Double Exposure (19 page)

—I saw it, Gauge says. What took you so long?

He looks at Remington.

—I’ll have my rifle back now.

—Not just now, Remington replies.

—Honey, did you get anything before all this started?

—Yes, ma’am. The most amazing shots of black bears and bats and fireflies. I can’t wait to show you.

—I can’t wait to see them.

—I know now this is what I’m supposed to do.

—Well, you just keep on doing it. Don’t let anything stop you. Anything.

Is she saying what I think she is? I can’t let her die.

—Remington, look at me. Anything.

—I hate to intrude on the last conversation between a mother and her son and all, but we’re standing here bleeding. I mean, for fuck sake. All Jesus said was Woman, behold thy son. You’d think you could be a little less verbose.

—I love you, Mom.

—That’s more like it, Gauge says.

—I love you, honey.

—I wish there could be a happy ending in this for us, but there’s just not one.

—No there’s not.

—They’re going to kill us either way.

—I know.

—But in one way, we can take a few of them with us, he says. She nods.

Gauge shakes his head.

—What’d I just say about being so verbose? Now look, you let me go and tell me where you hid the memory card, we’ll let your mom live. You have my word.

—Your what?

—You heard me. I don’t want to cap some old woman in her pink pajamas. But I will. And I’ll make it hurt like a son of a bitch if you don’t let me go right now and tell me where you hid the evidence.

—Do it, his mom says.

—Do it?

—It.
I’m so ready to see your dad again.

—I can’t.

—Of course he can’t, Gauge says. You’re asking him to kill his own mother.

—He’s right, Remington says.

—Look at how I live, she says. Well, not live, exist. Think about how much I miss your dad.

She’s right, he thinks.

—Don’t let him get away, she continues. Don’t take a chance on him leaving the swamp and killing again.

—I told you, Gauge says, there’s no—

With that, Remington squeezes the trigger and the left side of Gauge’s head explodes, spraying his final thoughts onto a nearby oak tree. Telegraphing.

Slow motion.

As if watching from outside himself.

Dropping the empty handgun.

Shoving Gauge’s empty body aside.

Grabbing the rifle hanging on his right shoulder.

Spinning.

Flipping.

Dropping.

Aiming.

Firing.

One knee.

From a crouching position, he aims for Tanner first, even though the other man comes up with a handgun and begins to rush him, firing as he does.

Pop.

Echo.

Crack.

Echo.

Thump.

Thwack.

Crack.

Echo.

Boom.

Echo.

His mom’s still alive.

He’s got a shot.

Breathe.

Aim.

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how to shoot.

Squeeze don’t pull.

Fire.

But before he can, one of Donnie Paul’s running rounds finds him, shattering the bone of his right elbow.

Ignore the pain.

Take the shot.

Save your mom.

Cole’s voice. You can do it.

Now.

Take the shot.

He does.

Blood splatter on pink silk. Not her blood. Tanner crumples. Another round hits him. This one in the thigh. Excruciating pain.

It takes all he can do, but he manages to turn toward Donnie Paul.

Close now. Round after round. Semiautomatic. Empty. Eject. New clip. Several more rounds. Lots of shots. Donnie Paul, going for quantity of rounds over quality of shots. Playing the odds.

Another one finds its mark.

Remington’s chest explodes.

Get off a shot.

One last shot.

Now.

Now or never.

If you don’t get him, he’ll kill your mother.

Squeeze.

Heart.

Hole.

Blood.

Falling.

Dead.

Saved Mom.

Dropping rifle.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not …

Falling over.

Shock.

Got Gauge.

Saved Mom.

Love Heather.

Ready?

Ready.

Really?

I really am. Don’t want to go, but not afraid.

Numb.

Nothing.

D
ays pass.

Then some more.

Then some more.

Heather holds the CuddeBack camera viewer as if a holy object, as if a reliquarium, as if it somehow houses Remington’s soul.

Upon returning to his tree stand to check his scouting camera, Jefferson Lanier had discovered Remington’s recordings, retrieved the hidden memory card and turned everything over to FDLE. After transferring the video from Lanier’s Cuddeback unit, the agency had returned the camera to him. He had then taken it directly to Heather, making a gift of it to her.

The gift, Remington’s final words.

Cheating death. Like a message sent back in time from beyond the grave.

How many times has she watched the messages? Hundreds? Thousands? She’s not sure. She no longer needs to watch it. She has every word, every pause, every breath, every expression, every inflection etched in her brain, continually playing on the memory card viewer of her mind. When she’s awake, when she sleeps. But she watches it anyway. It gives her something to hold, a tactile bond, her hands where his hands had been, creates a stronger link, a more direct connection.

H
uddled in the corner, holding the camera away from himself with one hand, lighting himself with a flashlight with the other, he talks to her, his dry voice and weary face unwittingly revealing his pain, shock, fatigue, fear, but also his heroicism—is that a word?—and bravery.

—My name is Remington James. My camera trap captured images of a game warden named Gauge killing a woman deep in the woods between William’s Lake and the Chipola River. She is buried not far from a watering hole on the back edge of the James hunting lease. Gauge and his friends are trying to kill me—probably succeeded if you’re watching this. I’m trying to make it to the river—either the Chipola or across Cutoff Island to the Apalachicola—to flag down a passing boat.

He holds up a corner of the blanket.

—I’ll hide the memory stick somewhere near an easily recognizable landmark—manmade, a tree stand like this one, a house boat, if I can find one—probably in the ground, and I’ll cut off a piece of this blanket to flag the spot.

—I hope you find it. Hell, I hope I survive and can take you back to it, but … These are dangerous, soulless men who need to be stopped.

Which is exactly what you did, she thinks.

—
M
om, I’m sorry I didn’t make it home last night—or at all, I guess, if you’re watching this. I really tried. But more than anything else, I’m sorry for letting you down. You entrusted me with your camera, you charged me with taking the pictures you no longer could, and I stopped. I let making money—money of all things—get in the way of what I was meant to do. You and Heather were right.

—Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I realize that now and that I took some amazing shots tonight that I hope you somehow get to see. I really think you’ll like them. Sorry I didn’t bring you more, but I’m just glad I rediscovered what I was meant to do—even if I don’t make it out of here. A little late, but I did it.

—You and Dad were the best parents any kid could have. Thanks for all you did for me—in spite of being sick and fighting so hard just to survive. I’m fighting hard to survive tonight. I learned that from you.

—I love you so much.

—
D
ear sweet Heather, I’m so sorry for everything. You were right. I was wrong—about virtually everything, but especially how I had gotten off my path. See my message to Mom about that.

—If I get through the night, it will be because of you. I can’t stop thinking of you. I love you so much. Everything about you. Everything. You’ve been with me tonight in ways you can’t imagine. I’m reliving our all-too-brief time together.

—I took some extraordinary shots tonight, but my favorite photographs will always be the ones I took of you, my lovely, sweet, good, beautiful girl.

—I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband. You deserved me to be. Don’t mourn for me long. Find someone who will be as good to you as you deserve.

—I finally love you like you should be, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you in person. Tears.

Thick voice.

—Just know my final thoughts will be of you.

Each time she cries as if hearing his words for the first time.

Each time she caresses the camera and viewer, then holds them close to her heart.

S
pring.

North Florida.

Gallery.

Hardwood floors. Squeaking.

Hushed crowd. Awe. Reverence.

Wine. Cheese.

Opening night. Posthumous show.

Last Night in the Woods
by Remington James.

Enormous prints. Framed photographs. Color.

Incandescent.

Luminous.

Radiant rain.

Arcing sparks.

Falling drops of fire.

Field of fireflies.

B
lack and white.

High contrast.

Palmettos, hanging vines, fallen trees, untouched undergrowth, unspoiled woodlands.

Bounding. Loping. Barreling.

Black as nothingness.

Buckskin muzzle bursting out of a forest of fur, chest ablaze.

Shy eyes.

Florida black bears.

Looking up from a small slough, rivulets of water around large, sharp teeth, dripping, suspended in midair.

H
eather, teary. Caroline in a wheelchair at her side wiping tears of her own.

—He could’ve lived a long life and never taken any shots better than these, Heather says.

—I keep thinking about what Ansel Adams said, Caroline says. Sometimes I get to places when God is ready to have someone click the shutter.

—Exactly, Heather says. That’s it
exactly.

They are quiet a moment, each looking around the large room at all the people who’ve come out to see Remington’s work.

Every shot, every single one draws intense interest, but none more than the stunning, seemingly impossible images of the Florida panther captured by Remington’s second camera trap—the one discovered by two hunters a week after his death.

Sleek.

Dark, tawny coat.

Flattened forehead, prominent nose.

Spotted cub.

Crouching.

Red tongue lapping dark water.

Playful cub pouncing about.

—He did it, Heather says. He did what so few of us do. He became who he was supposed to be.

—I know it had to be unimaginable for him, but he managed to live a lifetime and do some real good in the world by surviving the night, stopping those men, saving these images, Caroline says.

Heather nods.

—He did what so few of us ever do—found out the meaning of his life, rediscovered real passion, purpose, rededicated himself to love.

—He did, Heather says, nodding. You’re exactly right. It’s … I’m … I just wish he could be here.

Caroline looks around the room, her trained eyes taking in each astonishing image with the peerless pride of a mother.

—He is.

B
eyond the women, on the far wall behind them, hangs the only image not taken by Remington or one of his traps. Just a snapshot, but one that, in its way, completes the exhibit.

Taken by a grieving, but grateful mother, with a son’s new camera, just before being rescued by a passing fisherman, the image is that of a cypress tree trunk on the bank of the Apalachicola River, the letters MM carved into its bark.

A monument.

A memorial.

A remembrance.

The artist, by his own hand, reminding his many admirers to make preparations, for they, too, will soon experience their own dark night of the soul, waking to the full weight of their mortality, journeying to the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.