Double Exposure (13 page)

G
ot to stop.

Keep moving. You can rest when you get out of here.

His boot gets tangled in a bush, and he trips, falling to the ground and rolling. After he stops rolling, he just lies there resting, the bed of leaves soft, comfortable.

So weary.

So sleepy.

Stay like this, and they’ll find you for sure.

Just a little rest.

Get up. Now.

I can’t.

Then you’re going to die.

Just a couple of minutes.

You won’t wake up. You’re too tired. At least hide.

I can do that.

With what seems like everything he has left, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, then begins looking around for a place to hide.

He sees two large cypress trees growing up next to each other, their wide bases nearly touching. One of them looks a little hollowed out. He could gather some leaves and branches and curl up in there and get some sleep without being seen.

Rolling over on his hands and knees, he pauses a moment, then pushes up, his entire body aching in the effort.

Padding over to the two trees, he bends over and begins to clear away the leaves and limbs between them.

Every joint seems swollen, every movement painful.

As he lifts the last limb, his heart stops.

Spade head.

Blotchy black and brown.

Thick body.

Coiled.

Cottonmouth. Mouth gaping white.

Remington slings himself back so violently that he hits the ground and flips over, his joints screaming in pain.

It’s too cold for the snake to move much. So unless Remington had actually put his hand near its head, he probably wouldn’t’ve been bitten, but just the shock. Just his phobia. His heart still bangs against his breastbone, skin clammy, fear pumping through him like a spike of pure speed.

He doesn’t have to talk himself into getting up this time. He’s happy to get away from this area, though it is probably no less safe than any other out here.

As he climbs to his feet, he notices a small structure high up in a laurel oak tree about twenty feet away.

Easing toward it, he studies what looks to be an enclosed homemade tree stand. Higher in the tree than most deer stands, it’s extremely well camouflaged. Had he not been on the ground looking up at the exact angle, he never would’ve seen it.

As he reaches the tree, he sees a Cuddeback scouting camera like the ones his dad, now he, sells—probably sold this one—mounted about waist high. Removing it, he slides it in his sling pack.

At first he thinks the ladder is missing, but as he gets closer he sees that it’s on the back side of the oak, that it starts way up on the tree, and that the branches of other trees hide it. It’s so high, in fact, he can’t reach the bottom rung.

Searching the area for something to stand on, he sees a chunk of oak tree several feet away—he suspects the hunter has it here for this purpose.

Rolling the heavy piece of wood over to the base of the laurel, he stands on it and is able to reach the rung. Kicking the stump away, he pulls himself painfully up, climbs the ladder to the top and into the tree stand.

Inside, he finds shelter from the cold, a blanket, room enough to lie down, two bottles of water, a bag of potato chips, some beef jerky, a couple of candy bars, a selection of hunting and girly magazines, a knife, a small signal mirror, a flashlight, and a field viewer for the scouting camera.

Twisting off the cap of the first bottle, he slings it aside, lifts the bottle to his mouth, tilts his head back, and drains it.

The liquid is as refreshing as any he’s ever swallowed, rinsing the bad taste of vomit out of his mouth, soothing his parched throat, but he drinks too fast, gets choked and begins to gag. He stops drinking and swallows hard, trying to suppress the tide rising in his throat.

As soon as he stops gagging, he rips open the chips and jerky and begins eating them, reminding himself to go slow to keep from losing everything he’s consuming.

Ordinarily not a huge fan of greasy potato chips or any form of jerky, Remington finds this junk food savory and delicious.

Within a few moments, he has consumed all the food and drink, wrapped up in the thick blanket, balled up on the small floor, and is attempting to fall asleep.

The circumstances he’s found himself in tonight have caused him to long for and remember only the good times with Heather, but there’s a reason he left—and it wasn’t just because he was in an un-fulfilling job, not doing what he was meant to do.

They fought a lot.

About what, he can’t remember now any more than he could then.

It was always the same. In the middle of an argument, all their arguments seemed to run together.

It was as if they’d been involved in one continuous argument that stretched out behind them and before them as far as they could see. Sure, there was the occasional truce, an uneasy peace between wary, but diplomatic foes, but those never lasted long, and were always accompanied by an underlying sense of fragility and temporality.

When Heather was … what? In a depressed and slightly unhinged state, they mostly attributed their problems to her hormones, and their arguments seemed endless because a normally erudite and penetrative woman became the queen of circumlocution and convoluted thinking.

Her condition was like PMS on overdrive. Anything could set her off, send her hurtling down dark, twisted side streets at dangerous speeds, her addled mind unaware of or unable to care about the consequences, destroying their marriage—or at least he thought so while they were happening. Later, after the apologies and the make-up sex, he usually felt differently, but as soon as it happened again—as it inevitably did—all the anger and resentment resurfaced and it seemed like he’d felt this way all along.

S
leep.

Dreams.

Fighting with Heather.

Unfamiliar location.

—Can’t we just let it go? she asks. I said I’m sorry.

Always quick to apologize, whether she’s wrong or not, post-fight Heather wants to restore the equilibrium of their existence as quickly as possible.

—Let what go? he asks. What were we fighting about? She shrugs.

—You know how my memory is, she says.

—Seriously. What was all that about?

She shakes her head.

—I’m not sure, she says. It started because you hurt my feelings—well, I got my feelings hurt—and I overreacted.

Her startling honesty is disarming. It’s one of the things he admires most about her—that and her ability to so quickly apologize. Unlike him, she is quick to see her own faults and readily acknowledges them.

—You always do this. Every—

—I don’t
always
do anything.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

—You’re right, he says. All I’m saying is, why don’t you just not say some of the things you do instead of saying them and then apologizing a little while later?

—Because at the time what I’m saying seems so valid. He nods.

—We’ve said all this so many times before.

—Do you still want to make love? she asks. He shakes his head.

—Not right now.

—Don’t do this, she says.

—What?

—Don’t shut me out. I’ve apologized. Why do you feel the need to punish me?

Lacking her ability to recover so quickly from a fight, he is unable to act as if nothing has happened, and she accuses him of being cool toward her each time they repeat this same inane scenario.

—I just need a little time. Space.

Suddenly, he’s in bed with Lana, his high school girlfriend, and they’re surrounded by snakes—a dusky pigmy rattler by the door, its small, grayish body coiled, tail rattling rapidly; several moccasins on the floor, white mouths open wide; a long eastern diamondback rattler on the night stand next to Lana, fangs exposed, poised to strike, Lana saying, Whatta I do? Whatta I do? Remington unable to move. Terrified. Frozen. Impotent.

He jerks and wakes up. Throws back the covers, looks for snakes by the light of his cell phone.

It was just a dream.

You need to go now. Keep moving.

Just a little more sleep.

He pulls the blanket back up over himself and closes his eyes.

Sleep.

Dreams.

—What makes you think you can run your daddy’s store?

It’s the old man he encountered when first entering the woods today, the one he later found dead, shot to death, bled out.

—Did you shoot a bear?

—Don’t change the subject, boy. I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout some dumb ol’ bear. You can’t run no pawn shop.

—You did. You shot that bear. I’ve called the game warden.

—No you ain’t. You’re lying. Phones don’t work out here. We’re in the middle of hell.

—I think it’s heaven.

—You wouldn’t if I gut shot you right here.

The phone rings.

He’s asleep in his childhood bed.

Wake up, he tells himself. Get the phone before it wakes up your mom.

He sits up, grabs the phone, and tries to sound awake.

—Remington James.

—Yes.

—I’m sorry but your mother is dead.

—What? No. She’s just in the next room.

—She’s—well her body—is here in the hospital.

—Why didn’t you wake me up?

—You were sleeping so soundly.

—It doesn’t matter. I always wake up for her.

—I’m sorry, sir, we thought you’d wake up before she died. Your wife is here. Would you like to speak to her?

—Heather’s there and I’m not?

—Yes, sir.

—Remington, I’m so sorry, Heather says.

—Why didn’t you wake me up?

—I came up from Orlando.

—I’m sorry we fight so much.

—We’re gonna stop. I promise.

—Good. That’s good.

H
e wakes feeling hopeful. Why?

Heather. We’re going to stop fighting.

But then …

Did Mom die?

It was just a dream.

So was not fighting with Heather.

He’s stiff and sore, and when he sits up, his body screams in pain.

Must be hurt more than I thought.

Check your cell phone.

I already have.

Do it again.

He does.

No signal.

Check your camera.

He does.

Seems fine. Still works.

What about the radio?

No way to know how much battery life is left. If it’s a new battery, it could be days, if it’s an old one, it could die at any minute. He looks at it. Seems old, strength weakening, but it’s still working for the moment.

Check the Cuddeback. See what’s on it.

The Cuddeback is a tree-mounted scouting camera hunters use to record any activity near their tree stands or feed sites when they’re not around. Used mostly to capture the number, size, and habits of deer, the unit captures anything that moves—other animals, trespassers. Equipped with both a still and a video camera, the Cuddeback takes color photos and video by day and infrared by night so as not to use a flash.

Unlike Remington’s camera traps, the utilitarian Cuddeback isn’t after art, just a record hunters can use in pursuit of their prey.

He removes the memory card, finds the viewer, pops it in, and starts watching.

Eerie, ghostly, infrared images of green-tinted deer with bright, glowing eyes fill the screen, each with a date and time stamp on the bottom left of the image and the Cuddeback logo on the right.

Color shots, mostly at dawn and dusk. Overexposed. Unbalanced color. Light. Faint. Serviceable. Usable. Deer. Fox. Coon. Squirrel. Bear. Boar.

Video clips much the same. Color. Infrared. Short. Jumpy. Jittery. Deer. Squirrel. Boar. Remington.

The clip shows his greenish, ghostly approach, glowing eyes glancing up, studying something above the frame.

Leave a message.

Erasing the clips currently on the unit, he prepares to leave a message for the hunter who will eventually come back and find it.

Think.

There’s memory enough to record three clips, sixty seconds each. How to use them.

First, quickly tell about the murder and all you know about Gauge, Jackson, and the others. Second, leave a message for Mom. Third, one for Heather.

Take a few more moments to prepare. Got to be concise. He lights himself with the flashlight and huddles in the corner. Holding the camera out as far as he can, he begins what may very well be his last will and testament.

Last words. Make them count.

When he’s finished and preparing to depart, he wonders if he should leave the memory card with the murder on it.

No. The messages will be here. Don’t leave them both. What if Gauge finds this place? He could, you know. Then he’d have them both. The Cuddeback stays here. Hide the camera trap memory card somewhere else.

As he’s about to turn off the flashlight, its beam falls on a bizarre article in one of the open hunting magazines. Lifting it, he holds the light up and reads:

Dog Triggers Gun Blast, Kills Owner

A tracking dog apparently stepped on a loaded shotgun in the bed of his owner’s pickup truck, firing a fatal blast into the man’s abdomen while hunting for deer on a lease near Bristol, Florida, officials said.

Tyler Pettis died at a hospital Sunday from severe blood loss shortly after the Northwest Florida accident.

According to a Liberty County sheriff’s investigator, Pettis was hunting on a lease between Bristol and Greensborough, about 30 miles west of Tallahassee.

Apparently, Pettis, 41, set his gun in the back of his truck and was about to open the tailgate to release his tracking dog when the shotgun fired, investigators said. The blast penetrated the truck’s tailgate before hitting Pettis.

Paw prints from the dog, a chocolate Labrador retriever named Ralph, were found on the muddy shotgun, Sheriff Richard Henshaw said. Jerry Davis, Pettis’ hunting partner, said he tried to stop the bleeding with clothing before driving him to seek help.

It’s the strangest case I’ve ever seen, Henshaw stated.