—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 goddamn.
—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 goddamn 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 body 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 Redbone coonhound’s solid short hair is the color of rust in water. Floppy ears. Long tail. Black nose at the end of a long muzzle. 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.
—Goddamn. 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, goddamn 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.
—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.
He recalls bits of Emerson’s poem, The River. His mom had made him memorize it, telling him everyone who lives on or near a river should, and he does now what he didn’t as a child. He thanks her.
And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveler came—
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed . . .
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,—and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly . . .
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind . . .
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country’s primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.
As he searches the area for Tanner or any of the others that might still be out here, he gives thanks for the river, Emerson’s words still echoing through his head.
—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.
The Remington James Box Set Page 15
