—Good. That’s good.
He wakes feeling hopeful. Why?
Heather. We’re going to stop fighting.
But then . . .
Did Mom die?
It was just a dream.
So was not fighting with Heather.
He’s stiff and sore, and when he sits up, his body screams in pain. Must be hurt more than I thought.
Check your cell phone.
I already have.
Do it again.
He does.
No signal.
Check your camera.
He does.
Seems fine. Still works.
What about the radio?
No way to know how much battery life is left. If it’s a new battery, it could be days, if it’s an old one, it could die at any minute. He looks at it. Seems old, strength weakening, but it’s still working for the moment.
Check the Cuddeback. See what’s on it.
The Cuddeback is a tree-mounted scouting camera hunters use to record any activity near their tree stands or feed sites when they’re not around. Used mostly to capture the number, size, and habits of deer, the unit captures anything that moves—other animals, trespassers. Equipped with both a still and a video camera, the Cuddeback takes color photos and video by day and infrared by night so as not to use a flash.
Unlike Remington’s camera traps, the utilitarian Cuddeback isn’t after art, just a record hunters can use in pursuit of their prey.
He removes the memory card, finds the viewer, pops it in, and starts watching.
Eerie, ghostly, infrared images of green-tinted deer with bright, glowing eyes fill the screen, each with a date and time stamp on the bottom left of the image and the Cuddeback logo on the right.
Color shots, mostly at dawn and dusk. Overexposed. Unbalanced color. Light. Faint. Serviceable. Usable. Deer. Fox. Coon. Squirrel. Bear. Boar.
Video clips much the same. Color. Infrared. Short. Jumpy. Jittery. Deer. Squirrel. Boar. Remington.
The clip shows his greenish, ghostly approach, glowing eyes glancing up, studying something above the frame.
Leave a message.
Erasing the clips currently on the unit, he prepares to leave a message for the hunter who will eventually come back and find it.
Think.
There’s memory enough to record three clips, sixty seconds each. How to use them.
First, quickly tell about the murder and all you know about Gauge, Jackson, and the others. Second, leave a message for Mom. Third, one for Heather.
Take a few more moments to prepare. Got to be concise. He lights himself with the flashlight and huddles in the corner. Holding the camera out as far as he can, he begins what may very well be his last will and testament.
Last words. Make them count.
When he’s finished and preparing to depart, he wonders if he should leave the memory card with the murder on it.
No. The messages will be here. Don’t leave them both. What if Gauge finds this place? He could, you know. Then he’d have them both. The Cuddeback stays here. Hide the camera trap memory card somewhere else.
As he’s about to turn off the flashlight, its beam falls on a bizarre article in one of the open hunting magazines. Lifting it, he holds the light up and reads:
Dog Triggers Gun Blast, Kills Owner
A tracking dog apparently stepped on a loaded shotgun in the bed of his owner’s pickup truck, firing a fatal blast into the man’s abdomen while hunting for deer on a lease near Bristol, Florida, officials said.
Tyler Pettis died at a hospital Sunday from severe blood loss shortly after the Northwest Florida accident.
According to a Liberty County sheriff’s investigator, Pettis was hunting on a lease between Bristol and Greensborough, about 30 miles west of Tallahassee.
Apparently, Pettis, 41, set his gun in the back of his truck and was about to open the tailgate to release his tracking dog when the shotgun fired, investigators said. The blast penetrated the truck’s tailgate before hitting Pettis.
Paw prints from the dog, a chocolate Labrador retriever named Ralph, were found on the muddy shotgun, Sheriff Richard Henshaw said. Jerry Davis, Pettis’s hunting partner, said he tried to stop the bleeding with clothing before driving him to seek help.
It’s the strangest case I’ve ever seen, Henshaw stated.
The incident took place just one county over, less than fifty miles from where he sits right now, and he had never heard a word about it. How random, how ridiculous life can be. Sometimes it seems exactly like a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
You, too, could wind up a headline, he thinks. North Florida Man Missing, Manhunt Underway. Or, Local Man Walks in Woods and Mysteriously Disappears. Or, Body Discovered by Hunters Believed to be Missing Man.
Stop.
Wait.
Before you go, take a moment.
This could be it. You could very well die tonight. Probably will. You’ve got something a lot of people will never get—some warning. It’s a gift. What’re you going to do with it?
If this is your last night on the planet, if you have hours or moments left, what do you want to do, to think, to feel, to remember?
Don’t be so busy trying to survive that you miss the opportunity to prepare to die.
Memento Mori. Remember that you are mortal. Remember to die. It’s not a matter of if, but when.
Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and Immortality.
Dickinson understood.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste, and I had put away my labor, and my leisure too, for his civility.
Breathe.
He takes in a lot of air, holds it, then lets it out very slowly. Does it again. And again.
Relax. Listen.
Heather will be fine. So will Mom. Wasn’t it de Gaulle who said, The cemeteries of the world are full of indispensable men?
He’s pretty sure it was. Be still.
Focus.
That’s the thing about life, isn’t it? We die. What’s the Coetzee quote? That, finally, all it means to be alive is to be able to die. Something like that.
Be.
Just be.
Zen.
Centered.
He finds it funny that in his brief contemplation of death, it’s not religion or philosophy or even photography, but poetry that consoles and prepares.
He brings his meditation to a close with the words of Longfellow and a thank you to all the lit teachers along the way who made him commit such words to memory. Who knew they were still there?
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art; to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Be ready.
Life ends abruptly. A dog steps on the trigger of a shotgun in the back of your truck. Your camera trap snaps pictures of a murderer and you come out to check it while he’s still there. You’ve got to be ready.
But you never can be. Not really. But—
Are you ready now?
No.
See.
I’m more ready than I was.
Well, that’s something.
It’s a lot.
Climbing down the ladder into the cold, dark night, he wonders if he should stay in the tree stand.
You’re just thinking that because you’re hurt and it’s cold. Maybe, but this could be the safest place.
If they find you here, you’re trapped.
Down here I could walk right into them.
Just be careful.
Oh, okay.
You’re being sarcastic with a voice inside your head?
Why not? It’s been a long night. You’re all I’ve got to talk to.
You could radio Gauge.
He smiles at that.
Wonder why they’ve been so q
uiet? Are they out of range? Are we that far apart? What would that be? Two miles?
Probably switched to the other channel when they were all together.
Why hadn’t he thought of that? He should’ve been flipping back and forth between the two channels himself. He might have even picked up someone else on the other channel.
But nobody’s out here this late.
Still should have tried. I should climb back up and sit in the stand while I check the other channel and transmit for help.
No. Keep moving.
But all I need is time, is to stay alive. The longer I stay alive, the greater the chance help will come—either in the form of searchers, if Heather or Mom called the police, or hunters coming out here in the morning.
I’m not saying don’t stay alive. I’m saying don’t stay here.
But—
You’ll be trapped. Besides, you’ve got to hide the memory stick. It doesn’t need to be with you, and it doesn’t need to be here with the messages you left on the scouting camera.
Okay. Okay. I’m going.
He drops down from the bottom rung onto the ground, the shock shoving rods of pain up through his feet and legs and into his upper body.
How long ’til dawn?
The night is different now, the quality of light altered by the orbiting moon’s movement across the night sky. The air and atmosphere have changed. It feels more like early morning than late night.
Is that just because that’s what I want? How long did I sleep?
He switches between the two channels, listening for transmissions, something he should’ve been doing all along. Why hadn’t he? He had been in shock from killing Jackson, focused on the conversations of the others, and running for his life. Probably hadn’t been doing his best thinking. Still might not be.
Chances are slim anybody but Gauge and his guys are in range, but he has to try.
No idea where the others are, he moves slowly, carefully, quietly.
Should’ve stayed in the tree stand.
Where are you going to hide the memory card? He thinks about it. He has no idea.
How can he ensure it’ll be protected and that he can find it again—or if something happens to him that someone will eventually find it? Preferably soon.
Boot banging into something. He stops and looks down.
It’s a tall cypress knee.
He’s standing in front of a small field of them. Hundreds. Most about two feet tall. He’s never seen so many in one place before. They take up an area of about twenty square yards between a half-dozen cypress trees.
The buttressed or kneed woody projections of swamp-grown cypresses rise above normal water levels and look like caveless stalagmites. Part of the root system, their exact function is unknown, though some theorize they help provide oxygen down to the roots since they grow in swamp waters. Or maybe they’re just for structural support and stabilization.
He recalls a tale, a legend from his childhood. True story. A hunter, deep in the woods, falling out of his tree stand, landing on a cypress knee, which pierces his body like a giant spear through the right side of his chest. Surviving. Rolling back and forth to break it off inside him, he stands, the large piece of wood all the way through him, showing on both sides, walks to his boat, drives back down the river to the landing, where an ambulance is called. The two-foot root is removed in the hospital, leaving the man with two wicked scars and one hell of a story.
He walks in such a way as to minimize pain, holding himself just so, moving gingerly, but moving.
Where to hide the memory card.
He glances around. Everything looks the same.
Trees.
Limbs.
Leaves.
Bushes.
Branches.
Passing through a stand of bamboo, he emerges to see a small bog, water standing in it. Going around it, he climbs up the low incline on the other side and sees the remnants of an old moonshine still.
Bricks.
Broken blocks.
Rusted section of barrel.
Coil of copper, partially buried, twisting around dirt, grass, and leaves.
The things that have been done in these woods, he thinks. Wonder how many other bodies are buried out here? How many bones of indigenous people is this ground grave to? How many explorers? Missionaries? Settlers? Ridge runners? Turpentiners? Hunters? Victims?
One more if you don’t keep moving. Time to turn toward the river.
He’s walked north long enough. Now he needs to circle east, hopefully coming out at the banks of the Chipola much lower than Gauge and his men expect.
Exhausted.
Sore.
Sleepy.
Any benefit derived from the bottled water and junk food and sleep in the tree stand is gone now.
Got to be getting close to the river.
Stiffening with every step, his body begs for stillness, for horizontality. In the words of the old-timers around here, he is stove up.
Just a little further.
You’ve been saying that for a long time now. It’s true this time. It’s got to be.
—Killer? You still with us?
I’m actually glad to hear from him, he thinks. How sick is that? It’s like . . . what’s it called? Stockholm. I’ve got some sort of loneliness-induced radio Stockholm syndrome.
—Won’t be long ’fore these old batteries die, so I thought I’d say goodbye. Hell, yours may already be dead—well, Jackson’s. It’s pretty old. I may be talking to myself.
Remington doesn’t say anything.
—If you’re out there, I wanted to say congratulations. Remington waits, but Gauge doesn’t say anything else.
—For what? Remington asks.
—Well, Jesus Christ on a cross, he’s still with us. How are you?
—For what? Remington asks again.
—What kind of shape’re you in? You bleedin’?
—Congratulations for what?
—For making it through the night. Sun’ll be up soon. You should be proud of yourself. Similar circumstances, others haven’t lasted half as long.
—Do this a lot?
—Hardly ever. Only when we have to. But enough to know what we’re doing. You now hold the record. And you won me some money.
—You bet on me?
—Up to a point. Now, I’m bettin’ on me. By the way, I’ve got another battery for that walkie if you want it. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring it to you.
—Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you where I am.
—Ah, come on now. You seem to know your way around these woods real good. He’s quiet a moment before adding, They are big. And they all look pretty much the same. I’d hate to be out here without the right equipment. Know what I mean, Remington?
Gauge’s use of his name shocks him, disturbing him more than anything else the man has said.
—I’s real sorry to hear about your pops. He was a good man. I bought a good bit of stuff from him.
—How’d you . . .
—Your name? We finally broke into your truck. We were waiting, leaving it intact to get you to come back to it, but I reckon Arlington started shootin’ a little too soon.
—Way too soon as far as I’m concerned.
Gauge laughs.
—Hey, killer, why don’t you just come in? It’s time for this to be over.
—Tempting, but—
—We know who you are, where you live and work. We won’t stop. You did good. You did. But it’s over now.
—You’re right. Tell me where to—
—What is it?
Remington can’t speak, can’t comprehend what his eyes are reporting to his brain.
How can this be? There’s no way.
Heart caving in as the center of him implodes.
—Remmy? You there? What happened?
He stands there speechless, radio hand dropped to his side, as he stares unbelievingly at the tree stand he had climbed out of just a few hours
before. No closer to the river, to help, to a chance, he’s made a full circle.
Not for the first time tonight, he’s right back where he started from.
Baying of bloodhounds.
Yelps. Whines. Barks.
Remington’s pulse quickens when the first sounds of the distant howls reach his ears.
Everything’s changed now.
He’s now being tracked by man-trailing bloodhounds, but how? They don’t have scent articles of mine to use. And then he remembers.
His truck.
They broke into his truck. It holds far more than they’d ever need—several shirts, a pair of old basketball shoes, a couple of caps, and a jacket.
He is being tracked. He will be found.
He’d heard enough talk around the pawn shop to know. If a scent article hasn’t been contaminated, a relentless bloodhound will find his man—even at his own peril.
Handlers are key.
A good handler and a well-trained support team are vital for success with the animals. If loosed to chase down a scent, the animals who show no regard for their own safety often wind up injured or dead. Recently, one of the bloodhounds from the K-9 unit at the state prison just down the road ran out in front of a car while tracking an escaped inmate and was killed.
Bloodhounds also need a support team because of their disposition. They can find a man, but can’t subdue him.
If the dogs tracking him right now are on leashes, leading Gauge and the others to him, he’s dead. If on their own, he might stand a chance.
Run.
Get to the river—or even a slough or tributary—he tells himself. Cross a body of water—or just get in it. It’s your only shot at making them lose your scent.
Run.
Running.
Maybe running is what they want me to do.
Most trained bloodhounds don’t bark. The ones from the local prison’s K-9 unit track quietly so as not to alert the person they’re trailing. Barking warns the escapee—gives him time to set up an ambush.
Am I hearing beagles?
Beagles bark more and, unlike bloodhounds, don’t track on a lead, but what he’s hearing sounds like bloodhounds.
Some bloodhounds bark as they track. No telling who these dogs belong to or how well-trained they are.
Either way, they want me running. Don’t mind if I know they’re getting close.
The Remington James Box Set Page 12