulting with FDLE on a series of ritual murders in Miami, but were both originally from North Florida and found each other again after returning home.
Nearly all the boxes left have Daniel Davis written on them and contain books from his excessive--according to Sam--library, but there are a handful that read Samantha Michaels on them, and at least one of those contains the files she’s searching for.
Daniel joins Sam in lifting boxes and looking around.
—If I had the chance to do one case over again, what would it be? she asks.
—That’s easy. Savannah Summers. Why?
—I get to.
—Huh?
—I’m on the Child Abduction Response Team being called in to investigate the disappearance of her sister.
—Her sister?
—Yeah. Shelby. Eight years after Savannah was taken, her twin sister Shelby is missing.
In the short time Daniel and Sam have been together, he’s seen her open and study the Savannah Summers file at least three times.
—I can’t believe it, he says.
—I know.
—Their poor mother.
He shakes his head and shudders as he continues to look.
—I haven’t told you about her, have I? she asks.
—Don’t think so.
—The artist, Taylor Sean. You familiar with her work?
—Vaguely.
—What about her story?
—Not as far as I know, he says.
—It’s very famous—though most people don’t know it’s her because she changed her last name. She was part of a set of conjoined twins.
—Taylor and Trevor Young? he says, the excitement in his voice apparent.
—Yeah. How’d you—
—You kidding? Their story is in one of the philosophy textbooks I use. The author uses it as an example of utilitarianism.
The children of Ron and Rebecca Young, Taylor and Trevor were conjoined twin girls connected at the lower abdomen. Medical experts said that if the two weren’t separated, they’d both die, but if they underwent the difficult and dangerous operation, Taylor would live and Trevor would die. What to do? Perform the operation to save Taylor and kill Trevor or take no action and allow both girls to die? Devout Catholics, Ron and Rebecca opted not to have the surgery, stating they couldn’t go against God’s law and kill their daughter, Trevor. Instead, they put their girls in God’s hands, trusting his perfect will.
But this isn’t the end of the story.
Dr. D. Kelly David, a noted expert on conjoined twins separation, petitioned the court, and in a case that went all the way to the Florida Supreme Court, won the right to override the parents’ wishes and separate the girls.
Taylor Sean, who grew up as Taylor Young, did so with enormous guilt over surviving when her sister didn’t and with the certain knowledge that her parents had wanted her dead.
—Utilitarianism? Sam asks.
—The philosophical position that posits when faced with a moral decision, the right thing to do is maximize happiness.
—As in it’s better for one twin to die than both.
—Exactly.
—Isn’t it obvious? she asks.
He shrugs.
—If both twins are recognizably human, then both have the same fundamental rights—namely to life and justice, then Taylor doesn’t have more rights than Trevor. They have equal rights under the law. The separation denied Trevor both of these rights. If your sister were dying and needed a new heart, should anyone be able to tell you that you had to give her yours?
—No, but that’s different.
—Sure, but it makes the point.
—How could parents wish both their children to die instead of saving one?
—They’re radical pro-lifers. They believed it was murder. They said there are no exceptions to thou shalt not kill, that the operation transgressed not only Go
d’s law, but that of our society. That it is never permissible to kill—even to save an innocent life. It’s why they’re against abortion even if the life of the mother is in jeopardy.
—Here it is, she says, lifting a box from the back corner.
—All that wasn’t enough—she had a daughter get abducted too?
Sam nods.
—Eight years ago. She had twins of her own—not conjoined—and walking from the bus to their house on a short dirt road somehow Savannah was taken with Shelby right there.
—And now eight years later, Shelby’s been taken?
—Not sure, but she is missing, which gives me the chance to revisit Savannah’s disappearance as I look for Shelby. Who knows? They may be connected.
21
—Things’re about to get real—real fast, Will says.
Julian doesn’t respond.
—Do you know what CART is? Keith asks.
When Julian still doesn’t say anything, his mom turns to him. She is seated beside him across the small table from the sheriff and deputy.
—Son, the sheriff asked you a question.
—No, sir. I don’t.
Sullen. Hunched. Sulking. Seething. The small interview room at the sheriff’s department is filled with the negative energy emanating off Julian.
He feeling guilty? Will wonders. Know he’s in trouble? Or just mad he’s missing the game? With teenage boys you never know.
—Well, it’s kind of a big deal, Keith says.
—Stands for Child Abduction Response Team, Will says.
—If Shelby’s really missing, I’ll do whatever it takes to find her, Keith says. You should know that.
—The team is made up of members from several different agencies, Will says. We’ll have cops of all kinds—FDLE, police, correctional and probation officers, deputies. They’ve all been specially trained, and will come from all over to help in the search. It exists because most departments don’t have the manpower to have a specially trained team of their own.
—I make the call and they’re here, Keith says. This all gets real—real fast.
Will smiles. Did he pick up the expression from Keith or was it the other way around? He can’t remember. How many other words, sayings, mannerisms, and traits had they unwittingly taken from one another?
The Remington James Box Set Page 45
