Double Exposure
| Double Exposure | |
| Michael Lister | |
| F+W Media, Inc. (2008) | |
| Rating: | **** |
| Tags: | Mystery |
A 2010 Florida Book Award finalist! One fateful fall evening, as the sun sinks and the darkness expands, wildlife photographer Remington James ventures deep into the river swamp to try out some new equipment and check his camera traps. While checking his camera traps, scanning the eerie images of overexposed deer and bats and foxes, Remington comes across the most haunting images of his life--the frame-by-frame capture of a shocking crime. By exposing the criminal, Remington has exposed himself to danger, even possible extinction. Hunted like an animal by the predator and his psychotic friends, Remington must do two things: make it through the night and make it to the river--and the odds of doing either are slim to none. " Double Exposureis absolutely riveting! I sat down, plugged in and didn't get up until the last page. With elegiac prose, insightful characterization and a wonderfully ingenious plot, Michael Lister has squeezed every ounce of terror and thrills out of a dark night in the woods." --Michael Connelly, author of The Scarecrow "A Hitchcockian thriller. A spellbinding page-turner." - Booklist "Lyrical, evocative prose, reminiscent of Cormac McCarthy‘s 'The Road.'" - Panama City News Herald "Mr. Lister's eloquent evocation of the beauty of the area and its non-human inhabitants makes clear to the reader what has drawn his protagonist back and easily explains James' return to the profession on which he had turned his back. The threats to the region's ecosystem are made equally vivid. The novel is thought-provoking, while at the same time the author deftly maintains and steadily builds suspense. Mr. Lister's writing is stylistically fresh, frequently alliterative, and distinctive. "Double Exposure" is a wholly original and ultimately haunting work, and it is highly recommended." -Gloria Feit
F
ollowing his dad’s death, Remington James returns to the small North Florida town where he grew up to assume his father’s life—taking care of his dying mother and running the local gun and pawn shop. There, Remington picks up a camera again and returns to his first love: wildlife photography.One fateful fall evening, as the sun sinks and the darkness expands, Remington ventures deep into the river swamp to try out some new equipment and check his camera traps. He finds the eerie images of overexposed deer and bats and foxes; usual, expected. But as Remington clicks forward through what his camera has captured, he comes across the most haunting images of his life—the frame-by-frame capture of a shocking crime.
An ode to the wild wonder of North Florida,
Double Exposure
is a minimalist marriage of the literary novel and the action adventure story.
Double
Exposure
BY
Michael Lister
TYRUS BOOKS
Published by
TYRUS BOOKS
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
Copyright © 2009 by Michael Lister
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3074-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3074-6
This work has been previously published in print format under the following ISBNs:
978-0-9825209-3-2 (hardcover)
978-0-9825209-2-5 (paperback)
For Judi and Mike Lister
Optimis parentibus
Thank YouSome twenty years ago, Pam Palmer began editing my college writing assignments when my writing looked like my drawings do today—like the work of a small, not very bright child. From then until now, her investment of time, talent, and true concern is so enormous it brings tears to my eyes. Her involvement in my writing, as in my life, has made me better. Far better.
For profound and enduring literary influence:
Ernest Hemingway, Graham Greene, John Updike, Cormac McCarthy, James Lee Burke, and Ron Hansen. In particular, Mr. Hansen’s
Mariette in Ecstasy,
which I found transformative, revelatory, and inspiring.For my creative birthright:
Judi Lister.For river experiences and knowledge:
Sam Paul and John Guffy. Thanks for being such great tour guides.For being a man of the land and giving me rich and rewarding experiences with our amazing home:
Mike Lister.For bringing us to this land:
H.C. Lister.For invaluable information:
Sam Paul, Shane Semmes, and the great books of Pineapple Press and the University of Florida Press.To the colorful and fascinating people of North Florida
in general and of Gulf County in particular, never a dull moment. Neighbors all.For working to preserve the treasure that is the river and its flood plain:
Marilyn Blackwell, Elam Stoltzfus, The Nature Conservancy, and Apalachicola Riverkeeper.For feedback and invaluable editorial input:
Pam Lister, Lynn Wallace, Richard Henshaw, Benjamin LeRoy, and Alison Janssen. Thanks for the enormous investment in me and my work.To my brother,
Ben LeRoy, for friendship and loving this land like a local. Welcome home.For support and encouragement beyond description:
Pam Lister, Micah Lister, Meleah Lister, Karen Turner, Mike and Judi Lister, Lynn Wallace, Bette Powell, Michael Connelly, Margaret Coel, Cricket Freeman, Rich Henshaw, and Jim Pascoe.
E
vening.
Fall. North Florida.
Bruised sky above rusted rim of earth.
Black forest backlit by plum-colored clouds. Receding glow. Expanding dark.
D
eep in the cold woods of the Apalachicola River Basin, Remington James slowly makes his way beneath a canopy of pine and oak and cypress trees along a forest floor of fallen pine straw, wishing he’d worn a better jacket, his Chippewa snake boots slipping occasionally, unable to find footing on the slick surface.
Above him, a brisk breeze whistles through the branches, swaying the treetops in an ancient dance, raining down dead leaves and pine needles.
It’s his favorite time of day in his favorite time of year, his family’s hunting lease his favorite place to hide from the claustrophobia of small-town life increasingly closing in on him.
S
creams.
He hears what sounds like human screams from a great distance away, but can’t imagine anyone else is out here and decides it must be an animal or the type of aural illusion that occurs so often when he’s alone this deep in the disorienting woods.
Still, it unnerves him. Especially when …
There it is again.
Doesn’t sound like any animal he’s ever heard, and he finds it far more disquieting than any sound he’s ever encountered out here.
It’s not a person, he tells himself. It’s not. Can’t be. But even if it were, you’d never be able to find anyone out here.
The sound stops … and he continues.
U
se your senses. All of them.
See. Really see.
Imagine.
See not what is, but what might be.
Attempting to brush aside all thoughts of someone screaming in pain, he wills himself to focus his full attention on the reason he’s here.
New camera still carefully stowed away in the Tamrac sling pack strapped to his back, he has no thought of withdrawing it until he can see the images he wants to capture in his mind. Photography, at least the kind he’s attempting to practice, is not about snapping a lot of pictures, but what he’s able to visualize before he ever picks up his camera.
Recently returning to this art form, he’s been slow to adopt digital technology, and the temptation is to click away in the name of testing his new equipment, but he’s determined to be disciplined. Anyone can press a button and snap a picture. His ambition is to be an artist.
In his youth, he had experimented with a variety of art forms—at differing times, he was going to be Kerouac, Hemingway, Goddard, Picasso—but was continually drawn back to the immediacy of photography.
Wildlife photographer, photojournalist, war correspondent, paparazzi, even portraitist, but life laughs at the plans we make, and the dreams and ambitions of youth quickly morph into the embarrassing memories of adulthood.
R
ealistic. Practical.
College. Career. Commitments.
Marriage. Mortgage.
It wasn’t until his father died and he had to rush home to run the small-town gun and pawn and care for his mother, that he picked up a camera again—a dust-covered, ancient, fully-automatic Nikon hocked years earlier, languishing on the shelf as power tools and small appliances had come and gone.
Rekindled. Renewed.
The small, abused camera felt like Heather in his hands, and an old dream crept out of his consciousness and into corporal reality once again.
O
ne good shot.
Even closing the shop early—something his dad never did, particularly during hunting season—he has only the narrowest of margins, like the small strip of light from a slightly open door, in which there will be enough illumination for exposure.
The drive out to the edge of his family’s land; the ATV ride into the river swamp; the walk through acres of browning, but still thick, foliage—all close the door even more, but all he wants is to check his camera traps and get one good shot with his new camera.
He’ll trudge as far as he can, search as long as he can—capturing the image at the last possible moment, stumbling back in full dark if he has to. Given the circumstances of his current condition and the lack of choices he has, there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, no way he’d rather spend his few short evening hours than in pursuit of the perfect picture.
L
oss.
Emptiness.
Numbness.
His dad dying so young has filled the facade of Remington’s life with tiny fissures, a fine spider’s web of hairline fractures threatening collapse and crumble.
Facade or foundation? Maybe it’s not just the surface of his life, but the core that’s cracking. He isn’t sure and he doesn’t want to think about it, though part of him believes he comes alone to the woods so he’ll be forced to do just that.
He’s wanted to be an adventure photographer for over a decade, but pulling the trigger now, making the investment, obsessively spending every free moment in its pursuit, in the wake of his dad’s death, the wake that still rocks the little lifeboat of his existence, is a fearful man’s frenzied attempt at mitigating mortality—and he knows it. He just doesn’t know what else to do.
Heather could tell him.
H
eather.
Like longing for home while being lost in the woods, all his thoughts these days lead back to her.
She had called when he was driving the ATV off the trailer, preparing to venture further in the forest than his dad’s truck could take him. Like the truck and trailer and the life he’s now living, the ATV belongs to his father.
Had
belonged. Now it’s his.
He was surprised by the vibrating of the phone in his pocket, certain he was too far in for signal. Another few feet, another moment later, and he would’ve been.
When he sees her name displayed on the small screen—Heather—he feels, as he always does lately, the conflicting emotions of joy and dread.
—Hello.
Light, photography’s most essential element, is bleeding out; the day will soon be dead. Time is light, and he has little of either to spare. Still, he has no thought of not answering the phone.
—You okay?
—Yeah. Why?
—For some reason, I just started worrying about you.
With those few words, the day grows colder, the forest darker.
Heather gets feelings—the kind that in an earlier age would get her staked to the ground and set afire—and they’re almost always right.
—You there? she asks.
—I’m here.
In his mind, she is wearing lavender, and it highlights her delicate features in the way it rests on the soft petals of the flower she’s named after. She smells of flowers, too, and it’s intoxicating—even within the confines of his imagination.
—Where are you? I can barely hear you.
—Woods. We’re hanging by a single small bar of signal, he says, thinking it an apt metaphor for their tenuous connection.