Shoving the handgun in his jacket pocket, he crawls toward the back of the boat, staying low to avoid getting shot, his body bumping up against Mother’s.
Reaching the back of the bateau, his hands, face, and clothes wet, muddy, and smeared with blood, he lifts his hand just enough to grab the throttle and pivots the motor away from the gunfire and toward Cutoff Island.
Heading away from the shooters, fewer rounds come near the boat, and only the motor housing suffers any hits.
Crashing the boat into the bank, Remington crawls to the front, over the bow, dropping onto the mud and roots, and begins to run into the woods for cover.
More rounds.
Thwacking trees.
Splintering roots.
Splattering mud.
And just as he’s about to make it into the thick swampy woods of the Cutoff, a round hits his right calf.
Searing.
Falling.
Rolling.
Dragging his injured leg, he claws his way up the incline and into the cover of ancient trees and thick understory.
Glancing back past the boat and across the river, he sees only two men with rifles standing there.
Is that all that’s left?
Did the others leave?
Is one of them Gauge?
When he turns back around, he’s staring at mud-covered snake boots not unlike his own.
—Hey, killer, Gauge says, a pleasant smile on his face.
55
Now
* * *
Patience.
People ask, what’s the single most important ingredient to a successful hit?
It’s patience.
You gotta wait—sometimes for hours—for a split second of work.
And that’s exactly what the Hornet is doing, has been doing for a few hours now.
Waiting.
But not just waiting. Waiting patiently.
He’s set up not far from their vehicles.
Ready.
It’s late afternoon and he knows it’s entirely possible they won’t come out until near dark or dark, so he has his night vision equipment, too.
Prepared.
Preparation is important. But patience is more important.
Of course, the most important ingredient is sociopathology. You gotta not care about the killin’. You gotta be like there are over seven billion people on the planet, what’s one less gonna matter? You gotta feel nothin’, no empathy, no remorse, no nothin’. But that has to do with being able to do the job. Doin’ the job itself requires patience. It’s that simple.
Patience is more important than skill. It’ll keep you alive. This is shit that, if you rush, will bite you in the ass. Hard. You rush, you miss, you make mistakes, eventually you get caught.
He reckons he’s the most patient person on the planet. Still, he wishes they’d come on. They get out here and get this over with soon enough, he can be back in Miami by the time his daughter wakes up in the morning. He’d like that.
Pop. Pop. Two quick shots and he’s out of here.
And here they come. Ahead of schedule. But not like he expects. They’re coming not from the swamp, but down the little dirt road.
No matter. He doesn’t ask why or wonder where they’ve been. He’s an incurious man—another thing that makes him good at what he does.
Adjust.
He simply makes adjustments.
The only thing he’s curious about—well, the two things are . . . how quickly will whoever’s dropping them off leave, and will they stand around talkin’ to each other long enough for a clear, open shot?
56
Then
* * *
—Took you long enough to get here, Gauge says. You came out a lot lower than we thought you would.
—Not low enough.
Pressure.
Unzipping his boot, Remington presses the gunshot wound in his leg with his hand, attempting to stop the bleeding.
—Just think, if she’d’ve taken you upriver instead of down, you’d’ve gotten away—for a little longer anyway.
Remington remains on the ground, Gauge hovering above him, looking down the barrel of the shotgun at him.
Throbbing.
His calf muscle feels like it’s being stabbed with a serrated blade, then twisted, pulled out, and thrust back in again.
—You down to two men?
—Three. Sent one on an errand.
—What happened to—
—They retired.
—Bet a lot of people who work for you get early retirement.
He smiles.
—Before you retire me, you should know I have evidence against you and I’ve hidden it where it will be found.
—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 goddamn gun.
He does.
—Now what?
—Walk.
—Where?
—To the Big River.
—Through the island?
—Yeah.
—What about your leg?
—Walk.
57
Now
* * *
Mike gives us a ride back from the landing in his white Platinum F-150 and insists that we join him and Jean for dinner tonight.
We left our vehicles where we had parked them for the search earlier in the day at the end of the dirt road on Cole’s property where Remington had entered the woods that fateful day and had ridden to the landing with Mike.
“I know there’s a few hours of daylight left, but don’t even think about going back out there in those woods,” he says.
He’s looking at Heather.
“I’m just gonna go back in a little ways and say goodnight to Remington,” she says. “No more searching today. I’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be home in time for dinner.”
He nods. “Okay. How about you, John? Will you join us?”
“Thank you. I’d love to. I’m going to wait here for Heather to say goodnight to Remington, then when I have cell service again I need to call in what we’ve found, but then I’ll grab a quick shower and be over.”
“See y’all then. I’ll even invite ol’ Hank. He deserves it after what he found today.”
“Yes, he does,” Heather says. “None of us would’ve ever found it.”
As we climb out of the truck and Mike turns around to leave, I can see Reggie’s black sheriff’s SUV pulling down the dirt road.
“Don’t feel like you have to wait for me,” Heather says. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “I’ll tell Reggie about what we found. Be here waiting when you get back. Tell Remington I said hello.”
“Thank you, John.”
Reggie and Mike wave to each other but don’t stop and talk, and in another moment she’s pulling up in front of me.
She cuts her engine and gets out.
“Where’s she going?” she asks, looking after Heather who is disappearing into the woods.
“Have a little chat with Remington.”
She nods and purses her lips as she continues to stare in Heather’s direction.
“I was going to call you when I got service again,” I say.
“That’s why I’m out here,” she says. “’Cause there’s no damn service. I’ve tried callin’ you several times today.”
“What’s up?” I say.
“You go first.”
“We found what used to be a major growing operation,” I say, and proceed to tell her about it.
“That’s great. I’ll let DEA know and y’all can take them to it tomorrow. So there was a massive operation over here and . . . what? After the shootout they moved it?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Where?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
“Up to Cottondale?” she says. “May not even be in our county any longer.”
“May not be. What were you calling me about?”
“Noticed your gun and badge and resignation letter weren’t on my desk this morning,” she says.
I nod. “I’m not quitting. You’ll have to fire me.”
“I was glad it wasn’t there,” she says. “I regret what I said and did last night. Didn’t sleep a wink. Was hoping to talk to you this morning when you came in, but you didn’t. I’m sorry for how I acted. It was wrong.”
I think about how, in general, women apologize more quickly and more often than men and wonder again what kind of a world it would be with far more women in key leadership positions—particularly women who didn’t feel they had to masculinize themselves to get there.
“I’m not going to fire you,” she says. “I’m asking you to trust me and let the Robin Wilson thing go, but if you won’t . . . I won’t try to stop you.”
“You’re asking for my trust but not telling me anything, not giving me anything to go on.”
“Yes. That’s what trust is. I had hoped we had built up enough trust so you would just . . . well, trust me. I’ve trusted you several times over this past year. In big ways. I’ve had your back. Taken heat for you. Thought we were far more than co-workers.”
“We are.”
“I’ll say this and that’s all,” she says. “I swear to you on my word and the life of my child that neither Allen nor Rain did it and I’m satisfied justice was done in the case. Please, please let that be enough.”
I don’t say anything, just think about it.
“Please,” she says again.
I continue to think about it, scanning the trees in the distance, the glint of something catching my eye.
“Can I ask you . . . do you believe me?” she says. “Do you know that I’m telling you the truth about Allen and Rain?”
I nod. “I believe you. I’m . . . I’ll have to think about it. Give me a little while to process it. I won’t do anything else on the case until I talk to you.”
“That’s all I can ask. Thanks.”
58
Now
* * *
Goddammit!
The fuckin’ sheriff again.
She cockblocked his play before, but not this time. She can die out here with the others today. Had enough of her stoppin’ my fuckin’ move. No more.
He looks through his scope again.
Motherfucker!
Not only is she cockblocking him, but her goddamn big black SUV is, too.
Is there a shot at all? Through the windows of her vehicle? Glass will alter the shot. Can he still make it?
Options?
Relocate. Move to a better position. But that takes time. More chance of being seen.
Take the shots from here. But the glass could alter the shot too much.
Wait. Hope the sheriff leaves before the other target comes back out of woods. What’d she go in there for by herself anyway? A nature call? If so, she’ll be back soon.
Just start firing. Pin them down. Fire until you hit them. Draw Nature Calls Girl out of the woods. Move in on ’em to finish ’em if you have to.
Before he consciously realizes what he’s done, he’s made his decision. Or rather his trigger finger has.
59
Then
* * *
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 a
sks 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.
60
Now
* * *
At first I think Reggie got stung by a wasp or yellow jacket.
But as she turns to reach for the sting on her back, blood shows above her belt in the front and the round coming through her hits the front right tire of my car.
Though it only takes a fraction of a moment for me to realize she’s been shot, everything seems like it’s happening in slow motion.
My movements feel awkward and sluggish, like my reaction time is a step behind.
I tackle Reggie to the ground and pull her over to me, putting both of us behind the back passenger-side tire of her vehicle, as shots land all around us.
Divots of dirt pop up. Glass shatters. Rounds ricochet off metal, pierce plastic, puncture rubber.
Soon all three vehicles are shredded. Windows out. Engines shot up. Tires flat.
I’ve yet to hear a report or echo.
He’s got a silencer on a long-range rifle.
The glint. The shots are coming from the area where I saw the glint earlier.
So stupid. Should have checked it out when I saw it. Instead, I thought it was a bottle or can or some other shiny discarded object left out here.
The guy is clearly a professional. Did Chris hire a hitman? Is he after me and Reggie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or does he think Reggie is Anna?
The Remington James Box Set Page 36
