She nods.
—Exactly. I’m gonna put on some coffee. Want some?
—Sure, he says, and follows her into the kitchen. Who else? he asks.
—Am I connected to? Savannah and Shelby, of course. Not my parents at all. I’ve often wondered if Trevor and I were adopted. I’m sure it would’ve come out during the trial or something, and who adopts conjoined twins, but . . . I just have a hard time believing we came from them. We. I. I’ve always felt like a we more than an I. Always. I’ve never told anyone this, but . . . I’ve never lost my connection with her.
As she talks, she removes a canister of coffee from one cabinet, a bag of sugar from another, and a box of filters from a third, and he wonders again why they aren’t all kept together.
—With who? he asks.
—Trevor. I still feel her. Always have. It’s the reason I believe in the afterlife. How can I not? What do you think about that, Horatio?
She pauses, filter in hand, for him to answer the question.
—I think for some the veil between the seen and unseen worlds parts more easily, he says. And I knew you were one of those people from your paintings long before I ever met you.
The kitchen is overly bright for the middle of the night, its surfaces cold, spotless.
—You don’t think I’m crazy?
—Have you read my novels?
Her eyes widen and she has the look of someone who’s realized something they think should have been obvious to them already.
—Guess I just thought they were fiction.
—They are.
—You’re just so levelheaded, she says.
—Only compared to you.
She smiles.
—Maybe that really is it, she says. You’re so much less volatile than me.
As she fills a plastic container with tap water, he notices the small gift Shelby made her as a little girl propped up on the window sill, and he has to blink back tears.
Colored pipe cleaner flower on small fence of Popsicle sticks, fading felt tip pen letters. If mothers were flowers, I’d pick you.
—I spend my life in make-believe land, he says, hoping she didn’t see his reaction to the aging dust-covered grammar school gift, and you’re calling me all left brain and shit.
—You’re right. Sorry.
She glances from his gaze to the craft project over the sink.
—So sweet, she says, her voice cracking beneath a sniffle. The girls made that for me for Mother’s Day when they were seven. Year before Savannah was taken. One Mother’s Day I have two girls and by the next only one. Will I still have at least one next Mother’s Day?
—Yes. Any idea where she is? he asks. Did you sense anything that might help us find her?
She frowns.
—Only that it’s isolated. But it’s not a bad place. Not a . . . It’s a dangerous place, but safe too. Like . . . It’s got to be the woods or some natural place, I think.
66
Keith cuts his lights as he nears the scene.
The landing is quiet. Empty.
Piecey patches of fog hover just above the surface of the water. Pale. Phosphorescent. Picturesque.
Beyond the river, the tall tips of trees are rimmed by the partial moon’s pallid glow.
From a distance, he can see the shadowed shape of a figure inside Shelby’s car, backlit by a security lamp behind the neighbors’ trailer.
Parking about thirty feet away, he gets out quietly, pulling his pistol as he approaches the vehicle.
Standing back, he taps on the driver’s window, orders the man out, then assumes a shooter’s stance and waits.
Slowly, awkwardly, Julian crawls out of the car.
Keith can tell the boy’s been crying.
—Julian? he says, holstering his gun. What are you doin’?
—I miss her so much. Just wanted to smell her, be near her—something of hers.
—So you trespassed on a crime scene and broke into her car.
—Didn’t break in. I have a key.
—Anyone else have one? Keith says.
Julian shrugs.
The wet movement of the river and the distant dissonance of insects the only sounds.
The river smells of fish and must and brine. Fresh, yet slightly fetid.
—I thought she changed her mind. Stood me up. Killed our kid. I’ve spent all day fuckin’ hatin’ her.
The irony is not lost on Keith. The betrayed became the betrayer—except he was never the betrayed. How easily lovers hurt each other. Smash what they have. Trample the other’s trust—and not just young lovers.
67
—Y’all couldda been lookin’ for her ’stead of talking to me.
—We were doing both.
—If somebody hurts her, you’re gonna have to shoot me, ’cause I’ll kill ’em.
—Won’t come to that. We’re gonna find her. She’s gonna be all right. I’ll deal with whoever took her. Don’t you worry.
Breaking down, Julian begins to cry again.
—I love her so much.
—I know you do. Come on, I’ll drive you home.
68
Titi swamp.
Tree hollow.
Curled up.
Uncomfortable.
Exhausted.
Fitful sleep.
Perchance to dream.
In the peaceful early morning, the light in the swamp is incandescent, resting tenderly on the oak leaves and Spanish moss, the pine needles and palmetto fronds, the maple and tupelo and cypresses.
Clearing.
The small field is lush and meadow-like, the soft ground a bouquet of brown-eyed Susans—ovate leaves, stems tapering down into stalks.
The fragrant scent is both fresh and delicate. Subtle. Nature’s perfume.
She is wearing a beautiful lace-edged white dress, impossibly bright in the brilliant glow of daybreak.
Birdsong.
The music of morning, the earth fresh and new as the first day.
Before her, in an altered version of the same dress, her mom is regal, radiant, her twin sister, Trevor, still connected, still conjoined, a smaller, weaker, sicker copy of her mom.
Taylor and Trevor. Together. Again.
She’s about to say something to her mom, when she realizes her own sister is present—and not just, but conjoined like they never were in life.
—Look, Mom, we’re like you.
—Like us, Trevor corrects.
There’s something wounded in the woman’s words, and it hurts Shelby—for the woman and the small discarded child she had been. Savannah feels it too, and Shelby feels her feeling it.
Shelby cranes her neck to see Savannah.
—I’m so happy to see you, she says. I’ve missed you so much.
—I feel complete again, Savannah says.
Savannah is no longer a child the way Shelby herself was the last time she saw her, but older and yet somehow timeless, and she realizes that she herself is no longer sixteen, but ageless in a way that makes all four women, mother and daughters, aunt and nieces, sets of sisters, the same ageless age.
—Mom? Shelby asks.
—Yes, sweetie?
—Are we gonna die?
—Of course.
—Soon? Rejoin our sisters?
—Would that be so bad?
—No, ma’am, I guess it wouldn’t, but what about Marc and Julian?
—You want me to get him to kill them too?
—Who? Who is he?
—He’s an it.
—Ma’am?
—An it. A thing. Not human. You’ll see soon enough.
Savannah begins to cry.
Shelby feels her enormous pain and sadness.
—Don’t cry, Vannah.
—Don’t tell me what to do, she says.
—What’s wrong? Why are you so sad?
—Wouldn’t you be? You will. So much pain, so much loneliness, so much longing.
—Mom, Shelby says, turning toward h
er, why are Savannah and I joined the way you and Trevor are?
—You don’t have to be. None of us do.
Taylor steps back while shoving Trevor, snapping bones, splitting organs, splattering their torn white dress crimson.
Trevor screams as she falls to the ground, her abdomen ripped open, her viscera hanging out, then begins to cry.
Taylor stands over her smiling, her teeth smeared with blood.
—A grateful sister appreciates your sacrifice, she says.
—MOM, Shelby shouts. NO.
—You do it too, honey. It’s fun.
—I can’t.
Suddenly, Taylor is there, a hand on each girl.
—Do I have to do everything? she asks.
Prying the girls apart. Tearing them asunder. Easy as rending a garment.
Shelby screams in horrific pain and tries to wake herself up, but can’t, can’t climb out of the deep dark well of her subconscious to the safety of her hollow tree trunk in the titi swamp.
69
—Think you can handle the old lady on your own? Sam asks.
She has just gotten off the phone with Keith.
—Maybe I’m overestimating my abilities, but I think I can, Daniel says. What’s up?
They are winding around 98, the Gulf to their left, thick woods to their right, nearing the spot where they met and left his car on their way to interview the Youngs.
—Just got a BOLO for a sex offender who didn’t show up for his mandatory meeting with his parole officer. Could be connected.
Sam pulls the car off the highway onto the shoulder next to Daniel’s car, a plume of white dust from sand and oyster shells rising around it.
—You got dimes? he asks.
She checks the battery life on her phone.
—Yeah.
He leans in and kisses her.
—I love you, he says. Like I’ve never loved anyone. Take care of yourself.
—You watch yourself with the old lady there, mister.
He starts to get out, but she pulls him back for more kissing.
—Wasn’t finished. You just told me you loved me like no one ever.
They kiss for a few more minutes, their attraction and arousal palpable.
—If you don’t get out now, I’m not gonna let you. I’m gonna force you to rip all my clothes off and fuck me ’til morning and forget my job and a young girl could die.
—Erection killer, he says, pulling back and opening the door.
—I’ve yet to find anything that can kill your erection, superman.
—That’s a much better note to end on, he says.
As she drives away, he stands for a moment staring out at the Gulf.
Inhaling the briny breeze, he realizes it’s not unlike the way his eyes are breathing in the beauty—the shadowed undulating waves rhythmically rolling in and out, the shimmering path of moonlight emanating from the wan and waning orb.
Everything is night quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just the gentle, relentless tide touching the shore as if caressing a lover’s cheek.
Alone.
He’s filled with longing like the bittersweet pang and pleasure of nostalgia, and he realizes it’s not just for Sam.
This is his religion. Sand and sea, sky and silence. But so, too, is helping track down abducted sixteen-year-olds and the sociopaths who take them.
70
She feels like she’s deep in the Gulf, swimming toward the surface, but no matter how hard or long she swims, she can’t make it to the top.
Why can’t I surface? What’s wrong? It’s like I’ll never make it up. Like it’s not possible.
Wake the fuck up!
Heart about to explode.
Lungs about to fill with water.
Drowning.
Death.
Come on. Now! Right now. Wake the fuck up!
Kicking her feet. Pulling with her hands. Reaching. Grabbing. Flailing.
Surfacing.
She regains consciousness with the horrific images of her ripped and torn family still haunting her head.
Does he have Mom too? Are we both going to die? Is that what it meant?
I want my mama. Please. God. Oh God. Please. Don’t let me die out here like this. Please protect Mom too. Bring us back together. You’ve got to. Please. I’m a good person. I don’t deserve this. Please help me find the river. Help me get back home.
She looks around in search of Remington, but sees no sign of him.
I’m so scared. So tired. So fuckin’ alone. So fried. Can’t think. Can’t feel anything—but fear.
Whatta I do? Whatta I do? Whatta I do?
Come on. Come on. Come on.
You know what to do. Just do it.
It’s still a little while before dawn, but it’s fast approaching, and she can feel the shift in atmosphere. Changes in the air. Barometric pressure falling.
The storm is closer now. A lot closer.
I’ve got to get back to the river. Get help. Find Mom.
See. You know what to do. Just do it.
Where am I? Have I been running straight inland this whole time?
71
Racing down the rural road toward Lithonia Lodge, Sam receives a call from a number she doesn’t recognize.
—Hello.
—Agent Michaels?
—Yes.
—This is Porter Weston.
Porter Weston is one of the few African-American deputies in Keith’s department. Young, bright, motivated, he hasn’t even made detective yet, and has already told her he’d like to be an FDLE agent one day.
—Hey, Porter. What’s up?
—Got something I want to run by you.
—Okay.
—You know how things are for us within law enforcement agencies.
—Us?
—Minorities.
—I certainly do, she says, wondering where he’s going with this.
—Racism, sexism, homophobia. It’s systemic. The culture, you know?
—I do.
Though not out, Porter had always seemed gay to her—something she feels far more justified believing now. Very few heteros would be sensitive enough to list homophobia next to racism and sexism.
—Well, sometimes my ideas aren’t too well received, but I’ve got two I think need to be . . . Can I share ’em with you?
—Of course.
—The first one might be sort of out there, but . . . I don’t know. I’m a . . . I like to read. Do you? Have you read Marc Hayden Faulk’s books?
—I haven’t. No.
—It’s just . . . he’s got a . . . One of them has a plot about a missing girl. Teenager. A little younger than Shelby, but . . . I’m not saying it means anything, but I think it could. It’s kinda scary how similar it is to what’s going on here.
—What happens in his book?
—The girl is raped and tortured repeatedly and murdered. Some pretty sick shit in the book. Nobody’s mentioned it and I thought what if . . . I mean, we’ve got to look at everything, right?
—Absolutely right.
—I’m not even saying it’s him. Just that what he wrote could be inspiring whoever’s behind it. Or have something to do with it.
—No, yeah. I’m glad you mentioned it. I know how things are but I think you could’ve told this directly to the sheriff.
—Keith’s a good guy. He is. But . . . I don’t know.
—I understand. I like your idea. Only thing is . . . hard to believe this is connected to Savannah’s disappearance. And Faulk was nowhere around back then.
—That we know of, he says, but yeah, like I said, just thought I should put it out there. The second thing is far more . . . I mean, she was around for Savannah.
—Who?
—Taylor Sean. Is anyone looking at her? I haven’t really heard her mentioned as a suspect and . . . it’s usually someone connected to the victim, isn’t it? This Sean woman is out there. I mean, you hear stories, you know? Have you seen her paintings? You fa
miliar with Munchausen syndrome by proxy? Why is she getting a pass?
72
Wrinkled face. Sagging, hooded eye. Short, gray hair.
All that is visible in the narrow gap of the opened-but-chained apartment door.
—Ms. Helpner?
—Yes?
Her voice is old and weak, but doesn’t sound groggy, which with how quickly she answered the door makes Daniel think she hadn’t been sleeping.
—I’m Daniel Davis with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Sorry to disturb you so late—or early—but Shelby Summers has disappeared and—
—Oh, the poor dear.
—Yes, ma’am.
—Hasn’t she been through enough? How can she possibly—
—Oh, you mean Taylor.
—She was the sweetest child. I know the Bible says God won’t put more of a load on us than we can bear, but . . . she’s been through so much. Too much.
—May I come in and ask you a few questions?
—Who’d you say you were again?
He hands her one of the cards Sam had made up for him. It reads: Daniel Davis, PhD, Special Consultant, Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and has the gold embossed logo on it.
She takes it through the small opening, lifts her glasses, and brings the card to within a couple of inches of her squinting right eye.
—Doctor? What kind?
—Philosophy and religion.
—Interesting.
She closes the door, removes the chain, and opens it to let him in.
The dim apartment smells of must and mothballs and the slightest hint of urine, and looks to be the habitat of a housebound person.
Every surface of the cluttered and overly furnished space is covered—mostly with stacks and stacks and stacks of newspapers, magazines, and journals.
She leads him into the den and eases back into an aging cloth recliner with towels draped over the back and tucked into the seat.
Ruth Helpner is old and frail, her long, lean body failing.
Across from the recliner, a muted TV on a too-small table that looks about to collapse is tuned to a cable channel airing the old black-and-white film Dark Mirror.
The Remington James Box Set Page 54
