Double Exposure

by Michael Lister

—Waited just a little longer the first time I’s out here, it woulda been dark enough to set off that flash and know it was here.

  Remington quickly sets up the camera again and tries to figure out the best angle.

  —The fuck you doin’ out this far? I seen you about a mile back. Figured I’d follow you since you was headed this way. Sure glad I did.

  Holding the camera up again, Remington attempts another picture. As he does, the man fires a shot from a rifle that whizzes overhead near the camera and hits a tree a few yards behind him, splintering the bark, lodging deep into the heart of the hardwood.

  —I’m tired of having my picture took.

  This time the picture is framed much better, but the man has moved.

  —You might as well talk to me. Got nowhere to go. You do realize that, don’t you? This is the end of the line, partner. Even if it was just the two of us. I’m more at home out here than anywhere. But I’ve radioed my buddies, so …

  Remington’s mind races.

  What do I do? How can I get out of this? I don’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. Heather. Mom. Pictures. Run. Hide.

  —Sorry it has to be this way. I genuinely am. But no way I can let you leave these woods. If there was some other way, I’d be happy to … but there ain’t. Some shit’s just necessary. Ain’t particularly pleasant, but it is, by God, necessary. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. That’s the God’s truth. Speaking of … You wanna say a prayer or anything, now’s the time.

  —Who was she? Remington asks.

  —Huh?

  —Who was she? Why’d you kill her?

  He hadn’t planned on saying anything. The two questions had erupted from him without warning.

  —It doesn’t really matter, does it? Not gonna change anything. Won’t make any difference for her or you.

  Something about the man’s practical reasoning and unsentimental logic reminds Remington of his father, and he hates that. His dad shared nothing with this soulless sociopath, save a pragmatic approach to life.

  A flare of anger.

  His dad’s sober sensibility infuriated him. It was so safe, so serviceable, so on-the-odds.

  Heather.

  What if that were her buried in that hole? It’d matter. Might not change anything, but it’d goddam sure matter, it’d mean something. The shot and burned and buried victim means something to her circle, means everything to somebody.

  —Still like to know, Remington yells.

  —Just complicate things. Come on out and I’ll make it quick. Painless. Won’t torture you. Won’t hurt somebody you care about.

  Stowing his camera and its original memory card securely in his sling pack, Remington prepares to run.

  Odds aren’t very good. But there it is. It’s who he is. Born without the practical gene.

  Run.

  His body hears his thought, but doesn’t respond.

  Now.

  Pushing up from the cold ground, he stumbles forward. Bending over, swerving, attempting to avoid the inevitable—

  Shots ring out from behind as rounds ricochet all around him, piercing leaves, striking tree trunks, drilling into ridge banks.

  Run.

  He runs as fast as he can, his boots slipping on the slick surface of the leaves.

  Keep running.

  Slamming into the thick-bodied bases of hardwoods, he absorbs the blows, spins and continues. Tripping over fallen branches, felled trees, and cypress knees, he tucks, rolls, and springs, somehow managing to find his feet again and keep moving.

  Eventually the shots stop, but he doesn’t.

  He runs.

  The cold air burns his throat and lungs.

  He keeps running. His heart about to burst, he keeps running.

  He doesn’t stop.

  Exhaustion. Fatigue. Cramps. Shin splints. Twisted ankle. Thirst. Lightheadedness.

  He runs.

  He runs toward the river. It’s less than two miles away … or is supposed to be.

  I should’ve reached it by now. Where is it? Where am I? How’d I get turned around? Why haven’t I found anything?

  Seeing the hollowed-out base of a cypress tree, he collapses into it.

  He doesn’t check for snakes. He just backs in and falls down. A few minutes ago, he was more terrified of snakes, in general, and cottonmouths and rattlers, in particular, than anything else in the entire world. A lot has changed in the last few minutes.

  Attempting to slow his heart and catch his breath, he listens for footsteps, blood bounding through his body so forcefully his eyes feel like they’ll bulge out of his skull.

  Full moon.

  Freezing.

  Fog.

  Why didn’t you just go back? You had a choice. You knew what you should do and you didn’t do it. You’re gonna die out here and they’ll never find your body. Heather and Mom—

  Mom.

  She’d be expecting him by now. Needing him.

  Having waged a futile war against MS for decades, his mother is now in the final stages of peace talks with this foreign captor of her body. The only terms she can get are complete and unconditional surrender, which she’s nearly ready to give.

  He had promised his dad he’d take care of her, move back to the Panhandle to be with her, and here he is lost in the middle of a cypress swamp on a freezing night, hunted like one of the endangered animals he’s been trying to help.

  Sorry, Dad.

  But it’s not just about letting his dad down again. His mom can’t take care of herself. It’s dangerous for her to be alone. Each evening, he feeds her, helps her with her medications, moves her from recliner to dining table, to bathroom, to bed.

  Will she survive the night? Will I?

  Caroline James had been a truly beautiful woman—the kind people stop to admire. Long before her diagnosis, she had a vulnerability that added to her attractiveness. As her disease progressed, vulnerable beauty became feeble beauty, but beauty nonetheless. It wasn’t until her husband and caretaker abandoned her that the last of her attractiveness wilted.

  As if a physical manifestation of the spiritual withdrawals Cole’s absence produced, Caroline’s body began to wither—drawing in on itself. Curling. Constricting. Clinching.

  Like the petals of a flower closing, the aperture of her allure shut down completely, never to reopen.

  Sitting there in the cold dark, attempting to calm himself, Remington recalls one of their recent conversations.

  —It won’t be long now, she says. Can’t be.

  Shrunken, shriveled, coiled, her small, fetal-like form is lost in the bed that had been big enough for both of them, Cole’s unmade side empty and cold.

  Remington sits next to it in a low, stiff, uncomfortable chair, pulled up from the corner of the room where its only job is to tie together the carpet, comforter, and window treatment.

  —I’m glad your dad isn’t here to see me like this.

  Remington continues to rub her back.

  —I’m sorry you have to, she says. Not just to see me like this, but to be here.

  —I’m happy to be here.

  —Don’t lie to your dying mother.

  —I wouldn’t be anywhere else.

  —Sorry we didn’t have you a brother or a sister to share this burden.

  —Just means I won’t have to share the inheritance.

  She lets out a rare laugh that makes him smile, and he wishes he could think of something else funny to say.

  —I know what you’ve been doing, she says.

  —Ma’am?

  —I never said anything. Your dad was so proud and downright stubborn, but I’ve known all along.

  —Known what, Mom?

  —That you’ve been paying for my medicine.

  A self-employed, small business owner, Cole James didn’t have health insurance, and Caroline’s medications were astronomical. Knowing his father would never allow him to pay, Remington convinced his mom’s doctor to tell his parents that Caroline was in
a study being conducted by the drug company that manufactured her medicine so it would be provided for free.

  —I love you, he says. Wish I could do more.

  They are quiet a moment.

  —Think I’ll see your father again?

  —Absolutely.

  —Remington Joshua James. I could get anybody to come in here and lie to me. Hell, they have entire foundations set up just for the purpose of granting dying people their last wish. I’m looking for the truth from you.

  He smiles at the faint glimpse of the feisty young female she had been.

  —I certainly hope so—for you and dad more than anyone else I know—but I have more doubt than belief most of the time.

  —Me, too. They are quiet again.

  —Sometimes I believe, he says. I really do. I think there’s so much to life, to this world, that this can’t be it. There’s got to be something more. Something beyond our short little lives. If not, what was all the bother for?

  —When?

  —Ma’am?

  —When do you believe? What times?

  —Mostly when I’m alone in the woods looking at the world through a lens.

  You’re alone in the woods, he thinks. You feel like something’s here watching over you now?

  He thinks of the shot, burned, and buried girl somewhere back in the woods. No one was watching out for her, were they?

  Still, just in case: Please be with my mom. Send somebody to check on her, to call or stop by. And if I don’t make it out of here, please let somebody take care of her.

  I might not make it out of here.

  It’s a very real possibility, yet difficult for him to process. Can this be his last night on the planet, his final moments? What can he do to make sure it’s not? Can he kill a man? Does he have that in him? He honestly doesn’t know. Not something ever put to the test. Not something he ever dreamed would be.

  This can’t be it. I don’t know what to think, what to do. I can’t even call Heather to tell her—what? What would I tell her?

  He pulls out his phone to check for signal.

  At certain places along the river there’s just enough reception to make a crackling, static-filled call.

  He has no idea where he is. He thought he had been running east toward the Chipola River, but if so, he should have reached it. He keeps moving. Maybe he’s closer than he thinks.

  No signal.

  Not the faintest trace. Where the hell am I? Lost.

  Think.

  How do I find my way to the river?

  He thinks if he can just make it to the river, he can flag down a passing boat or manage to make a phone call. All roads lead to the river.

  Lyrics to songs about the river play in his head, and he recalls the year three of his favorite artists put out songs about the river—not any particular river, but the river.

  The river of life. The river of dreams. The river of souls. The river of love. The river of God. The river of time. The river.

  The river as a metaphor for … what? Life? Depth? Spirituality? Eternity? Music? Meaning?

  And the river is wide. And the river is deep.

  What year was that?

  I sit on the shore where so many have sat before. A fire burns I didn’t start. Undressing I walk in … to the place where my life began. Submerged. Baptized. In drowning I live.

  Does salvation await him at the river? Can he make it there if it does?

  His best chance for finding the river will come with daylight. It’s only a chance. Nothing more. Odds aren’t very good. And he’ll have to survive the night to even get those.

  Fog-covered forest.

  Cloud-shrouded orb. Diffused, intermittent light.

  Pale.

  Ghostly.

  Smattering of stars.

  He sits shivering after taking the last sip of water from the bottle in his sling pack. The full moon is bright enough to cast shadows, but diluted, knocked down several stops like studio lights with scrims, by scattered clouds and a thick, smoke-like fog.

  Snap.

  Breaking twig.

  Leaves rustling.

  Stop.

  Approaching footsteps.

  Ready to run.

  Willing to fight.

  Relief.

  He lets out a quiet but audible sigh as a small gray fox prances out of the fog. The dog-like creature—gray-brown on top, rust and white underneath—is barely three feet long. Out foraging for food, the animal doesn’t react to Remington’s presence.

  Instinctively, he reaches for his camera.

  Stop. No. Too dangerous. Can’t risk the flash revealing his whereabouts to the murderer or his friends—if they’ve joined him. If they’re going to.

  Fog thick as he’s ever seen anywhere, the entire forest seems on fire, jagged outlines of trees etched in the mist, their tops disappearing as if into mountaintop clouds.

  More footfalls.

  The small fox darts away as a man steps out of the mist.

  Remington sits perfectly still. Breaths shallow. Eyes unblinking.

  The broad, alpine man has long, unkempt brown hair, a burly beard, and lumbers along in enormous work boots, radio in one massive mitt, a blued Smith and Wesson.357 magnum in the other.

  I’m about to die.

  Though heading straight toward the tree base, the man seems not to have seen Remington yet—perhaps because of the darkness or fog, or maybe because of the leaves he has gathered around himself for cover, but most likely because of the man’s height.

  Pausing just before reaching what’s left of the cypress tree, the man turns and surveys the area, his mammoth boots sweeping the leaves aside and making large divots in the damp ground.

  Before Remington had moved away from home, he seemed to know everybody in the area. Now, he’s continually amazed at how few people he recognizes, and though the giant standing in front of him resembles many of the corn-fed felons he grew up with—guys with names like Skinner, Squatch, Bear, and Big—he’s distinctive enough to identify if he knew him.

  Remington jumps as the man’s radio beeps.

  —Anything?

  —Not a goddam.

  —Okay. Keep looking.

  —That sounded like an order.

  —Sorry big fellow. Please is always implied. I meant, Would you keep looking please?

  —We could do this all night and never find him.

  —Yeah?

  —Or we could get the dogs out here and make short work of this shit.

  —Dogs mean involving more people.

  —We don’t catch him a whole lot more people will be involved.

  —I hear you. Let’s give it a little while longer, then we’ll call Spider. Either way, camera boy won’t leave these woods alive.

  —Make sure Arl and Donnie Paul split up. We need to cover as much ground as possible.

  That’s four he knows of. The calm murderer, the big bastard in front of him, Arlington, and Donnie Paul. Are there others?

  When the big man finishes his conversation, he pockets the radio, unzips his jeans, and begins to urinate on the ground, the acidic, acrid odor wafting over to find Remington’s nostrils. Finishing, he zips, clears his throat, spits, and begins to trudge away.

  At least four men.

  Out here to kill him.

  Dogs.

  If they use dogs on him, the river is his only hope. Got to find it.

  Where the hell am I?

  He quietly pulls the compass out of his pocket.

  It’s smashed. Useless. Must have happened on one of his falls or when he crashed into the tree.

  Know where you’re going.

  Use a map and a compass.

  Always tell someone where you’re going.

  Never go alone.

  Always carry the essentials.

  If you get lost, stay put.

  Make yourself seen and heard.

  He thinks of all the tactics he’s read about while studying to be a wildlife photographer. When
traveling in the woods, always know where you’re going, never go alone, use a compass, and carry the essentials:

  Water.

  Matches.

  Food.

  Clothing.

  Signal flag.

  Whistle.

  Compass.

  Map.

  Flashlight.

  Batteries.

  Knife.

  Sunscreen.

  First-aid kit.

  He had broken the rules, and now he no longer had a single one of the essentials. Compass broken. Penlight dead. Water gone.

  He had been merely going to take some pictures, check his traps, and be out by a little past dark.

  Always, always, always carry the essentials.

  Always.

  Rule number one.

  Lost.

  What do you do if you get lost? Stay put. Don’t move around. Then, make yourself seen and heard.

  He had to move, to find the river, and the only people out here he could make himself seen and heard to wanted to kill him.

  Maybe I should try to circle back to the four-wheeler. Maybe I could outrun them, make it back to my truck, then to town before they did.

  If he knew where the other men were … but he doesn’t. He could walk right into them. And if they’ve seen his four-wheeler and truck, they’ve probably disabled them. Or might have a man watching them.

  No, the river is his best hope. His only.

  Waiting to make sure the big man is far enough away not to see or hear him when he moves again, he occupies his racing mind with thoughts of Heather.

  For their last anniversary and as a last stand to save their marriage, she had dragged him on a Carribean cruise. Not wanting to go and not hiding the fact, he had tried to talk her out of it in the weeks leading up to it as well as on the short drive from Orlando over to Cape Canaveral, but she had remained steadfast in her conviction that it would be, if not exactly what they needed, at least a hell of a lot of fun, and therefore, good for them.

  She had been right.

  Not that it had ultimately saved their marriage, but it seemed to at the time—and who knew, maybe he would make it out of here, they’d get back together, and the cruise would be a contributing factor.

  The short cruise took them to Freeport, then Nassau, before a full day at sea on their return home.

  In Freeport, they had rented a Moped, and she had held onto him as he drove around the island. He had been lost then, too. First, driving on the wrong side of the street, then failing to find much of anything in the way of sights or shops, but it had been a lot of fun. Her arms around him, the sun on his face, the tropical environs—it all conspired, like the rest of the cruise itself, to make her as amorous as him. Pressing her body, particularly her breasts, against his back, her mouth at his ear, she made his body respond—especially the times she slipped her had into his shorts and took him in her hand.