The Remington James Box Set Page 4

  —Anything ever happens to me I need to know you’ll take care of your mother.

  —Of course.

  —You won’t try to move her, you’ll come back here, you’ll let her stay home.

  —I will.

  As if having a premonition, this call from Cole—a rarity in itself—took place the week of his death.

  —It’s a lot to ask, he adds.

  —You didn’t even have to, Remington says.

  —You comin’ for a visit anytime soon?

  —Gonna try.

  —How’re things at work?

  —Good.

  —You sockin’ some of that money away?

  —Costs a lot to live down here, but I manage to put a little away.

  —Good.

  —You and Heather worked things out yet?

  —I’m not sure we will.

  —You will.

  —I don’t know.

  —You will.

  —Too early to tell.

  —I’m proud of you, son.

  Surprised by the unexpected words, he stammers in search of a reply.

  —Ah . . . well . . . thanks.

  The shocking admission was the first of its kind since childhood and the last words he’d ever hear his dad speak.

  Yeah, he knows what he should do, what Cole would do, but it’s time to start being true to himself. Cole’s gone. Life’s short. He’s continuing on. If he doesn’t start living differently, more deliberately, he’s going to regret it.

  Did Cole die with regrets? Unlike Remington, he seemed so settled, so content with his simple life. Had he been? Really? Or did he hide regret and disappointment from his son the way men do skin magazines in a bottom dresser drawer and a bottle of vodka in the work shed?

  Didn’t know you very well. Not well enough to say whether your short, unfinished life was as fulfilling to you as it seemed, or if you repressed an enmity at the hand you were dealt: the full house of three low cards—claustrophobic, small-town life, sick wife, alien only child—and a pair of bad body parts.

  Nocturnal noises.

  Crickets. Frogs.

  Chirps. Hums. Buzzes.

  Loud.

  Forging on, he ventures deeper and deeper into darkness and density. Black leaves crunching beneath boots as he follows a ridge line into a stand of hardwoods over five hundred years old.

  Chill. Stalking. Frightened.

  The feeling that he is being followed persists. Stopping, he listens carefully and shines his small penlight in all directions, but hears and sees only nature.

  This deep, this dark, the woods seem haunted, as if alive with an ancient menacing force predating humanity.

  Nearing it now.

  Almost there.

  As he closes in on the spot of his deepest camera trap, the cold and fear and weariness begin to fade, floating up like smoke from a night fire, breaking apart as if bits of ash and rising into invisibility.

  Walking faster now. Excited. Energized. Renewed.

  Dry.

  Following a spring and summer of record low rainfall, autumn had continued the arid trend, the rivers’ flood plains receding, the swamps shrinking.

  Of course, it’s not just lack of rain that causes the forest to crackle and evaporate, but overdevelopment in Atlanta and the overuse of water in Georgia and Alabama—people downstream are always at the mercy of the people upstream, and the dredging of the river by the Corps of Engineers and the way the sand they dredge up blocks tributaries and keeps water from reaching the flood plain.

  This makes him think of the lady known as Mother Earth again, her love of the river and her tireless fight against the Corps.

  The only water in the area is a small spring-fed slough, which is normally just part of a tributary system that flows inland from off-shoots of the river to small lakes and streams, but is now cut off, forming a single standing body.

  The sole source of hydration for miles, this small, black, leaf-covered pool is the perfect place for a camera trap. Every animal in the area must come here eventually.

  Remington had set up his inmost camera trap in the hollowed-out base of a cypress tree across from the mouth of the slough. Equipped with an ultra wide-angle lens, the camera frames nearly the entire width of the water, but on the opposite side so it captures the faces of the creatures as they dip in for a drink.

  The camera traps he traded his 401k for were developed to photograph animals that he couldn’t get within picture-taking proximity of.

  The idea was nothing new. Wildlife photographers had been using them all around the world for years. The first ones, designed to photograph tigers, used wires to trigger flash powder on trails, and were intended merely to make a record, just an attempt to get the animals on film.

  Remington wasn’t in pursuit of a record, but art. His traps were configured to take the pictures the way he would if he were there snapping them himself.

  When he first got interested in trying camera traps, he researched what other photographers had done, read about all their problems with batteries blowing up, flashes melting, animals eating cords, and all the wasted film. Those early devices were too sensitive, capturing thousands of empty frames.

  For the early adopters, the pioneers of this process, the project was so labor intensive and inadequate that many of them gave it up—but fortunately for Remington, a few persevered and finally figured out what worked.

  Using cameras and strobes that hibernate when not in use to conserve batteries, programmed to wake once an hour to recharge so they’re ready if an animal trips the infrared beam of the trap, the earliest practitioners began to capture spectacular images impossible to get any other way.

  Like the mavericks before him, Remington finds places animals frequent and sets up a camera trap on the trail with an infrared beam. Checking the traps less than once a week, he reduces the likelihood his scent will scare the animals away.

  It’s taken some experimentation, because full auto is not an option, but knowing roughly where the animals will cross the beam, he’s been able to set up the strobes, focus, and exposure for that distance, skewing his exposure for dusk and dawn—the times of greatest activity.

  By the time he reaches the trap, the last feathers of the flamingo sky have floated away. Now, only the tops of trees are illuminated, their empty, craggy branches black, backlit by a faint smoke-gray sky.

  Removing the memory card from the camera trap, he places it in his new camera and drops to the thick leaf-covered ground to view the shots. Pressing the display button, the first image appears. Spinning the selection wheel, he scrolls through the eerie images.

  Even on the small screen, the burst of light against the dark night gives some of the frames an otherworldly quality.

  Moonlight.

  Overexposure fading to faint pale pallet. Ghostly.

  Glowing red eyes.

  Odd angles. Necks craned.

  Sand-colored streaks, leather-colored flashes.

  Night. Beyond the slough and its track-laden muddy rim, deer passing by trigger the trap, their eyes glowing demonically in the flash.

  Day. Leaping, turning, darting deer break the infrared beam, leaving blurs of buckskin behind. Too fast. Ill-framed. Unusable.

  The distant deer the camera captures are too far from the slough to do anything but trigger the trap.

  Black spots.

  Red-gray coat. Triangular ears. Short, stubby tail.

  Dusk, and the small cat prowls about, slinking, skulking, stalking. Head down, facing the frame, green slitted eyes staring into the camera.

  Unlike the rare, endangered Florida panther, the Florida bobcat is much more common. Just three times the size of a large house cat, the sleek feline is stealthy and secretive, difficult to photograph, the kind of animal the traps were made for.

  The bobcat shots are stunning. Simple. Subtle. Natural.

  Circle of light, dropping off to dark woods.

  Empty frames.

  Flutter of wi
ngs. Dash. Slash. Smear.

  Of the eighteen species of bats in Florida, only one isn’t found in the panhandle and four are found only here. Swarming like nocturnal butterflies, the blur of bats in the pictures troll the night skies for food, cupping their wings and scooping insects into their mouths at a rate of up to three thousand a night. No more than a few of the images are more than black blots against a bolt of bright light, but those few show the night-feeding creatures in astonishing action. Darting. Dramatic. Dazzling.

  Beyond his expectations, the digitally-captured animals are rare, wild, wondrous to behold. If the next spin of the dial doesn’t bring with it his fabled Florida panther, his disappointment will be tempered by the euphoria over the photographs he did get.

  Soft, diffused light. Liquor-like glow. Late afternoon.

  Humans.

  Shock.

  Murder.

  Handgun. Close range. Blood spray. Collapse.

  Shovel. Dig. Dirt. Bury. Cover.

  Remington is rocked back, reeling at the random horror his camera has captured.

  In flip-book fashion, the staccato images show two people appearing in the far right corner of the frame. The distance and angle lead to soft focus, the small screen adding to the difficulty of deciphering details. Based on size, carriage, movement, and mannerism, Remington believes he’s looking at a man and a woman, but their camouflage jumpsuits and caps make it impossible to tell for sure.

  Jittery, random pictures record the larger of the two figures raising a handgun, though a rifle is slung over his shoulder, and shooting the slightly smaller one in the back of the head. A spray of blood, and the now dead person falls to the ground like the leaves she lands on. The murderer then removes a small, folded camping shovel, kneels down and begins to dig. Hundreds of shots later, the larger person is rolling the smaller into a shallow grave. Removing his jumpsuit, he drops it into the hole with his victim, then douses both with liquid from a plastic bottle, drops a match, and steps back as the flames leap up out of the opening in the earth to dance in the dusk sky.

  Nausea.

  Clammy skin. Cold sweat.

  Unaware his distress could deepen any further, Remington’s panic intensifies when, thumbing through the images, he sees the murderer remove his jumpsuit to reveal a dark green uniform. Although unable to tell exactly what agency the man is with, he thinks sheriff’s deputy or wildlife officer most likely.

  Flickering flames.

  For a long time—over thirty images—the man stands adding accelerant to the holocaust hole at his feet, eventually dropping the bottle itself in and refilling the grave with dirt, covering the mound with dead leaves.

  All the photographs had been taken in the afternoon light, preventing the strobe from flashing and alerting the murderer to the presence of the camera trap and the frame-by-frame chronicling of his crime.

  Incapable of moving, Remington continues to press so hard against the backside of the hollow cypress base that it hurts his back.

  Denial. Disbelief.

  I didn’t really just see what I thought I did . . . did I?

  Turning slightly—his head more than anything else—he shines the penlight over across the slough to the back right corner. Even from this distance and with such a small beam, he can see the mound rising beneath the leaves.

  Glancing down at his camera, he pulls up the information for the last image he looked at. According to the time and date stamp encoded in the picture, it was taken less than two hours ago.

  The murderer had been finishing up about the time Remington was unloading the ATV and talking to Heather. And hearing what he thought were screams. He wonders if, like lost light, the horrific screams had been trapped in the swamp until someone had arrived to hear them.

  It wasn’t that long ago.

  The killer could still be out here. I’ve got to—

  Movement from the other side of the watering hole triggers the strobe of the camera trap, illuminating the area like heat lightning flickering in a dark night sky.

  Seized with fear, Remington freezes. Full stop. Even his heart and lungs seem to quit functioning for the moment. Facing away from the flash, he makes no move to turn and see what sort of creature triggered the strobe.

  —Did you just take a picture of me?

  The calm, whimsical, slightly amused voice is unrecognizable, sounding like a hundred others he hears every week, indistinguishable in its southern uniformity.

  Remington doesn’t respond, just remains hunched down, his back against the cypress stump. What’s left of the hollowed-out base of the tree doesn’t offer much in the way of protection, but the man is across the watering hole, which provides a barrier and puts some distance between them.

  —I bring her way the fuck out here to avoid all the cameras in the tree stands and you take a picture of me?

  With the camera trap’s memory card in Remington’s new Canon for viewing, the man’s picture had not been recorded when he set off the strobe.

  But it’s not a bad idea.

  Adjusting his camera, Remington holds it up, and snaps a picture of the area across the water that the voice is coming from, then quickly pulls the camera back down.

  —You keep taking my picture, you’re gonna make me feel like some sort of celebrity or something.

  Remington’s quickly coming to hate the sound of the cold, laconic voice.

  Switching the camera to view mode, Remington glances at the picture he took. The top edge of the frame cuts off just below the man’s chest, revealing only that he is indeed a wildlife officer with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.

  —Waited just a little longer the first time I’s out here, it woulda been dark enough to set off that flash and know it was here.

  Remington quickly sets up the camera again and tries to figure out the best angle.

  —The fuck you doin’ out this far? I seen you about a mile back. Figured I’d follow you since you was headed this way. Sure glad I did.

  Holding the camera up again, Remington attempts another picture. As he does, the man fires a shot from a rifle that whizzes overhead near the camera and hits a tree a few yards behind him, splintering the bark, lodging deep into the heart of the hardwood.

  —I’m tired of having my picture took.

  This time the picture is framed much better, but the man has moved.

  —You might as well talk to me. Got nowhere to go. You do realize that, don’t you? This is the end of the line, partner. Even if it was just the two of us. I’m more at home out here than anywhere. But I’ve radioed my buddies, so . . .

  Remington’s mind races.

  What do I do? How can I get out of this? I don’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. Heather. Mom. Pictures. Run. Hide.

  —Sorry it has to be this way. I genuinely am. But no way I can let you leave these woods. If there was some other way, I’d be happy to . . . but there ain’t. Some shit’s just necessary. Ain’t particularly pleasant, but it is, by God, necessary. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. That’s the God’s truth. Speaking of . . . You wanna say a prayer or anything, now’s the time.

  —Who was she? Remington asks.

  —Huh?

  —Who was she? Why’d you kill her?

  He hadn’t planned on saying anything. The two questions had erupted from him without warning.

  —It doesn’t really matter, does it? Not gonna change anything. Won’t make any difference for her or you.

  Something about the man’s practical reasoning and unsentimental logic reminds Remington of his father, and he hates that. His dad shared nothing with this soulless sociopath, save a pragmatic approach to life.

  A flare of anger.

  His dad’s sober sensibility infuriated him. It was so safe, so serviceable, so on-the-odds.

  Heather.

  What if that were her buried in that hole? It’d matter. Might not change anything, but it’d goddamn sure matter, it’d mean something. The shot and burned and
buried victim means something to her circle, means everything to somebody.

  —Still like to know, Remington yells.

  —Just complicate things. Come on out and I’ll make it quick. Painless. Won’t torture you. Won’t hurt somebody you care about.

  Stowing his camera and its original memory card securely in his sling pack, Remington prepares to run.

  Odds aren’t very good. But there it is. It’s who he is. Born without the practical gene.

  Run.

  His body hears his thought, but doesn’t respond.

  Now.

  Pushing up from the cold ground, he stumbles forward. Bending over, swerving, attempting to avoid the inevitable—

  Shots ring out from behind as rounds ricochet all around him, piercing leaves, striking tree trunks, drilling into ridge banks.

  Run.

  He runs as fast as he can, his boots slipping on the slick surface of the leaves.

  Keep running.

  Slamming into the thick-bodied bases of hardwoods, he absorbs the blows, spins, and continues. Tripping over fallen branches, felled trees, and cypress knees, he tucks, rolls, and springs, somehow managing to find his feet again and keep moving.

  Eventually the shots stop, but he doesn’t. He runs.

  The cold air burns his throat and lungs.

  He keeps running. His heart about to burst, he keeps running. He doesn’t stop.

  Exhaustion. Fatigue. Cramps. Shin splints. Twisted ankle. Thirst. Lightheadedness.

  He runs.

  He runs toward the river. It’s less than two miles away . . . or is supposed to be.

  I should’ve reached it by now. Where is it? Where am I? How’d I get turned around? Why haven’t I found anything?

  Seeing the hollowed-out base of a cypress tree, he collapses into it. He doesn’t check for snakes. He just backs in and falls down. A few minutes ago, he was more terrified of snakes, in general, and cottonmouths and rattlers, in particular, than anything else in the entire world. A lot has changed in the last few minutes.