—What sort of evidence?
Remington withdraws the small pocket knife from his jeans.
—You brought a knife to a gun fight? Gauge asks, smiling, amused, pleased with himself.
Opening his jacket, Remington cuts a strip of his T-shirt and wraps it around his leg over the wound, the pain spiking as he tightens it, then partially zips his boot up.
—Goin’ to a lot of trouble for a man about to die.
Remington shrugs.
—Tell me about this alleged evidence. Remington doesn’t say anything.
—Let me rephrase, Gauge says, pumping his shotgun, jacking another round into the chamber.
A perfectly good round is ejected from the gun and falls on the ground not far from Remington’s leg, and he realizes the action was only taken for dramatic affect.
—Photographs.
—Pictures of me out in the woods at night’s not gonna be a problem.
—I have pictures of the murder.
—Bullshit.
—It’s true.
—How?
Remington tells him about the images captured by the camera trap.
—Where is it?
—I also recorded a video message.
—Let’s see what’s in your bag.
Remington turns his sling pack around and opens it.
—Show me what’s on the camera.
Turning it on, Remington sets it to display the images stored on the memory card, and hands it to him.
Without lowering his gun, Gauge holds the camera with one hand, thumbing through the pictures, his eyes moving back and forth between Remington and the small screen.
—These shots of the bears are fuckin’ awesome.
—Thanks.
—Where’re the rest of them? Arl told me he saw you take pictures of the fireflies when you was on the four-wheeler.
—Yeah. They’re on the other memory card—the one that was in the camera trap. The one with you on it. I had taken it out of the trap and was viewing it in this camera when you showed up. It was in this camera until I took it out to hide it, so everything else I took last night is on it.
—Where’d you hide it?
Remington doesn’t say anything.
—Suit yourself. Strip down. I’m gonna have to search you. Remington nods and tries to stand, slowly turning his wounded leg several ways before giving up.
—Here, Gauge says, offering his hand.
Grabbing it with his left, Remington pulls himself up with Gauge’s help, slipping his right hand into his jacket pocket in the process and coming out with Mother’s.38.
Upright.
Continuing to hold Gauge’s arm, Remington puts the barrel of the handgun to his temple.
—My my. What have we here? You’re packin’?
—Borrowed it from a friend. Drop your shotgun. He doesn’t move.
—Do it or, poetically, you’ll be killed by the gun of the woman you killed a few minutes ago.
—Poetically? Jesus.
—You don’t think I’ll do it?
—No, I’ve seen what you’re capable of, killer.
—Then drop the goddam gun. He does.
—Now what?
—Walk.
—Where?
—To the Big River.
—Through the island?
—Yeah.
—What about your leg?
—Walk.
Branch and leaf canopy above.
Sun-dappled ground below.
Lacking the ridges of the woods on the other side of the Chipola, the island is flatter, its soil soggier.
Near the foot of the island, the walk across is around a mile, but with the pain from his calf shooting up to his knee and down to his foot, Remington’s not sure he can do it.
—Movin’ sort of slow there, aren’t you, killer? You gonna make it?
—I’ll make it.
Remaining no less than five feet behind Gauge at any time, Remington ensures that he can’t just whip around and grab his gun before he can fire it.
—You might make it across the island, but you know you’re not getting out of this, don’t you?
—You better worry about yourself.
—I’m not saying I’ll make it. You’ve got the drop on me. No doubt about it. I may be meetin’ my maker today, but you definitely are. Even if you pop me, they’ll still get you. They can’t let you leave these woods alive.
—What will you say?
—Huh?
—To your maker. What will you say?
—About what?
—Your life. Killing people.
—All I’ve ever done is what I’ve had to. I’ve just tried to survive—just like you’re doing now. It’s a cold, cruel world. I didn’t create it. I’m just existing in it. You see the way nature works. There’s a food chain—predators and prey.
—Gauge? Where are you, man? What happened?
The words come from both radios simultaneously, creating a stereo sound with a split second delay.
—Aren’t you willing to shoot me? Gauge asks Remington.
—Only if I have to.
—To survive, right? That’s all I’m saying. We’ve got to survive. That’s our job.
—I think it’s more than that.
—Gauge? Arlington says again.
—You want me to answer that?
—No.
—Tanner’s on his way back with the package. Do we still need it?
—What’s he talking about?
—Ask him.
—I’m asking you.
—And I’m saying ask him.
—Just keep walking.
Blood loss.
Lightheaded.
Stiffness.
His leg hurts so bad he figures there must be nerve damage. Cold sweat.
Clammy skin.
—You don’t look so good, Gauge says.
—Keep moving.
Thirst.
Hunger.
—Donnie Paul’s a hell of a tracker. Not that he’d have to be to follow the blood drops trailing after you. They’ll be coming. Catch up to us quick, as slow as we’re moving.
—Whatever happens, you get shot first.
—You’re a stubborn sumbitch, I’ll give you that, but goddam.
—You sure talk a lot.
—Rather walk in silence? Fine by me. Just trying to pass the time until you die.
—Or you.
—More likely you.
—No doubt, but right now you’re the one on the wrong side of this little revolver.
—I told you, having the drop on me doesn’t get you anywhere. They can’t let you live any more than I can. You’re outnumbered, outgunned, almost out of time.
—And yet I’m still here.
—Oh, you’ve done good. I’ll give you that, but making it through the night and making it out of the swamp are two very different goddam things.
—Well, if what you say is true, Remington says, grant a dying man his wish and shut the fuck up.
—You got it, killer.
Mouth dry.
Leg feverish and swollen.
Seeping.
Steady drip.
He’s got to get to the river and out of the swamp soon.
Think of Heather and keep walking.
If you get out of here, you’ll owe her your life.
I plan on giving it to her—if she’ll have it.
You know she will. She was never ambiguous about what she wanted.
Stumbling.
Shuffling.
Dragging his right leg.
Think of her.
Though not on anyone’s list of the greatest photographs ever taken, his personal favorites were nudes of Heather he took before mistakenly putting his camera down as if it were a childhood toy he had outgrown.
Low-key lighting.
Soft focus.
Black and white.
Dramatic.
Atmospheric.
Her bod
y the real work of art.
Before a black backdrop.
Isolated sharp focus revealing one body part at a time while the rest remain soft, fuzzy, blurry.
Delicate face, clear eyes, windows of a pure soul, closed lips forming a small heart-shaped hole. Light and shadow reveal the texture of a normally unseen tiny scar halfway up her forehead.
Full, shapely breasts like ripe fruit. Large erect nipples like a cherry on top of the kind of dessert that makes life worth living.
Shallow, oblong bellybutton.
Dark trimmed triangle. Flourish of silk.
Long, strong, athletic legs.
Elegantly arched feet. Cute, kissable toes.
Poses.
Lying on her side, a cello behind her echoing the curves of her torso.
White drop cloth. Lying on her back. Looking up at the camera above. Hair splayed out like a sunflower in full bloom.
White body on dark sofa, knees up, toes curling around the curve of cushion.
Chair. Floppy hat. Camera above. Looking up. Sweet, seductive smile.
—Huh?
—Where’d you go, killer?
—What’d you say?
—I said, why are you doing all this?
—A woman. Why else?
—Your mom?
—Okay. Two women. Let’s stop here and rest a minute.
—Gauge, if you can hear us, we wanted to let you know we’re coming to get you. Me and Arlington are behind you, and Tanner’s on the other side.
It’s the first time the radio has sounded in a while.
The two men sit five feet apart, Remington leaning against the base of a birch, elbow resting on the ground, gun held up, pointed directly at his prisoner.
—Who was the girl? Remington asks. Why’d you kill her?
—You’ll die without ever knowin’.
—Or maybe I’ll kill you and find out from the investigators.
—She’s gone. Doesn’t matter to her anymore. Why should it to you?
—When I first entered the woods last night I saw a gaunt old man. I think he was a poacher. Shot a black bear. Did you kill him? He smiles.
—Not for shooting no damn bear, he says. Rustling.
Padding.
Light footfalls on leaves.
Remington lifts his arm and extends the gun toward Gauge.
Slide over here.
Gauge doesn’t move.
Remington thumbs back the hammer.
—I’m coming. I’m coming.
—Hands behind your back. Back toward me.
When Gauge is close enough, Remington wraps his left arm around his throat, places the gun to his temple, and waits.
A moment passes.
Then another.
And then a young hunting dog with a tracking collar walks out of the underbrush. Moving too slowly to be after them, he’s most likely lost.
Tilting his head, his eyes questioning, the dog seems to look at the two men for guidance.
—He doesn’t belong to us, Gauge says.
About two feet tall, the Red bone coonhound’s solid short hair is the color of rust in water. Floppy ears. Long tail. Black nose at the end of a long nuzzle. Amber colored eyes.
Remington releases Gauge and pushes him. He slides back to his previous position a few feet away.
Remington whistles.
—You lost, boy? Come here.
He does, wagging his tail, whimpering.
—That’s a good boy, Remington says, as he pats and rubs him. You got a name?
Searching the collar beneath the tracking device, Remington smiles and shakes his head when he reads it.
—What’s his name? Gauge asks.
—Killer.
He laughs a lot at that, his face showing genuine amusement.
—Now that you’ve got some company, can I go? Remington shakes his head.
—Let’s go. Time to move.
Using the tree for support, Remington manages to get upright again.
—Need a hand? Gauge asks, smiling.
—Walk.
He does, and Remington falls in a few feet behind him, whistling for the hound to join them, which he does for a short while before veering off into the woods and disappearing.
Leg worse.
Much worse.
Swollen.
Stiff.
Nearly unusable.
His dragging boot leaves a smooth flat track smeared with blood in the soft dirt.
—We’re almost to the other side, Gauge says. You gonna make it? I’d hate for you to miss the surprise.
—I’m gonna make it—all the way out of here.
—Man needs a dream.
Remington steps closer, holds the.38 down low, aims, and shoots Gauge in the right calf.
His leg buckles and he falls down, rolling, grabbing his leg.
—Fuck.
Breathing fast and heavy. Pain contorting his face.
—What the fuck? What was …? That was … unexpected.
Once the initial pain has passed and his breathing’s under control, Gauge begins to laugh.
—Goddam. I’ve got to meet this girl of yours.
—You never will. Now get up and let’s go.
—Let me bandage my leg.
—Now.
—Okay. Okay. Don’t shoot. He smiles. Holds his hands up.
It’s as if Gauge is actually enjoying himself. He’s having fun, Remington thinks. He’s not afraid of dying. He doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t have normal reactions.
Stumbling onto his one good leg, he begins to hop unsteadily toward the river.
Moving more slowly now, the two men look like lost and wounded soldiers attempting to return to their platoon.
—They’ll catch up to us fast now.
—If they’re still out here. They may’ve gone home.
—They’re here.
World spinning around him.
Dizzy.
Unsteady.
Weak.
Gauge could easily overpower him if he tried. He doubted he could even get a shot off or hit him if he did. He’s been through too much, too tired, too banged up from the wreck, lost too much blood from the bullet hole in his leg.
But Gauge has his own problems.
Limping.
Hobbling.
Trailing blood.
—Still can’t believe you shot me.
—Probably won’t be the only time today.
Gauge laughs.
—I’m beginning to think none of us’re gonna make it out of here. This whole thing’s just fucked.
—Even if you walk out of here—
A round hits the tree next to his head, splintering a piece of the bark off and hurtling it toward his face.
Ducking as best he can, he lunges for Gauge, grabbing him around the throat, jamming the gun into his ear, and spinning him around toward the gunfire.
Covered from the back by a thick oak and in the front by Gauge, Remington is protected for the moment.
—Tell them to stop shooting—unless they’re trying to hit you.
—Hold your fire, Gauge yells.
Another round rings out, sails by.
—Stop shooting, goddam it.
The shooting stops.
In the silence that follows, Remington can hear the river. So close. Almost there.
—How the hell he get the drop on you? Donnie Paul yells.
—I’m shot.
—Tell them to come out where I can see them, hands in the air.
—They won’t—
—Tell them I’ll kill you right here and now if they don’t.
—Come on out, guys. He’ll shoot me if you don’t.
—No, he won’t. You’re the only leverage he’s got.
—Let us walk to the river, Gauge says. No harm in that.
—I know what you’re saying, Arlington says, but I ain’t coming out where he can shoot at me.
Remington thumbs back the hammer of the gun,
jamming the barrel harder into Gauge’s ear.
—We’re both bleeding pretty bad, Remington yells. Y’all keep telling me I’m not going to make it out of here alive, so what’ve I got to lose? At least there’ll be one less sociopath in the world. Besides, I drop him, I think my chances are still pretty good to make it to the river and get help. Made it this far.
—Listen to him, Gauge says. Come out.
—Right now, Remington says, or I swear to Christ I’ll put a bullet in his ear.
—Goddam it, Arlington, Donnie Paul. Get your asses out here right now.
The two men step out of the woods and slowly begin to walk toward them.
When they are within twenty feet, Remington motions for them to stop.
—Put down your weapons and start walking in the opposite direction.
—Fuck that.
—Hell no.
—Just do it, Gauge says. You know this ain’t over.
The two men carefully set their rifles on the ground.
—Now start jogging back the way you came and if I see you again, I’m not going to negotiate or count or hesitate. I’m just going to put a bullet into the reptilian brain inside this skull.
—Go, Gauge says. What’re you waiting for. Run.
They turn and begin to walk slowly away.
—I said jog.
They pick up the pace a bit, but don’t actually do anything that could be misconstrued as jogging.
When they are no longer visible, Remington shoves Gauge toward their guns, and they begin to stumble over to them.
Close.
Ten feet away.
Five.
As they reach the weapons, Arlington steps out of the woods beside them and starts firing with a semiautomatic of some kind,.9 millimeter or.45.
Without releasing Gauge, Remington swings the small.38 around, takes a quick breath, aims, squeezes off a round. Then another. And another.
The third hits Arlington in the right cheek above his mouth.
He falls and doesn’t get up.
—Goddam, Gauge says. That’s impressive. Pretty slick, there, slick. Nice and cool, Cool Hand Luke. Somebody shootin’ at them from close range, most men panic.
Numb.
—Shut the fuck up, Remington says.
—You did what you had to, son, comes Cole’s voice. Don’t waste time worrying about it. Just keep moving.
—Donnie Paul, Gauge yells, if you’re around here, don’t do anything stupid. Get out of here. I got this. Everything is under control. Go on now. Get. You’re just gonna get one of us killed.
Releasing Gauge, but still keeping the handgun trained on him, Remington bends down and picks up the rifles, slinging the strap of each over an arm.
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