The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  When she sees him glancing around for a place to sit down, she nods toward the dining table in the adjoining room.

  —Grab one of those.

  —Sorry to wake you, he says.

  —You didn’t. I don’t sleep much anymore.

  He steps into the other room and finds that beneath the piled-high dining table, every chair is also being used for storage and stackage. Removing the magazines from the closest chair, he places them on the floor, and returns to the den with it.

  —You think somebody got Shelby? she asks. Just like Savannah.

  —What we’re trying to find out.

  She shakes her head very slowly.

  —I can’t imagine how poor Taylor must be doing. Of all the children we worked with over the years, she was our favorite.

  —Yours and Dr. David’s?

  She nods.

  —You were his . . .

  She shrugs.

  —Not sure exactly. Different things at different times. A little bit of everything all the time. Assistant. Secretary. Wife. Confidant. Friend.

  —You two were married?

  —No. I just meant . . .

  —I see.

  She tilts her head up, pushing her glasses up on her nose, and looks off into the distance.

  —Taylor and Trevor were just so precious. It was so heartbreaking they had to be separated. Put the poor parents through hell. It was hard on all of us, but Taylor suffered the most. No comparison.

  —You’ve kept in touch with her over the years?

  —Somewhat. Not as much since . . .

  —Since?

  —I got so old and . . . worn out.

  He gets the sense that’s not what she was going to say at all.

  —Did something happen?

  —Huh?

  She’s staring at the TV now, feigning distraction.

  —Did you guys have a falling out?

  —No. Nothing like that. All the kids were like my own. But none more than Shelby and Savannah.

  —Shelby and Savannah?

  —Is that what I said? No. Taylor and Trevor. Though I just loved Shelby and Savannah to pieces too.

  —How often do you talk to them?

  —Who?

  —Taylor and Shelby?

  —Not much anymore. Send them a birthday card. Christmas.

  —Ron and Rebecca said they got Shelby’s number from you.

  —Did they? I don’t recall. I suppose I have it around here somewhere.

  —Shelby’s cell phone number?

  She shrugs and waves her bony, arthritic hand dismissively.

  —I was surprised. I understand staying in touch with Taylor, but her parents? Weren’t they your adversaries? What does Dr. David say?

  —I always felt bad for them. Never saw them as my enemies. I haven’t spoken to Dr. David . . . in a while.

  —Were you with him when he lost his license?

  He recalls reading the brief newspaper article Sam had clipped and placed in the file:

  A doctor with a residence in Leon County was stripped of his license to practice medicine in Florida today over misconduct and patient abuse, state officials said.

  Dr. D. Kelly David was decertified by the Medical Board of Florida this week. He resides in Tallahassee, according to medical board documents.

  According to a Florida Department of Justice complaint, “The respondent engaged in multiple extreme departures from the standard of practice in the care and treatment of patients.”

  David’s license was temporarily suspended and then reinstated with restrictions. The medical board ordered that he undergo “proctoring” by another surgeon and complete a series of courses on ethics, undergo psychological counseling, and attend a professional boundaries program.

  The doctor failed to comply, according to state officials, and his license was revoked.

  Ruth Helpner shakes her head.

  —So sad, she says. Did so much good—and that’s what he’s remembered for.

  —What happened to him?

  —I don’t know the specifics. I had been gone a while by then.

  —Why’d you leave again?

  —It was just time. Too old. Really, Dr. David was too. He was such a good man. So dedicated. So tireless.

  From somewhere behind the piles of papers, a light gray Maine Coon cat with black streaks and white chest and paws slinks out, stretches, then bounds into Ruth’s lap.

  —Well, good morning, Miss Missy, she says, beginning to rub the animal’s head. How are you?

  —From what I read, Daniel says, attempting to keep her focused, it seemed very personal to him.

  —Dr. David? It was. He was a conjoined twin. His brother Karl was killed to save him. I think everything he ever did was because of that. He’s so driven. So brilliant.

  —Came across as obsessed.

  —Certainly. What genius with a mission isn’t?

  —Couldn’t’ve been easy to work for.

  —But he did so much good. Helped so many twins and their families.

  So you keep saying, he thinks. Why? What’s on the other scale that you’re trying to counterbalance for?

  —As obsessive and driven as he was, he seemed to be even more so with Taylor and Trevor.

  —It’s what he’s most known for. He fought so hard for them. They became like his own children. He had a daughter near Taylor’s age who died of leukemia. She became a surrogate, I think. Taylor I mean.

  —Are they still in touch?

  —I don’t think so. You should ask him—you should talk to him about all of this. I’m just a feebleminded old lady.

  As she talks, she continues to rub Miss Missy absently.

  —You had a falling out with him, right? Why? What aren’t you telling me?

  —What do you want from me?

  —For you to stop holding back. Shelby Summers is missing. Help me find her. Taylor’s been through enough, right? Help me get Shelby back to her safely. Dr. David lost his license, lost you and Taylor. Why? What happened?

  —He just . . . he just . . . he was so obsessed, so possessive. He just went crazy. That’s all. It’s tragic, but we all lose everything eventually. Is it more tragic for a genius to lose his mind? Maybe. I don’t know. None of us want to lose anything.

  —Where is he now?

  —I haven’t kept up with him.

  Appearing bored and disinterested, Miss Missy eases out of Ruth’s lap and out of the room.

  —You don’t know where he lives?

  —After it closed, he was still living in his hospital.

  —The River Park Inn Center for the Twin?

  —Yeah. Even when it was open, he had quarters on the top floor. He used to have another place too, but I never went to it. Have no idea where it is.

  —Okay, Daniel says, standing. I have to be honest, Ms. Helpner, I don’t think you’ve told me everything. I just hope it doesn’t cost Shelby Summers her life.

  She doesn’t say anything, and he returns the chair to the dining room. When he turns from stacking the magazines back onto the seat, she is standing there and it startles him.

  He waits but she doesn’t say anything.

  —Ma’am?

  —Huh?

  —Did you want to—

  —Got to lock the door behind you.

  She begins walking toward the door and he follows her. At the door, he pauses a moment.

  —My number’s on the card I gave you. Please call me if you think of anything else that might help us locate Shelby.

  She nods.

  —Dr. Davis is a senile old man now, she says, but he was a great physician who helped a lot of people. Whatever else he may have done, no matter what he may have become, try not to forget that. And be careful out there. Storm’ll be here soon.

  73

  Violent, whirling, spiraling cyclone.

  Large-scale, warm-core, low-pressure storm.

  Christine.

  Nearing now.

  Inten
se. Imminent. Inevitable.

  74

  —Taylor. Taylor. Wake up.

  —Huh?

  She’s lying on the couch, Marc nearby continuing to read through Shelby’s journal.

  —You’re having a bad dream, he says. You’re okay.

  She jerks out of his grip and sits up.

  —You’re safe. It was just a dream.

  —Oh my God. That was so . . . It’s like Shelby, Savannah, Trevor, and I were all having the same dream.

  —You’re okay. It’s over.

  —We were all together in a clearing in a swamp. All four of us. It was so beautiful and peaceful. Shelby and Savannah were conjoined like me and Trevor. We were wearing the prettiest white dresses, then we were ripped apart. It was awful. So painful. So bloody. I can’t believe I fell back asleep. I want to help you.

  —It’s fine. You’ve been through so much. I’m just reading and you obviously need the sleep.

  —Found out anything else?

  —Just what an extraordinary young woman she is. Truly. You’ve done an amazing job with her, Taylor.

  She’s gazing into the distance, and he can tell she’s not listening to him.

  —I think it’s possible Shelby and I were having the same dream.

  —Really?

  —You think I’m crazy?

  —What do you think it means?

  —Don’t know, but it gives me an idea.

  —What’s that?

  —I think I can connect to her—even more so—but if I’m all the way asleep, I have no control over it, and I can’t remember enough of it. But what if I’m hypnotized? Go under enough to reach her, but be aware enough to bring what I learn out.

  She pauses, but he doesn’t say anything.

  —You think I’ve lost it, don’t you? she asks.

  —Not at all.

  —Good, ’cause I want you to put me under.

  75

  Pulling up to the secluded nineteenth-century inn D. Kelly David converted into a hospital and center for twins, Daniel is filled with a sense of foreboding, as if the gloomy old place is as haunted as it looks.

  Broken windows.

  Leaning beams.

  Overgrown grass and weeds. Spreading vines.

  In the play of partial, pale moonlight and deep shadow, the faded white boards look like bleached bones, the crumbling and dilapidated structure neglected, forgotten, forsaken.

  During the latter part of the nineteenth century, the development of the steamboat and railroad produced a growing tourist business. People streamed out of hot and dirty cities in Alabama and Georgia to find healthful air, water, and tranquility along the banks of the Chipola and Apalachicola rivers. River Park Inn, located on the banks of the Apalachicola near the end of the train tracks—where at various times cotton, lumber, citrus, and turpentine were delivered to waiting boats—was an old antebellum mansion turned into a hotel and spa by a visionary business man named Fred George Gaskin.

  Eventually, as the river became less and less a highway, the inn closed, and was ultimately abandoned—until decades later when D. Kelly David bought and restored it for his twins hospital, orphanage, and research center.

  Now, after three incarnations—antebellum mansion, river hotel and spa, hospital and research center—the eerie old wooden monstrosity lies, like the House of Usher, in ruin once again.

  Set on the edge of the swamp, the secluded, empty hospital is some twenty miles from the nearest town. Daniel doubts he has cell coverage, but he doesn’t want to go in without telling Sam where he is.

  Withdrawing his phone, he checks it—and watches as one bar of signal goes to half to none, then back to one again. While there’s signal again, he touches Sam’s name on the screen—a simple action that makes him miss and long for her even more.

  The call fails.

  He tries again, and again it fails.

  Two more tries, and then he gets her voicemail. Quickly he tells her where he is and what he’s doing.

  —I think he might be involved—even behind it all. From all accounts, he’s really gone crazy. He’s always been obsessed with Taylor. She was like a surrogate daughter, replacing his daughter who died of leukemia. Maybe he did the same with Savannah and now Shelby. Ruth Helpner knows far more than she’s saying. You should probably interview her. It’s gonna take more skills than I have. I’ll let you know what I find. Call me back. I love you.

  Stepping out of his car, the moist heat clinging to him like he’s at a health club taking steam, he pauses a moment to try to slow his racing heart and fill his mind with something other than fear.

  Sam’s forever trying to get him to carry a gun, and in moments like these, he wishes he did. He does find a flashlight in the trunk, which is some comfort, and he leaves his car running with the lights on.

  Three stories.

  Two wings.

  Columns.

  He bangs on the enormous front door beneath the shard remnants of a giant chandelier. And waits.

  Nothing.

  He can’t imagine anyone living here, but if so, it’d be nearly impossible to hear a knock on the door from anywhere in the hospital but very near the door itself. He searches for a doorbell or buzzer, but finds neither, and decides to walk around back.

  Stepping carefully through the tall grass and weeds, he alternates the beam of his light between just ahead of his feet and the short distance before him.

  Nearly all of the tall arched window frames are boarded up behind broken glass and everything about the place is collapsing, crumbling, but he can see in the rotting remains how magnificent it must once have been.

  It takes a while, but eventually he makes his way around to the back of the building, the sounds of the unseen river growing louder.

  To his surprise, he can see a light on in the last room on the left on the third floor.

  Seeing a buzzer by the door of a delivery dock, he climbs up and rings it.

  From inside, he hears the buzz, but nothing after it, save the sounds of decay and the return to silence.

  As he presses the button again, he notices that the cargo door is open a small distance—enough for him to slide through.

  When after the second and third buzzes he gets no response, he pushes on the door, but it doesn’t budge. Placing the flashlight on the ground, he moves to the other side and pulls the sliding door with both hands. Inch by inch, bit by bit, he gets it open enough to squeeze through, which he does.

  Storage area.

  Damp, dank hallways.

  Overturned wheelchair. Upended gurney.

  Desultory dripping.

  Weak, narrow beam surrounded by utter darkness.

  Observation window reflecting back the beam.

  Nursery—creepy empty cribs.

  OR.

  Smell of deterioration, mortification, mildew, atrophy, abandonment.

  Stairs.

  Slowly ascending the steps. Deeper in. Darker.

  Hallway. Rooms. Hotel/hospital.

  Long, dark corridor.

  Presence. Not alone. Shit. Someone here. Stupid.

  As fear begins to constrict his heart, he realizes just how long it has been since he has had an anxiety attack.

  Strip of light. Last door on the left.

  Turn back or keep going? Have to keep going. Can’t not know what’s in there, who’s here. Can’t be married to Sam and be the kind of man who’d turn back.

  Then start carrying a gun, dumbass.

  Note to self: Get one of Sam’s many guns and keep it in the car.

  He eases down the hallway, dragging his feet along the tile floor, turning occasionally to shine the beam behind him to see if anyone is coming up in back of him.

  —Florida Department of Law Enforcement, he says, feeling, as he always does when he says it, like a fraud. Identify yourself.

  There’s no response and no sound—so why does he feel like he’s not alone?

  —Dr. David?

  Waits.


  —Is anyone there?

  Vividly remembering the last anxiety attack he had in a long hallway, he begins to relive it—realizing how perfect his current circumstances are for one to occur right now.

  He had been in a hotel hallway, stationed outside of Sam’s room while she was inside trying to get some sleep.

  They were newly in each other’s lives. Not a couple. Not even dating. It had been a while, so much had happened since, yet he remembers it as if it had been the night before.

  He had been reading a book on psychopathology. Sam had just been attacked by the arson serial killer known as the Phoenix, and sitting there watching over her, guarding her door, he had realized how ridiculous he was being.

  You are no match for those who would hurt Sam. What would you do if a killer showed up, throw a book at him?

  You are weak, impotent, powerless. Who’re you kidding? Sam can defend herself better than you can.

  And then it had begun.

  It pounced on him like an overpowering predator. All at once. Palpitations. Severe chest pains. Can’t catch his breath.

  Awash with adrenaline, trembling, shaky, sweating profusely. Body temp spikes.

  He’s gonna die. Right now. Death is here, has come for him, and there’s nothing he can do.

  Jumping up, trying to run, he experiences extreme vertigo. He reaches for the wall to steady himself, but loses control of his legs and falls to the floor. Suddenly, he’s being crushed by an unbearable weight as the whole world collapses down onto him.

  Paralysis sets in and he can’t move so much as his mouth. Can’t scream. Can’t yell for help. Can’t do anything but stare up into the demon-like face of the killer.

  He’s come for me. I’m dead. Then he’ll break down the door and burn Sam in her bed.

  You’re out of your mind. No one’s here. Look. Do you see anyone? No one’s here.

  Eventually, the attack ends, his mind and body righting themselves, returning to their previous settings, but he remains on the floor for a long time, disheartened, disgusted, depressed.

  Now, here in the long, dark corridor of River Park Inn, echoes of previous attacks reverberate through him, but he’s not having one, not yet.