Double Exposure (17 page)

Numb.

Despondent.

Lost.

He can’t think, can’t move, can’t—what?

Death.

Despair.

Distance.

He feels himself coming untethered again.

Adrift.

Are you going to die right here?

It looks like it.

Just give up? Give in? All you’ve survived and now you’re just going to quit?

I can’t …

You can. Come on. You’ve got to make Gauge pay for this. You can’t let him get away with killing Mother Earth—he can’t believe she’s really dead—and who knows how many other people.

She’s dead because of me. I got her killed.

And set back the environmental movement in ways you can’t even comprehend.

Circles.

Without Mother’s hand to guide it, the spinning propeller of the outboard motor has turned, and the boat is making large clockwise circles in the middle of the river.

How long before it spins around too fast and capsizes?

Bullets continue to pock the aluminum sides of the bateau, some of them piercing the hull, and the small craft begins to take on water.

You’ve got to make your move now. Wait much longer and it’ll be too late.

Searching the boat as best he can in his prostrate position, he finds a small blued snub-nosed.38. Clicking open the cylinder, he sees it has all five rounds.

Shoving the handgun in his jacket pocket, he crawls toward the back of the boat, staying low to avoid getting shot, his body bumping up against Mother’s.

Reaching the back of the bateau, his hands, face, and clothes wet, muddy, and smeared with blood, he lifts his hand just enough to grab the throttle and pivots the motor away from the gunfire and toward Cutoff Island.

Heading away from the shooters, less rounds come near the boat, and only the motor housing suffers any hits.

Crashing the boat into the bank, Remington crawls to the front, over the bow, dropping onto the mud and roots, and begins to run into the woods for cover.

More rounds.

Thwacking trees.

Splintering roots.

Splattering mud.

And just as he’s about to make it into the thick swampy woods of the Cutoff, a round hits his right calf. Searing. Falling.

Rolling.

Dragging his injured leg, he claws his way up the incline and into the cover of ancient trees and thick understory.

Glancing back past the boat and across the river, he sees only two men with rifles standing there.

Is that all that’s left?

Did the others leave?

Is one of them Gauge?

When he turns back around, he’s staring at mud-covered snake boots not unlike his own.

—Hey, killer, Gauge says, a pleasant smile on his face.

—
T
ook you long enough to get here. You came out a lot lower than we thought you would.

—Not low enough.

Pressure.

Unzipping his boot, Remington presses the gunshot wound in his leg with his hand, attempting to stop the bleeding.

—Just think, if she’d’ve taken you up river instead of down, you’d’ve gotten away—for a little longer anyway.

Remington remains on the ground, Gauge hovering above him, looking down the barrel of the shotgun at him.

Throbbing.

His calf muscle feels like it’s being stabbed with a serrated blade, then twisted, pulled out, and thrust back in again.

—You down to two men?

—Three. Sent one on an errand.

—What happened to—

—They retired.

—Bet a lot of people who work for you get early retirement. He smiles.

—Before you retire me, you should know I have evidence against you and I’ve hidden it where it will be found.

—What sort of evidence?

Remington withdraws the small pocket knife from his jeans.

—You brought a knife to a gun fight? Gauge asks, smiling, amused, pleased with himself.

Opening his jacket, Remington cuts a strip of his T-shirt and wraps it around his leg over the wound, the pain spiking as he tightens it, then partially zips his boot up.

—Goin’ to a lot of trouble for a man about to die.

Remington shrugs.

—Tell me about this alleged evidence. Remington doesn’t say anything.

—Let me rephrase, Gauge says, pumping his shotgun, jacking another round into the chamber.

A perfectly good round is ejected from the gun and falls on the ground not far from Remington’s leg, and he realizes the action was only taken for dramatic affect.

—Photographs.

—Pictures of me out in the woods at night’s not gonna be a problem.

—I have pictures of the murder.

—Bullshit.

—It’s true.

—How?

Remington tells him about the images captured by the camera trap.

—Where is it?

—I also recorded a video message.

—Let’s see what’s in your bag.

Remington turns his sling pack around and opens it.

—Show me what’s on the camera.

Turning it on, Remington sets it to display the images stored on the memory card, and hands it to him.

Without lowering his gun, Gauge holds the camera with one hand, thumbing through the pictures, his eyes moving back and forth between Remington and the small screen.

—These shots of the bears are fuckin’ awesome.

—Thanks.

—Where’re the rest of them? Arl told me he saw you take pictures of the fireflies when you was on the four-wheeler.

—Yeah. They’re on the other memory card—the one that was in the camera trap. The one with you on it. I had taken it out of the trap and was viewing it in this camera when you showed up. It was in this camera until I took it out to hide it, so everything else I took last night is on it.

—Where’d you hide it?

Remington doesn’t say anything.

—Suit yourself. Strip down. I’m gonna have to search you. Remington nods and tries to stand, slowly turning his wounded leg several ways before giving up.

—Here, Gauge says, offering his hand.

Grabbing it with his left, Remington pulls himself up with Gauge’s help, slipping his right hand into his jacket pocket in the process and coming out with Mother’s.38.

Upright.

Continuing to hold Gauge’s arm, Remington puts the barrel of the handgun to his temple.

—My my. What have we here? You’re packin’?

—Borrowed it from a friend. Drop your shotgun. He doesn’t move.

—Do it or, poetically, you’ll be killed by the gun of the woman you killed a few minutes ago.

—Poetically?
Jesus.

—You don’t think I’ll do it?

—No, I’ve seen what you’re capable of, killer.

—Then drop the goddam gun. He does.

—Now what?

—Walk.

—Where?

—To the Big River.

—Through the island?

—Yeah.

—What about your leg?

—Walk.

B
ranch and leaf canopy above.

Sun-dappled ground below.

Lacking the ridges of the woods on the other side of the Chipola, the island is flatter, its soil soggier.

Near the foot of the island, the walk across is around a mile, but with the pain from his calf shooting up to his knee and down to his foot, Remington’s not sure he can do it.

—Movin’ sort of slow there, aren’t you, killer? You gonna make it?

—I’ll make it.

Remaining no less than five feet behind Gauge at any time, Remington ensures that he can’t just whip around and grab his gun before he can fire it.

—You might make it across the island, but you know you’re not getting out of this, don’t you?

—You better worry about yourself.

—I’m not saying I’ll make it. You’ve got the drop on me. No doubt about it. I may be meetin’ my maker today, but you definitely are. Even if you pop me, they’ll still get you. They can’t let you leave these woods alive.

—What will you say?

—Huh?

—To your maker. What will you say?

—About what?

—Your life. Killing people.

—All I’ve ever done is what I’ve had to. I’ve just tried to survive—just like you’re doing now. It’s a cold, cruel world. I didn’t create it. I’m just existing in it. You see the way nature works. There’s a food chain—predators and prey.

—Gauge? Where are you, man? What happened?

The words come from both radios simultaneously, creating a stereo sound with a split second delay.

—Aren’t you willing to shoot me? Gauge asks Remington.

—Only if I have to.

—To survive, right? That’s all I’m saying. We’ve got to survive. That’s our job.

—I think it’s more than that.

—Gauge? Arlington says again.

—You want me to answer that?

—No.

—Tanner’s on his way back with the package. Do we still need it?

—What’s he talking about?

—Ask him.

—I’m asking you.

—And I’m saying ask him.

—Just keep walking.

B
lood loss.

Lightheaded.

Stiffness.

His leg hurts so bad he figures there must be nerve damage. Cold sweat.

Clammy skin.

—You don’t look so good, Gauge says.

—Keep moving.

Thirst.

Hunger.

—Donnie Paul’s a hell of a tracker. Not that he’d have to be to follow the blood drops trailing after you. They’ll be coming. Catch up to us quick, as slow as we’re moving.

—Whatever happens, you get shot first.

—You’re a stubborn sumbitch, I’ll give you that, but goddam.

—You sure talk a lot.

—Rather walk in silence? Fine by me. Just trying to pass the time until you die.

—Or you.

—More likely you.

—No doubt, but right now you’re the one on the wrong side of this little revolver.

—I told you, having the drop on me doesn’t get you anywhere. They can’t let you live any more than I can. You’re outnumbered, outgunned, almost out of time.

—And yet I’m still here.

—Oh, you’ve done good. I’ll give you that, but making it through the night and making it out of the swamp are two very different goddam things.

—Well, if what you say is true, Remington says, grant a dying man his wish and shut the fuck up.

—You got it, killer.

M
outh dry.

Leg feverish and swollen.

Seeping.

Steady drip.

He’s got to get to the river and out of the swamp soon.

Think of Heather and keep walking.

If you get out of here, you’ll owe her your life.

I plan on giving it to her—if she’ll have it.

You know she will. She was never ambiguous about what she wanted.

Stumbling.

Shuffling.

Dragging his right leg.

Think of her.

Though not on anyone’s list of the greatest photographs ever taken, his personal favorites were nudes of Heather he took before mistakenly putting his camera down as if it were a childhood toy he had outgrown.

Low-key lighting.

Soft focus.

Black and white.

Dramatic.

Atmospheric.

Her body the real work of art.

Before a black backdrop.

Isolated sharp focus revealing one body part at a time while the rest remain soft, fuzzy, blurry.

Delicate face, clear eyes, windows of a pure soul, closed lips forming a small heart-shaped hole. Light and shadow reveal the texture of a normally unseen tiny scar halfway up her forehead.

Full, shapely breasts like ripe fruit. Large erect nipples like a cherry on top of the kind of dessert that makes life worth living.

Shallow, oblong bellybutton.

Dark trimmed triangle. Flourish of silk.

Long, strong, athletic legs.

Elegantly arched feet. Cute, kissable toes.

Poses.

Lying on her side, a cello behind her echoing the curves of her torso.

White drop cloth. Lying on her back. Looking up at the camera above. Hair splayed out like a sunflower in full bloom.

White body on dark sofa, knees up, toes curling around the curve of cushion.

Chair. Floppy hat. Camera above. Looking up. Sweet, seductive smile.

—Huh?

—Where’d you go, killer?

—What’d you say?

—I said, why are you doing all this?

—A woman. Why else?

—Your mom?

—Okay. Two women. Let’s stop here and rest a minute.

—
G
auge, if you can hear us, we wanted to let you know we’re coming to get you. Me and Arlington are behind you, and Tanner’s on the other side.

It’s the first time the radio has sounded in a while.

The two men sit five feet apart, Remington leaning against the base of a birch, elbow resting on the ground, gun held up, pointed directly at his prisoner.

—Who was the girl? Remington asks. Why’d you kill her?

—You’ll die without ever knowin’.

—Or maybe I’ll kill you and find out from the investigators.

—She’s gone. Doesn’t matter to her anymore. Why should it to you?

—When I first entered the woods last night I saw a gaunt old man. I think he was a poacher. Shot a black bear. Did you kill him? He smiles.

—Not for shooting no damn bear, he says. Rustling.

Padding.

Light footfalls on leaves.

Remington lifts his arm and extends the gun toward Gauge.

Slide over here.

Gauge doesn’t move.

Remington thumbs back the hammer.

—I’m coming. I’m coming.

—Hands behind your back. Back toward me.

When Gauge is close enough, Remington wraps his left arm around his throat, places the gun to his temple, and waits.

A moment passes.

Then another.

And then a young hunting dog with a tracking collar walks out of the underbrush. Moving too slowly to be after them, he’s most likely lost.

Tilting his head, his eyes questioning, the dog seems to look at the two men for guidance.

—He doesn’t belong to us, Gauge says.

About two feet tall, the Red bone coonhound’s solid short hair is the color of rust in water. Floppy ears. Long tail. Black nose at the end of a long nuzzle. Amber colored eyes.

Remington releases Gauge and pushes him. He slides back to his previous position a few feet away.