The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  —What is?

  —Abominations.

  —Taylor is an abomination? Daniel asks.

  Ron clears his throat and Rebecca stops talking.

  —What Becca is trying to say is our poor little girls were snatched from the hands of a loving God and cut on and killed by a prideful man disdainful of God’s laws. They’re both in limbo.

  Daniel nods as he begins to understand their twisted, inhumane point of view.

  —So you really don’t think Taylor should still be alive, he says.

  —Not in her current state. No, sir, I don’t. God created Taylor and Trevor together, to be together, to remind us all of the joining, the oneness we’re all capable of—with God, with others. We can’t know his will.

  Of course your God is masculine and dictatorial.

  —Their lives and deaths were in his hands. Our job is to submit to God’s will, not fight against it, not keep it from happening. Our precious little angels are in limbo, their souls stuck. They—

  Daniel’s eyes widen.

  —You think Taylor doesn’t have a soul?

  —No. Of course she does.

  —But it’s in limbo?

  —With Trevor’s. Like it’s supposed to be. They’re linked. Connected. Always have been. Always will be.

  —So Taylor is alive, but shouldn’t be and her soul is in limbo?

  Not for the first time, Daniel marvels at the crazy things people do with religion, and wonders at the intelligence of Ron and Rebecca Young. He knows smart people are capable of believing some absolute absurdities, but thinks every case of prolonged, militant ignorance demonstrates an absence of a certain type of intelligence. Something somewhere is missing, which makes him smile—Ron is saying the same thing about his daughter.

  —You find me amusing? Ron asks.

  —No, sir. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.

  —What about your granddaughters? Sam asks.

  —What about them?

  —How much contact do you have with them?

  —Them? Ma’am, Savannah’s dead. Only Shelby is left.

  —Of course. How often do you talk to Shelby?

  —We have no contact, Ron says.

  —Really? None?

  —Taylor has turned her against us.

  What do you expect from a woman without a soul? Daniel thinks.

  —You’re saying you never talk to her?

  —Never have.

  —Sir, doesn’t the ten commandments say something about not bearing false witness to a law enforcement officer?

  Daniel laughs.

  —You will not mock the Lord our God in this house, Ron says. I assure you of that.

  —I assure you I wasn’t.

  —I think it’s best if you go now, he says, starting to stand.

  —I have Shelby’s phone records.

  —And?

  —You’ve been calling her.

  —I most certainly have not, he says.

  As he sits back down, he hesitates a moment and looks over at Rebecca.

  —Rebecca?

  —I’m so sorry, Ron, she says, a tremor in her voice. I know I disobeyed you, but I’m weak. I want my granddaughter in my life. I want to know her. I lost both my girls. I just want . . .

  As she talks, she continues to sit upright, the posture of her rigid body so erect it provides a confusing juxtaposition to the contrition and brokenness of her words.

  Her body is a barrier, holding back her humanity, Daniel thinks. Repression. Control. Denial. Carefully holding it all in. He wonders if there’s a real person inside there any longer—and wonders if wondering that makes him more like Ron, who doubts his daughter has a soul, than he’d like to admit.

  —Am I the head of this household or not? Ron says.

  —You are. I’m so sorry. I never got through. She never returned any of my messages. I still haven’t talked to her.

  —You’re saying you’ve had no contact with her?

  —Yes. None.

  —Neither of you have spoken to or seen Shelby? Ever?

  They both nod.

  —We’ve seen pictures, Ron says.

  —How? Sam asks.

  —And how’d you get her number? Daniel adds.

  Rebecca looks at Ron, who holds Sam’s gaze.

  —You’ll never believe it, she says.

  —Try me, Sam says.

  —His secretary.

  —Whose? Sam asks.

  —The doctor who plays God.

  —D. Kelly David?

  60

  Red Maple.

  Tupelo.

  Buttress-bottomed cypresses.

  Alligator lilies.

  Cypress knees.

  Adjacent to the thick cypress bottom, in a small clearing, the largest, tallest cypress knees she’s ever seen rise out of the ground like the giant stakes of a medieval fortress. Jagged. Phallic. Spirals.

  Cypress knees grow up from deep roots that are deprived of oxygen for long periods of time by floods.

  Wandering among them in wonder, she cranes to see the pointy tops some ten to twelve feet in the air.

  Typically, the tops of the knees reach the high-water mark for an area, which means the flood through here must be enormous.

  Bathed in moonlight, the clearing seems a magical place.

  Letting her fingers follow the contours of aging wood, she’s filled with a nearly irresistible urge to hug them.

  She smiles at this.

  Am I offering love and comfort or trying to get it?

  Ancient.

  Alluvial.

  Sacred.

  What she feels right now is the closest she comes to magic, what she’s experiencing, the closest to transcendence.

  The swamp is alive, its soul surrounding her. She feels it.

  What’s wrong with us? We’re so fuckin’ ridiculous—starving this holy place because of goddamn greedy development and for rich boy toys’ water recreation.

  It frustrates her more people haven’t joined the fight to save the river and swamps, but being out here like this shows her just how artificial an existence she is still living, how far removed from nature, how isolated by structures and cars and pavement and concrete and steel and air-conditioning—though she’s missing the fuck out of some air-conditioning right about now. Being out here, so deep, so cut off from everyone but the swamp itself, reminds her just how vital to its survival, to everyone’s survival, the work she and Kerry and others are doing really is.

  I’ve been doing less since I started seeing Julian. Fuck. It’s so hard to stay balanced, not to get lost in love, not to let happiness blind you. Got to do better. Got to get out of here first. Before you can do anything else. You’ve got to survive this night. Right now.

  She hears the old man’s voice again. Hey, neighbor. Hears the loud explosions of the gunfire breaking the serene silence of the early morning on the river.

  Get out of here. Got to find a way. How? I’m just wandering around, lost as fuck. How can I get back to the river? Is that even the thing to do?

  ––It is, the kind male voice she’s been hearing says.

  ––Huh?

  ––The thing to do, he says.

  No longer a disembodied voice, this time there’s a body to go with it, and though she never met the man, and though it’s entirely impossible, she knows with a certainty with which she knows very few things that the man is Remington James.

  ––How . . . she begins.

  ––I don’t know.

  ––But . . . you’re . . .

  ––I know.

  ––I’m not crazy, she says. .

  ––No you’re not. Just the opposite. The mind is a mysterious and magnificent thing.

  —So I’m just imagining this?

  He shrugs.

  —Does it matter what you call it? he asks.

  ––Why didn’t I see you earlier?

  ––Not sure. I was there just like I am now.

  ––You’r
e so real.

  ––I think so, he says with a wry smile.

  Just then––

  —Freeze.

  Her abductor’s voice reaches her at the same moment the beam of his flashlight does.

  Remington is gone. Was he ever there?

  —Don’t move, her abductor says. I mean it. I’ll shoot you and leave you here.

  She hears what sounds like a handgun being cocked.

  I’m gonna die. Right here. Right now. Alone in the woods. Where is Remington? Where’d you go? They’ll never find my body. Never know what happened to me or who this son of a bitch is.

  Like the light, the voice is coming from behind her. She has no idea where he is, how far away. Closing her eyes, she tries to judge the distance his words are traveling, but the crickets and frogs and other noisemaking animals and insects make it impossible.

  I don’t want to die—not now, not here, not like this. But what if what’s waiting for me is worse?

  ––You’re not alone, Remington says. You’re not gonna die out here. Take a breath. Listen to me. Do what I tell you.

  She’s back to being able to hear but not see him.

  —Pretty impressive, her abductor is saying. Took a lot longer to find you than I thought it would.

  —Whatta you want? she says. Why’re you doin’ this?

  He doesn’t respond.

  —I just wanna go home. Please.

  Nothing.

  —Please.

  Still no response.

  —They’ll pay you, she says. A lot.

  ––RUN! Remington yells.

  His voice screams inside her as much as outside.

  And she listens to it.

  Ducking, she darts behind the nearest cypress knee for cover, pauses a fraction of a second, then runs toward the cypress and tupelo trees to her right.

  ––Good, Remington says. You’re doing good.

  Thwack. Thwack.

  Rounds hit the cypress knee behind her.

  The handgun’s explosion shatters all other sounds, and the swamp goes silent.

  Eerie. Dissonant. Desolate. Disquieting.

  No wind. No hums. No chirps. No croaks. No noise.

  Nothing.

  The soundless swamp is creepy and disturbing.

  In the aural void she can hear her own blood pumping through her body, rushing past her ears as she runs.

  At first she tries to clinch her toes, attempting to keep her sandals on as she runs, but soon abandons that effort in favor of speed and quickness.

  Running.

  Stumbling.

  Tripping.

  Pinging like a pinball, she careens off the swollen bases of cypresses, bumped from one to another by the force of her weight and movement.

  More shots.

  More scrapes.

  More silence.

  Please don’t let me die. Please.

  ––Don’t look back, Remington says. Just run.

  She wants to look over her shoulder, see how close her pursuer is, but knows it will only slow her down, make her run into a tree or trip over a limb. Besides, how will knowing how close he is help? Just run.

  The bottoms of her feet are cut and bleeding, every footfall painful. New scratches, cuts, and tears on her face and hands and arms and legs. Heart and lungs exploding. Side stabbing. Still she runs.

  She wants to stop, to fall down and cry and cry and cry. But she keeps moving.

  61

  Marc wakes to the sound of Taylor screaming.

  Still lying on the couch together, they must have fallen asleep.

  He pushes up and turns toward her.

  —What is it?

  At first he can’t tell whether she’s still asleep or not.

  —Taylor. Taylor. Are you okay? Are you awake? Wake up.

  —Shelby, she says, jumping up and beginning to pace.

  —I know, he says sitting up. We’re gonna get her—

  —She’s being chased. Someone’s after her. He’s got a gun. Oh God. She’s in so much pain. Her feet. Her face. She’s all cut up. Bruised and bleeding. Oh God. My baby.

  —It’s okay, he says. It was just a dream.

  —No. It’s happening right now.

  —We fell asleep. It was just a dream. You were dreaming.

  —It’s not a dream. It’s . . . I can’t explain it exactly, but it’s real—a connection to her. It’s not a dream.

  —Where is she? Who’s after her?

  —I don’t know. I can’t see it. Only feel it. Feel her. Oh God. Shelby. My little girl.

  —So no one’s had her this whole time? Someone’s after her now?

  —I don’t know. I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I’m just not sure. Stop asking me stupid questions and just find her. We’ve got to find her. Now.

  62

  —Where are you?

  —Heading back down to Lanier Landing. Somebody reported seeing someone around Shelby’s car.

  —It hasn’t been towed yet?

  —Zeke’s trucks were busy with a wreck this evening. I figured it could wait since the car’s been processed and didn’t turn up anything.

  —Think it could be our guy?

  —It’s possible.

  —Want backup?

  —You know what the Rangers say? One riot, one Keith.

  63

  —You wanna wake an old lady up, don’t you? Sam asks.

  —You don’t? Daniel says.

  She smiles.

  They are back in the car, roaring down the empty rural highway, moonlight bathing blacktop and slash pines and the wispy edges of the vanishing fog.

  —We’re a lot more alike than we appear, she says.

  —We are, he says, but not when it comes to . . .

  —To what?

  —This.

  —Waking up old ladies?

  —The relentless, single-minded pursuit of a lead.

  —Good try there, slim, but you’re just as dogged.

  —You kidding? Dogs aren’t as dogged as you.

  —So you’re okay if we don’t wake up the old lady?

  —Don’t get carried away. I didn’t say that. In fact, I’m jonesing to wake up the good doctor too.

  She smiles.

  —See?

  —Proves nothing. No matter how bad I want to talk to the doctor and his secretary, you want to worse. Way worse. You’re about leads the way I am about . . .

  —Sex, she says.

  —You think I’m as doggedly obsessed with sex as you are investigating?

  —No. It’s not even close.

  —Thank you.

  —You’re way, way more obsessed with pussy than I am cases.

  He laughs.

  —I can prove it, she says.

  —Really? How’s that?

  —Would you rather pull over on a side road and fuck or to talk to the old lady?

  —Can’t we do both? I’ll be quick.

  64

  Can’t run another step.

  ––Not even if it’ll save your life? Remington asks.

  I can’t.

  Crying now, the sadness of the world entire atop her.

  Her little heart is punching her chest like it’s trying to burst out and breaking in two at the same time.

  For a while, as she banged into buttresses and tripped over fallen trees, she knew he was behind her because of the occasional play of the beam on the bark and bushes and the random round buzzing by, but it’s been a while and she wonders if she’s lost him.

  Or is that just what he wants me to think?

  Out of the cypress swamp, she climbed a low-running ridge, following it for several minutes before jumping down and tromping through several bogs and mud holes—both of which felt so soothing on her feet she was almost able to forget about moccasins.

  Now, she finds herself crying her way through a wiregrass longleaf pine flat, the trees sparse, the ground smudged with rosebud orchids, pawpaw, and even the occasional Chapman’s rhododendron.
/>   Hearing a rattler not far away, she whips her head around and sees—

  Bobbing.

  Cackling.

  Leaping.

  Yellow eyes, white dots on brown feathers.

  ––It’s just an owl, Remington says.

  Nearby, a burrowing owl, which is capable of leaping and hovering twenty feet above the ground and making some thirteen different calls, one of which mimics a rattlesnake, bobs about, the white spots on its small body looking like a fresh dusting of snow in the glow of the moon.

  —Damn, man, she says. You scared the fuck out of me.

  She’s so distracted by the bird that it’s a few moments before she realizes she’s stopped and hasn’t been shot.

  Did I lose him?

  ––You did, Remington says.

  She doubts it, but is too tired and weak to do much more than find a place to hide. At the far edge of the flats is a titi swamp. She can walk that far, find a place to snuggle in, have herself a good cry, and stay put ’til morning.

  65

  —She’s out of danger? Marc asks.

  —NO, Taylor says, her voice rising. It’s just not so immediate. I think. I’m dealing with impressions. And she has . . . some kind of help . . . some kind of protector presence. Savannah maybe. I don’t know. Can’t tell exactly.

  He nods.

  She’s still pacing around the living room. He’s standing now too, hovering over the chair he had been sitting in earlier.

  —You don’t believe me, do you? she asks.

  —Huh?

  He’s glancing down at the printed pages of Shelby’s journal and doesn’t quite catch the question.

  —I don’t blame you. I just . . . I want a partner who doesn’t think I’m mental because I’m linked to people.

  —People?

  —Certain people more than others. I feel it with you.

  —Because we’re twins, he says.

  —If we truly are, you’ll know what I’m saying is true.

  —Just because I ask questions or at first thought you were having a dream doesn’t mean—

  —So you do? she says. You believe I’m . . . connected.

  —I know we are, he says. Why would I question it for others? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’