The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  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.

  —Goddamn 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.

  —Goddamn, 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.

  —Let’s go, he says, pointing toward the river with the revolver.

  Walking.

  Shuffling.

  Limping.

  —That’s four shots, Gauge says.

  —Huh?

  —Four shots. One in my leg. Two misses. One in Arlington’s face. You shot the poor bastard in the face. Reckon that’ll be a closed casket service. Anyway, that’s four rounds. Snub-nose like that holds five, so if it was full to begin with, you only have one shot left.

  —It was, and one is all I need.

  The river.

  All roads have led here.

  It is both destiny and journey.

  As he searches the area for Tanner or any of the others that might still be out here, he gives thanks for the river.

  —You’re here. You made it. Time to let me go.

  —We’re gonna leave here together.

  —Never gonna happen.

  —Me and my three guns beg to differ.

  —You’re gonna let me go. Just wait.

  Walking down the muddy bank to the river’s edge, Remington backs up against a cypress tree and pulls Gauge in front of him.

  Leaning against the tree, Remington lifts his right leg slightly to take the pressure off the wound.

  Just flag down a passing boat and get out of here. That’s all I have to do. Call the cops and an ambulance. I’m gonna make it. Get Gauge in custody. Check on Mom. Get treated. Bring investigators back out here.

  Shooting pain.

  Gasp.

  —How long you think before you pass out from losin’ all that blood? Gauge asks.

  —You better hope a long time. I feel myself about to go, I’m gonna shoot you before I do.

  —Killer, you know I wish you only the very best, Gauge says with a smile. Always have.

  —You’re leaking a good bit of oil yourself.

  —Not even a quart low yet.

  Withdrawing the knife from his pocket, Remington opens the blade, turns slightly, and begins to carve MM into the bark of the tree.

  —Hell you doin’? Gauge asks.

  Remington doesn’t respond.

  —Who’s MM? That your girl?

  Remington shakes his head.

  —Then who?

  —Not who, what.

  —Then what?

  —Stands for Memento Mori.

  —For what?

  —Ancient Romans used to write it on everything.

  —What’s it mean?

  —Just a reminder.

  —Of what?

  —Mortality. It means remember that you’re mortal. Remember you’ll die.

  —We really need a reminder? Hard to forget out here today.

  68

  Now

  * * *

  I duck behind the first tree I come to and search for Heather.

  As I do, I realize there are no rounds buzzing about.

  What’s he waiting for? Did he move? Is he firing from a different angle now?

  I spot Heather some fifteen yards away. She’s lying flat on her back, a smear of blood on her face and across the right side of her shirt.

  Ducking down and moving as fast as I am capable of, I zigzag my way over to her, behind and between the trees, dragging my leg and feeling like an awkward fool as I do.

  I trip and fall a few times and struggle to get up, each time expecting my head or chest to explode.

  When I finally make it over to Heather, I fall down on the ground beside her.

  After a moment of gathering myself, I crouch over her awkwardly and check on her.

  The smear of blood on her face is just that—a smear. She must have touched the wound in her shoulder and then rubbed her face.

  “Don’t you die on me,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much,” she says. “Out here where he did.”

  “You’re gonna have to settle for having your ashes scattered out here one day decades from now. None of us are dying out here today.”

  “I can live with that too,” she says.

  “Good. Okay. Let’s g—”

  I feel the barrel of a gun in the back of my head.

  69

  Then

  * * *

  Whine of an approaching boat motor. Sound of salvation.

  Remington scans the woods around him and down the banks beside him for any signs of Tanner or Donnie Paul. Sees none.

  —Help me flag the boat down, Remington says.

  —Gladly.

  —Try anything and I squeeze the trigger.
Got no reason not to now.

  —I ain’t gonna try anything.

  As the boat draws closer, Remington nudges Gauge forward, and the two men step down to the water.

  —See if you can get their attention, Remington says.

  Gauge does as he’s told.

  Still a good ways away, the driver throttles down the engine and the boat slows, its bow angling toward them.

  —It’s almost as if they were looking for us, Gauge says with a smile.

  Remington’s stomach sinks.

  —Back up, he says.

  He does.

  Wrapping his arm around Gauge’s throat and pressing the gun against his temple, the two men resume their previous position in front of the large cypress tree.

  —Anything happens, Remington says, you die first.

  —Fine with me if we just stand here until you pass out or bleed to death, but you’re gonna let me go.

  —That you jumping up and down and waving your hands, big G? Tanner asks.

  Releasing his grip around Gauge’s throat, Remington removes the radio from his pocket.

  —Pull the boat up to the bank and get out or Gauge gets a bullet to the head.

  —Almost there.

  A good bit bigger than Mother Earth’s boat, Tanner stands behind a windshield and steers the boat ashore. As the bow touches the bank, Tanner cuts the engine, opens the center section of glass, and steps through it into the front part of the boat.

  When he squats down to lift something from the bottom of the boat, Remington thumbs back the hammer.

  —What’re you doin’? Remington says. Get up.

  —Wait for it, Gauge says.

  —Don’t shoot, Tanner says. Just gettin’ somethin’ you need to see.

  In another moment, Tanner is helping Caroline James up, her frail body looking even more vulnerable out here. As if a mirror reflection of Remington and Gauge, Tanner holds Caroline in front of himself and points a gun to her head.

  —Mom, Remington says in that way that only a child speaking to his mother can.

  —Told ya you’d let me go, Gauge says.

  —Remington, are you all right?

  His mom is still in her pink pajamas and robe.

  —Got your address from the truck, Gauge says.

  —I’m fine, Mom. You okay?

  —You gonna lie to your mother? Gauge whispers.

  —I’m okay, honey. Don’t worry about me. What’s all this about?

  —My camera trap took pictures of them killing a woman.

  —We’re not the only ones who’ve killed out here, Gauge says. There used to be more of us. Your son shot a man in the face just a few minutes ago.

  —That true?

  —Yes, ma’am.

  —I’m so sorry you had to do that, she says.

  —They weren’t none too happy about it neither, Gauge says.

  —That one’s got a smart mouth on him, doesn’t he?

  —Yes, ma’am.

  —Yeah. Yeah. I’m just a psychopathic smartass.

  Rustling leaves.

  Snapping twigs.

  Swishing grass and weeds.

  Donnie Paul steps out of the woods not far from the tree Remington is propped against.

  —He fuckin’ shot Arlington in the fuckin’ face. You see that?

  —I saw it, Gauge says. What took you so long?

  He looks at Remington.

  —I’ll have my rifle back now.

  —Not just now, Remington replies.

  —Honey, did you get anything before all this started?

  —Yes, ma’am. The most amazing shots of black bears and bats and fireflies. I can’t wait to show you.

  —I can’t wait to see them.

  —I know now this is what I’m supposed to do.

  —Well, you just keep on doing it. Don’t let anything stop you. Anything.

  Is she saying what I think she is? I can’t let her die.

  —Remington, look at me. Anything.

  —I hate to intrude on the last conversation between a mother and her son and all, but we’re standing here bleeding. I mean, for fuck sake. All Jesus said was Woman, behold thy son. You’d think you could be a little less verbose.

  —I love you, Mom.

  —That’s more like it, Gauge says.

  —I love you, honey.

  —I wish there could be a happy ending in this for us, but there’s just not one.

  —No there’s not.

  —They’re going to kill us either way.

  —I know.

  —But in one way, we can take a few of them with us, he says. She nods.

  Gauge shakes his head.

  —What’d I just say about being so verbose? Now look, you let me go and tell me where you hid the memory card, we’ll let your mom live. You have my word.

  —Your what?

  —You heard me. I don’t want to cap some old woman in her pink pajamas. But I will. And I’ll make it hurt like a son of a bitch if you don’t let me go right now and tell me where you hid the evidence.

  —Do it, his mom says.

  —Do it?

  —It. I’m so ready to see your dad again.

  —I can’t.

  —Of course he can’t, Gauge says. You’re asking him to kill his own mother.

  —He’s right, Remington says.

  —Look at how I live, she says. Well, not live, exist. Think about how much I miss your dad.

  She’s right, he thinks.

  —Don’t let him get away, she continues. Don’t take a chance on him leaving the swamp and killing again.

  —I told you, Gauge says, there’s no—

  With that, Remington squeezes the trigger and the left side of Gauge’s head explodes, spraying his final thoughts onto a nearby oak tree.

  Telegraphing.

  Slow motion.

  As if watching from outside himself.

  Dropping the empty handgun.

  Shoving Gauge’s empty body aside.

  Grabbing the rifle hanging on his right shoulder.

  Spinning.

  Flipping.

  Dropping.

  Aiming.

  Firing.

  One knee.

  From a crouching position, he aims for Tanner first, even though the other man comes up with a handgun and begins to rush him, firing as he does.

  Pop.

  Echo.

  Crack.

  Echo.

  Thump.

  Thwack.

  Crack.

  Echo.

  Boom.

  Echo.

  His mom’s still alive.

  He’s got a shot.

  Breathe.

  Aim.

  Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how to shoot.

  Squeeze don’t pull.

  Fire.

  But before he can, one of Donnie Paul’s running rounds finds him, shattering the bone of his right elbow.

  Ignore the pain.

  Take the shot.

  Save your mom.

  Cole’s voice. You can do it.

  Now.

  Take the shot.

  He does.

  Blood splatter on pink silk. Not her blood. Tanner crumples.

  Another round hits him. This one in the thigh. Excruciating pain.

  It takes all he can do, but he manages to turn toward Donnie Paul.

  Close now. Round after round. Semiautomatic. Empty. Eject. New clip. Several more rounds. Lots of shots. Donnie Paul, going for quantity of rounds over quality of shots. Playing the odds.

  Another one finds its mark.

  Remington’s chest explodes.

  Get off a shot.

  One last shot.

  Now.

  Now or never.

  If you don’t get him, he’ll kill your mother.

  Squeeze.

  Heart.

  Hole.

  Blood.

  Falling.

  Dead.

  Saved Mom.

  Dropping rifle.<
br />
  Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not …

  Falling over.

  Shock.

  Got Gauge.

  Saved Mom.

  Love Heather.

  Ready?

  Ready.

  Really?

  I really am. Don’t want to go, but not afraid.

  Numb.

  Nothing.

  70

  Now

  * * *

  “Did you radio backup?” a surprisingly soft voice says. “How long do I have? Tell me the truth and I’ll let the sheriff live.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” I say. “Under three conditions.”

  I slip the little .38 out of my waistband and put it in Heather’s hand.

  When I glance back at her, she looks as if something has just dawned on her, like she’s just received a revelation or insight about something. Odd how that happens in the strangest of moments.

  * * *

  Heather can smell the man standing behind John—the coffee and country club aftershave that takes her back to that frightened, helpless moment when she was being held at gunpoint while Caroline was being groped and molested.

  The empty gallery. The feeble, childless widow in her wheelchair. The smell of the man whispering threats into her ear. The voice. The threats. Caroline wetting herself. It all comes rushing back as if it has just happened.

  * * *

  “Oh yeah?” the man behind me is saying. “You’re in no position to bargain, but humor me by telling me your conditions.”

  “Let me stand up and look at you when you shoot me, tell me why you’re doing this and who’s behind it, and let Heather live.”

  He laughs. “Stand up and look at me,” he says. “Slowly. Was gonna have you do that anyway.”

  I push myself up off of Heather.

  As I do, he takes a step back, and Heather lifts the .38 and fires all five rounds at him, hitting him with at least three.

  But not before he gets off a round of his own.

  Fortunately, it hits the ground next to Heather. Three inches to the left and it would have hit her in the head.

  I jump down on him and grab the rifle, and toss it away.

  He doesn’t offer much resistance. Shot in the hand, chest, and throat, he’s in no shape to offer much resistance to anything.

  “Who hired you?” I ask.