Double Exposure (10 page)

—That’s all you need. Those elements are your studio, pallet, and canvas. Now take me home. I’m about to be sick again.

—Ma’am?

—Home. Now. Sick.

—Don’t get sick.

—Don’t tell me what to do, young man.

—Yes, ma’am.

H
e wakes shivering, not sure where he is.

—You still with us, killer?

The emotionless voice on the radio brings everything back: spray of blood, collapse, fire, run, chase, kill, hunt.

—Don’t be like that. Don’t ignore us. Remington remains motionless, quiet.

—What about the rest of you? Anybody got anything to say?

—I see him. I see him.

—Where?

—I’ve got a shot. I’m gonna take it. Remington rolls, leaving both the radio and the rifle.

—Anybody see anything?

—What? I thought you had him.

—I was just trying to get him to run. See if any of us seen him when he did.

—Brilliant, Donnie Paul.

Grabbing the walkie and the weapon, Remington shakes himself and begins to walk.

—Did you run, killer?

Gauge is the only one to call him that, as if the others, without being told, know not to.

—I did, Remington says. But I was already. I can see the river. I’m almost—

—Almost what? Remington doesn’t respond.

—Did somebody get him?

—I didn’t.

—Me neither.

—I didn’t either.

—Wonder what happened to him.

—Killer? You there?

In the flats now, Remington turns west, back toward the ATV. How long did I sleep? It’s just as dark. I don’t feel rested. It couldn’t’ve been very long.

—Whatcha you think happened to him?

—Maybe a bear got him. Or he fell and broke his neck.

—Radio could’ve died.

—He realized he was telling us where he was.

—He’s smarter than that, Gauge says.

—I don’t know.

—I do.

—But he’s freakin’ the fuck out.

—He’s heading in a different direction. Probably the opposite.

—So we don’t need to cover the river?

—Unless … that’s what he expects us to think.

—Come back.

—He may really be heading toward the river.

—Whatta we do?

—Everybody keep doing what you’re doing. And remember he can hear us. Better use code from now on.

S
tilted.

Stiff.

Awkward, self-conscious.

Paranoid.

Walking through the flats, every tree is a man with a gun, is Jackson about to level his rifle and begin firing.

Move. Just keep moving.

He stays close to the edge of the hardwood hammock, crouching, turning, zig-zagging, trying to create a difficult-to-hit target for any would-be assassin.

W
hat did I dream?

Fragments fall like confetti. Wisps. Snatches. Fading fast.

A bit of Shakespeare he had to memorize for a British Lit class somewhere along the way drifts up.

—To be or not to be,
he whispers.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To sleep. Perchance to dream. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. Shuffle off this mortal coil. Undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns.
To be or not to be?
That
is the question.

It’s being asked of him tonight. He’s got to answer it. Suffer or take arms?

Answered that one once already, didn’t you, killer? Goddam it. Gauge is in his head.

The thought of killing Jackson causes him to dry heave. He has nothing left to throw up.

Full moon.

Fog lifted.

Clear.

Cold.

Stars.

With the fog gone, the bright moon casts shadows on the frosty ground.

Walking through an herb bog, insect-eating pitcher plants, bladderworts, sundews, and butterworts slapping against his legs, he glances up to find Polaris and confirm he’s heading in the right direction.

He is.

Just a mile or so to the ATV, then three to the truck.

He’s beginning to believe he can do it, that he might actually make it, but he’s so tired, so hungry, so cold. Get your mind off how you’re feeling. How?

More pictures. What are some of the other photographs you consider to be among the greatest ever taken?

S
outh Vietnam.

Children.

Running.

Screaming.

Crying.

Burning.

Napalm cloud as a backdrop, naked little Kim Phuc, having torn her burning clothes off, runs with other children toward the camera, horror on their faces. It’s June, 8, 1972, and the American military had ordered the South Vietnamese air force to attack Trang Bang, believing enemy forces to be gathered there. The planes instead dropped napalm bombs on their own soldiers and women and children hiding from the fighting.

Kim’s tiny, emaciated body, devoid of development, looks particularly vulnerable. Burning arms held out, eyes squinted in crying, mouth open in screaming.

War.

What is it good for?

T
otalitarianism.

Tanks.

Tiananmen Square.

A solitary figure. A single individual confronts the powerful military of a nation’s oppressive system. People’s Republic of China. Which people?

Martial law.

Military dispatched to quail the protests and human rights demonstrations of thousands of students in Beijing.

As tanks roll down Changan Boulevard, a young man steps up, steps out, steps into their path, temporarily impeding their process.

One man.

Four tanks.

What can one man do? Ask the Roman Empire.

S
wish.

Squeal.

Black mask.

Ringed tail.

Hearing something, Remington stops abruptly and crouches down on the ground.

Waits.

Emerging from the tall grass, a large racoon walks out carrying a small Florida woodrat in its mouth. Seeing Remington, the coon stops suddenly. As it does, its mouth opens slightly and the small woodrat runs away.

Knowing that most of the human rabies cases in Florida are caused by racoons, Remington brings the rifle around and pokes at the small, masked creature.

Scat! Get out of here! Remington whispers.

The coon looks at him for a moment, then runs off in the direction of the rat.

N
earing the area where he had hidden the four-wheeler, Remington takes cover in a thick stand of bamboo.

Watching.

Waiting.

Listening.

The wind rustles the bamboo, clacking the shoots together, swishing the leaves. It rains down oak leaves and pine needles, sways palmettos, and makes the knocking sounds of palm fronds. And makes it impossible to hear.

He scans the area, searching for signs the men have been here—or are still here, but he sees nothing.

Cole had trained him to always hide his ATV when he came out here. You wouldn’t want to really need it—be shot or snake bit—and not be able to get to help because someone vandalized or stole it.

Thanks, Dad.

The ATV is hidden well. They’d have to either stumble upon it, or, more likely, find its tracks further back and follow them here. Marked, cut, carved, the small dirt road is layered by multiple tracks. The tire impressions left by his dad’s ATV would be difficult to distinguish from the others.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Crouching, he eases toward the thicket that hides the vehicle.

Nearly every inch of his father’s Yamaha Grizzly is either camouflage or black, which when driven into a thicket of palmetto, bamboo, palms, low-hanging limbs, vines, and covered with fallen branches, makes it virtually invisible.

Gently pushing aside bamboo and pulling away branches, he uncovers the ATV, never so happy to see a vehicle in all his life.

After the four-wheeler is completely exposed, he ducks down behind it and surveys the area around him.

No men.

No movement.

No nothing.

Before rising, he reaches in his pocket for the key.

It’s not there.

He checks again.

It’s gone.

He quickly checks his other pockets, jamming his hands in and feeling around in his jeans and his jacket.

He’s still got the ring of truck, house, shop, and mail box keys, but not the small Browning fob with the buck outline that holds the single, small ATV key.

It must have fallen out at some point during the night, either when he was running, falling, rolling, or crawling.

Shit.

I can’t believe this.

Fuck.

How could I have lost it?

Think.

The radio sounds and he jumps.

—Y’all remember that ugly girl Donnie Paul dated?

—The one with the real big tongue.

—Yeah.

—I remember her. Goddam she was ugly as fuck.

—Remember how we used to talk about her, using that code we made up in school?

—Yeah. She never had a clue.

—Let’s use that same code. As much as possible.

—We can do that.

Think, Remington reminds himself.

Where could it be?

No way to know. He had traveled too far, fallen too many places. It would take too long to backtrack even if he could, and with the way he’s been navigating tonight, he’d be lucky to find even one of the locations of his many stops, drops, stumbles, falls.

How could he be so stupid?

Why didn’t you protect it? Check on it? At least confirm it was still there before you walked all the way back over here?

He’s so weary, so spent, his nerves so frayed, his taking of another man’s life so recent, that he feels himself breaking down, about to cry.

Don’t.

You can’t. Not now. Later, okay, but not now. You don’t have time. Take a minute. Take a breath. Clear your head. Pull it together. He does.

After a moment, he says aloud, I’ll just walk to the truck.

Patting his father’s four-wheeler, he says, I’ll come back for you when all this is over. He then stands and begins to walk down the small path toward his dad’s truck.

He’s only taken a few steps when a thought occurs to him.

Who’s the most competent, careful, and practical man you’ve ever known?

Dad.

Which means?

He wouldn’t’ve lost the key.

True, but what else?

What?

He would hide a spare key somewhere on the ATV. If not for himself, then for his son. He would.

Turning, Remington rushes back and begins to search the machine.

Falling to his knees, he checks beneath the tire wells, under the suspension, around the motor. Looking for a small box with a powerful magnet, he scans all the metal parts first. What he finds instead is a hard blue plastic Stor-A-Key device with an adjustable cable and a built-in combination lock. Fastened to the chassis, the small box dangles down, but can’t be seen unless you’re underneath the vehicle looking up.

Three numbers.

One thousand different possible combinations.

Just three little numbers determine his fate.

What would Dad use?

Of course.

For most of their marriage, Cole had told is wife he loved her with three numbers, writing them in rose petals on her bed, drawing them on napkins, the margins of magazines, newspapers, books.

1-4-3.

The number of letters in each word of I love you. 1-4-3.

He tries it and nothing happens.

He was sure that would be it.

He spins the numbers, clearing and resetting the lock, and tries again.

1.

4.

3.

The cable releases and the small plastic box pops open.

The key is inside.

Thank you, Dad. Again. And again. And again.

Shoving the radio into his pocket and slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder, he straddles the seat, pushes the key in, turns it, presses the ignition button, and thumbs the gas.

Even in the cold, the motor coughs to life on the first try.

Giving it enough gas to keep it going and warm up the engine, Remington is careful not to gun it, keeping the powerful motor as quiet as possible.

Placing his boot on the brake, he shoves the shifter out of neutral and into reverse.

Without turning on the lights, he backs up enough to turn around. Brake, shift, gas, he’s racing down the small dirt path toward his dad’s old Chevy, certain he’ll be almost as happy to see it as he was the ATV.

T
he four-wheeler feels powerful beneath him.

Cold wind.

Stinging face.

Watering eyes.

Hope.

It’s the first time since Gauge triggered the flash on his camera trap that he feels truly hopeful—and that his hope just might be justified.

The path is narrow and overgrown, branches whipping at him, occasionally slapping him in the face.

Running with the lights off, he turns them on periodically to get his bearings and check the path. He can’t do anything to lessen the sound of the machine, but by keeping the lights off, he can lessen his conspicuousness—something the full moon helps make possible.

Don’t panic. Stay in control.

He’s tempted to leave the lights on and drive as fast as he can—more than tempted, a strong urge inside compels him to, but he reminds himself that even if the men weren’t out there looking for him, it’d be a bad idea because of the condition of the path.

Part logging trail, part fire line; the woods that form the walls of the path encroach on the cramped opening, and he rides low, his head just above the handlebars, to avoid the branches and limbs of the drooping canopy.

The small lane is littered with stumps, limbs, branches, and fallen trees, uneven, and pocked with bumps and holes, but the Grizzly’s traction, high clearance, tall tires, and double wishbone suspension make the brambly, cragged terrain seem almost like a smooth recreational path.

Reluctant to accept such a large gift from his son, Cole quickly came to love the Grizzly, grateful not only for the present, but Remington’s knowledge of what he needed.