Double Exposure (15 page)

He smiles as he thinks, Walk toward the light.

If you can’t find the river in the daylight, you deserve to die. That’s harsh.

I’m just saying. And find a place to hide the memory card. I’m open to suggestions.

D
awn.

Damp ground.

Dewdrop dotted landscape.

Soft light. No warmth.

Whitetail deer darting through waking woods.

Sunrise.

Birdsong.

Dogs still in the distance.

Renewed hope.

Rising temperature.

The morning, which he wasn’t sure he’d see, is magical, and, unable to help himself, he spins his sling pack around, removes his camera, and begins to capture moments of it as he continues to pad east.

He has survived the long night. Has his mom?

Please let her have. And let me get through this and get home to take care of her. And see Heather. I want to see her so bad.

Then get to the river, get a ride, and get out of here.

That’s what I’m doing.

Not fast enough.

Returning his camera to its bag, he begins to move faster, if only marginally so, attempting to distract himself from the increased pain.

Focus. Take control of your thoughts. You’re close. Might just make it. But you’ve got to concentrate.

Think about more of the greatest pictures ever taken. What are some others?

I don’t know. I’ve lost track. I can’t remember what I’ve already put on my list.

What about the shot taken by French inventor … what’s his name?

The one by Niepce back in … 1820-something?

It wouldn’t make my list.

Why not? Lot of people put it on theirs.

I know, but only because it’s the oldest permanent photograph known to exist. For me, that’s not enough. It’s not artistic, has no impact. It’s just old.

Sound like a snob to me.

You are me.

What about the one taken with an endoscope back in the sixties? One of
Life
magazine’s most famous photos ever. The first fetus, an icon of humanity, but not on my list.

Then what?

Hazy.

Nebulous.

Colorful.

Backdrop of emerald green clouds.

Decorated by tiny purple dots of light.

Three giant pillars of golden clouds rising in the foreground.

April 1, 1995—but no fooling.

Seven thousand light years from earth.

Stellar nursery.

A star is born. And another. And another. And another.

Known as the “Pillars of Creation,” the photo taken by the Hubble Space Telescope shows a massive nebula of green and gold clouds made of gas and dust illuminated by newborn stars.

Okay. What else?

Giant green eyes. Dark complexion. Intense glare.

Expressionless face.

Green background.

Rust-colored head wrap.

“Afghan Girl.”

June 1985.

National Geographic.

Unwavering green eyes. Symbol of Afghan conflict, plight of refugees the world over.

C
oming down an incline, he sees a small body of water, its black surface leaf-covered and death still.

He stops before he reaches it, stands behind a water oak and surveys the open area.

The cypress trees around the water are sparse. It’s a great place for an ambush.

When he’s reasonably sure no one’s set up, staring at him through a rifle scope, he continues moving toward sunrise, thirsty though he is, avoiding the watering hole.

Passing palmetto fronds, pushing aside hanging vines, stepping over fallen trees and around cypress knees, dead leaves crunching beneath his boots.

Stepping on long fallen branches, startling as their opposite ends rustle leaves a few feet away.

Ducking beneath low-lying limbs.

Cypress.

Oak.

Birch.

Magnolia.

Pine.

Bamboo.

The ever-emerging sun burns off the last wisps of fog, and begins to take the extreme chill out of the early morning air.

S
till need to hide the memory card.

I know.

Well?

I’ll do it at the river so I can mark and remember the spot.

What if you don’t make it.

Then I’ll have to hope the messages I recorded are found. Climbing a small ridge, he crouches behind the wide, swollen base of a cypress stump, and searches the area.

Listen.

Anything?

Birds.

Breeze.

Swishing grass.

Clacking fronds.

Swaying trees.

Falling leaves.

Look.

Anyone?

Staring as far as he can see in every direction.

No one.

He walks along the ridge a ways, happy for the high vantage point.

Stay alert.

Eyes and ears.

Up ahead, where the ridge ends, he sees the bed of a dried-up slough. In his excitement, he runs over and jumps down into it, forgetting momentarily his injuries, quickly being reminded again when his feet hit the ground.

It’s as if the pain is driven up through him with great force, every nerve jangling with it, every end, arcing.

Stupid.

Sorry.

You gotta be smarter than that. Keep your head. Shit like that’ll get you killed.

Echos of Cole in the conflicting voices inside his head.

Over twenty feet wide, the tree-lined dried-up slough bed is humid, drippy, soggy. Its damp ground caked with wet, black leaves and rotting limbs.

The trees that line it are long and large, stretching up from either side to touch each other, their tips forming a canopy, keeping the channel cool, moist, dank.

If the river were higher, if north Florida hadn’t experienced such an extended drought, if those upstream weren’t diverting so much water, if the Corps hadn’t dredged so much, blocked so much, the area he’s traveling would be under water.

How far inland it runs he can’t tell, but he knows the eastern end runs all the way to the river. If the river weren’t so low, this channel would be feeding water to the other tributaries throughout the swamp.

The river.

All he has to do is follow the slough bed.

Open and easy to traverse, he hobbles down it at a slow jog, his boots sinking into the soggy soil.

Thick vines hanging down from unseen limbs curl on the dank ground, and he has to be careful to avoid getting tangled up in them.

Twisting and turning, the water-hewn path snakes like a river, the exposed gnarled root systems of cypress trees growing along its banks.

Walking around the occasional small cypress tree growing in the slough, and climbing over and ducking under large fallen oaks, he journeys slowly, but steadily.

As he progresses, he periodically scans the ground for any sign the other men have passed this way, but sees no evidence.

Stop.

Something running toward him.

To the left.

Get down. Find cover.

He searches the area.

Nothing.

Suddenly, two whitetail doe dart out of the trees, through the slough bed ten feet in front of him, and disappear into the woods on the other side.

Heart still thudding, he pushes himself up and continues to shuffle along.

After a while, he comes to a place where the leaves have been pushed back and the black dirt beneath is exposed.

A large circular impression of mud taking up about ten feet, the boar bog is fresh, and he glances about to make sure the wild hog isn’t lurking about somewhere.

Confident the animal is gone, he continues east toward the sun now brandishing the tops of pine, oak, cypress, birch, and magnolia trees along the horizon.

You should walk along one of the banks. This is too open.

It’s hard enough for me to travel down here.

A round from a rifle could rip through you before you even knew they were in the vicinity. The bullet could be in your body by the time you heard the report of the rifle.

Leaving the slough bed, he pulls himself up the small slope on the left bank, walks a few feet into the woods, then continues following the winding path toward the river that created it.

Progress doesn’t come as easy on the bank as it did in the slough, but it’s not nearly as thick as some parts of the forest he’s had to negotiate over the past fifteen hours, most of the trees leaning away from him now, toward where the water used to be.

What’s she doing right now?

Unbidden, always welcome, Heather comes to mind.

Is she thinking of him? Angry or worried? Is she phoning his mom? The police? Or trying to convince herself it’s really over, that she’s better off without the inconsiderate prick?

It’s early, but she’s up. His opposite in so many ways, she’s a morning person. She would often come back to bed to wake him up in creative ways for morning sex, having already walked three miles, checked email, cooked breakfast, and tidied up the house.

—Five more minutes.

—I can’t wait that long. I want you inside me right now. Kissing his neck, taking him in her hand.

—Why can’t you be like this at night? It’s too early.

—Your body doesn’t think so.

Unable to refuse sex, no matter how early or how sleepy, this never failed to get him up.

—Let me splash some water on my face and brush my teeth.

—Hurry.

I
t’s been a while since he’s heard from Gauge, and he wonders if his own radio is dead or if he’s busy running the dogs.

Glancing down at the indicator light on his radio, he confirms it still has juice.

—You still out there, killer? Remington asks, doing his best impression of Gauge.

—That’s pretty good, Remmy. For a minute,
I
thought it was me. He’s not out of breath, Remington thinks.

—Haven’t heard from you in a while.

—Dealing with a fuckin’ mutiny, Gauge says.

—That’s good.

—Not as good for you as you might think.

—I guess that depends.

—On what?

—They refusing to take orders or actually leaving?

—All you need to know is that I’m not going anywhere.

—Never thought you were.

—Sounds like you’re running. Dogs hot on your heels?

B
arks. Bays. Yelps. Howls.

Closer now. Much.

The pawn shop had been a supporter of the sheriff’s K-9 unit since its existence, and Remington had watched several tactical tracking exercises over the years. He pictures what is taking place not far behind him.

Big black snouts on the ground.

Ears and jowls flapping, drool dangling.

Nearly a yard tall, weight of an adult woman.

Running.

Remington’s scent.

Relentless.

M
ore moisture in the air.

More cypress trees.

Nearing the river now.

Good. Bloodhounds right behind.

Emerging from the woods, he stumbles down a shallow bank to a green, tree-filled tributary.

Narrow.

Still.

Craggy.

The small body of water, impassable by boat, is filled with the long, gnarled, bare limbs of fallen trees and the jagged stumps of dead cypresses.

Is it enough to lose the dogs?

Only chance.

S
olitary.

Stately.

Sovereignly.

Across the way, near the bank on the other side, a lone great blue heron wades through the water stalking his prey.

Not sure where he is, this small slough could be part of the Chipola, the Fingers, or the Brothers. He just can’t tell. He can’t be sure how far he’s come. Though he’s traveled the river system here his whole life—from Lake Wimico to the Apalachicola Bay to the Dead Lakes—he’s never entered from this direction on foot before. Thousands of tiny arteries like this one run through the flood plain of the Apalachicola River basin, every one indistinguishable from the next.

He’s getting close.

This vein will lead him to a larger artery and eventually to help—tributary to slough to river.

I
cy.

Hip-high water.

As cold as the water is, while he’s in it all he can think about are snakes and gators—and the barking bloodhounds behind him. With every step, the soft, mucky tributary floor sucks at his boots, pulling them further down, but he makes his way through, hands held high, protecting the camera, radio, and flashlight.

On the other side, he squats several times trying to squeeze the water out of his jeans, then shivering, follows the narrow body of water toward its source.

Eventually, he reaches the Little River, though he has no idea of his exact location on it.

Dogs in the distance, other direction. Lost.

The Chipola River begins at the Marianna Limestone Aquifer known as Blue Springs Basin located just north of Marianna, feeding ponds, sloughs, and creating swamps, and giving rise to a variety of hardwood forests along its way. Its banks are lined with oaks, magnolias, river birch, and dogwood trees. Joining the Apalachicola twenty-five miles above the bay, the eighty-nine-mile-long Chipola crosses three north Florida counties and enters the Dead Lakes, its flow slowing its course, widening its path as it spreads out among thousands of deadhead cypress stumps.

The swampy banks of the Chipola are full of bald cypress, tupelo, willow, black gum, and longleaf pine trees. The only place in the world that supports enough tupelo trees for the commercial production of tupelo honey, its banks are home to several bee aperies and, inevitably, black bears.

Here in the river swamps, tupelo honey is produced by placing beehive boxes on elevated platforms along the river’s edge. Fanning out through the surrounding Tupelo-blossom-laden swamps during April and May, the bees return with the rare treasure of tupelo nectar.

Pure tupelo honey is golden amber with a greenish cast when held up to a light. Its taste is delicate and distinctive, and, if unmixed with other honeys, nature’s most perfect nectar that will never granulate.

Remington’s stomach growls and he wishes he had a huge cat head biscuit smothered in the sweet amber liquid. Better yet, he’d like to be at the Tupelo Festival in Wewa with Heather right now, strolling through Lake Alice Park, pausing at booths filled with jars and jars of tupelo, handmade crafts, and homemade goodies.