commercial to ever even approach anything like art.
If I can just show her the shots I’ve gotten tonight, just see her face as she sees the mother bear and cub, the bobcat and bats.
Please let me do that.
Thinking of those images reminds him of the others—of someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.
Evening. Glow.
Dark figures.
Shot.
Explosion.
Bloom of blood.
Body dropping to the cold ground.
Death. Digging.
Fire.
Red-orange flames licking at black outlines backlit by red-orange horizon.
D ampness.
Haze.
Biting.
Fog thick as gauze. Moisture laden.
Vaporous.
Limited visibility.
The moon a small, solitary headlight smothered by a blanket of smog.
The swamp tapers off and he enters a large, open pinewood flat.
Unlike pine forests planted by people, the trees of these natural occurring longleaf flats are spread out, some eight to ten feet apart, a rich carpet of wiregrass covering the ground between them.
So hungry. So thirsty. So spent.
The break from the hardwood canopy makes it possible for him to better see the night sky, and he searches the horizon for Polaris. If he can spot it, he’ll find north. If he finds north, he can find east, and then the river.
He thinks of the nameless, faceless girl again. Pictures her partially charred body surrounded by the cold dirt of the opened and re-covered earth.
What if that were Heather? It is. She’s somebody’s Heather, somebody’s flower.
The clouds have cleared out, but the fog continues to fill the world, diffusing the starlight, making it impossible to identify the Little Dipper, its handle, or the north star.
Looking down from the foggy sky, he scans the scattered pines.
Eerie.
Like men standing unnaturally still in the mist, the silent trees shrouded in the film of fog unnerve Remington, and his eyes dart from one to the other to confirm that they are in fact just trees.
Occasionally glancing up in hopes of a break in the fog, he quickly looks down again to continue his search of the pine barren.
When he spies a man in the distance, standing among the trees, he thinks it’s an illusion, a trick of light or an apparition conjured by his mind.
But then the man radios the others and raises his rifle.
—I got ‘im. I got ‘im. South edge of the big bay swamp. I’m gonna run ‘im to you.
Before Remington can react, a round whistles by his head and thwacks the bark of a laurel oak beside him.
Turning.
Running.
Stumbling.
Remington spins and reenters the hardwood forest he had just stepped out of a few moments before.
Tripping.
Falling.
Rolling.
His boot catches on a fallen black walnut tree and he goes down hard. Tucking in on himself, he manages to roll, mitigating the impact—until he bangs into the base of a hickory tree.
—He’s running. He’s running. South end of the swamp. Heading west.
They know where I am, Remington thinks. I can’t run toward them. Staying on the ground, he slides over and lies beneath the black walnut that had tripped him. And waits.
—I don’t see him, the man yells into his radio. Running. Breathless. I’ve lost him.
—Maintain pursuit, the calm voice of the murderer replies. Run him toward us.
Though not much of a hunter, Remington knows the culture and practices well. If a group of men after deer go into the woods without dogs, they’ll split up. A small group will make a stand while the others go up river a few miles, get out, and walk the deer toward them. Why more men aren’t shot using this practice he’s never understood.
They’re running me like a goddam deer. Well, I won’t let them.
Fight or flight.
I’m staying. Making my stand.
I’d rather die standing than running.
He finds this thought amusing since at the moment, he’s lying down.
Remington had hoped the man would trip over the fallen tree the way he had, but coming in several feet further to the south, he misses it completely.
—You see him?
—Not yet.
—Just keep moving toward us.
If I can just show her the shots I’ve gotten tonight, just see her face as she sees the mother bear and cub, the bobcat and bats.
Please let me do that.
Thinking of those images reminds him of the others—of someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.
Evening. Glow.
Dark figures.
Shot.
Explosion.
Bloom of blood.
Body dropping to the cold ground.
Death. Digging.
Fire.
Red-orange flames licking at black outlines backlit by red-orange horizon.
D ampness.
Haze.
Biting.
Fog thick as gauze. Moisture laden.
Vaporous.
Limited visibility.
The moon a small, solitary headlight smothered by a blanket of smog.
The swamp tapers off and he enters a large, open pinewood flat.
Unlike pine forests planted by people, the trees of these natural occurring longleaf flats are spread out, some eight to ten feet apart, a rich carpet of wiregrass covering the ground between them.
So hungry. So thirsty. So spent.
The break from the hardwood canopy makes it possible for him to better see the night sky, and he searches the horizon for Polaris. If he can spot it, he’ll find north. If he finds north, he can find east, and then the river.
He thinks of the nameless, faceless girl again. Pictures her partially charred body surrounded by the cold dirt of the opened and re-covered earth.
What if that were Heather? It is. She’s somebody’s Heather, somebody’s flower.
The clouds have cleared out, but the fog continues to fill the world, diffusing the starlight, making it impossible to identify the Little Dipper, its handle, or the north star.
Looking down from the foggy sky, he scans the scattered pines.
Eerie.
Like men standing unnaturally still in the mist, the silent trees shrouded in the film of fog unnerve Remington, and his eyes dart from one to the other to confirm that they are in fact just trees.
Occasionally glancing up in hopes of a break in the fog, he quickly looks down again to continue his search of the pine barren.
When he spies a man in the distance, standing among the trees, he thinks it’s an illusion, a trick of light or an apparition conjured by his mind.
But then the man radios the others and raises his rifle.
—I got ‘im. I got ‘im. South edge of the big bay swamp. I’m gonna run ‘im to you.
Before Remington can react, a round whistles by his head and thwacks the bark of a laurel oak beside him.
Turning.
Running.
Stumbling.
Remington spins and reenters the hardwood forest he had just stepped out of a few moments before.
Tripping.
Falling.
Rolling.
His boot catches on a fallen black walnut tree and he goes down hard. Tucking in on himself, he manages to roll, mitigating the impact—until he bangs into the base of a hickory tree.
—He’s running. He’s running. South end of the swamp. Heading west.
They know where I am, Remington thinks. I can’t run toward them. Staying on the ground, he slides over and lies beneath the black walnut that had tripped him. And waits.
—I don’t see him, the man yells into his radio. Running. Breathless. I’ve lost him.
—Maintain pursuit, the calm voice of the murderer replies. Run him toward us.
Though not much of a hunter, Remington knows the culture and practices well. If a group of men after deer go into the woods without dogs, they’ll split up. A small group will make a stand while the others go up river a few miles, get out, and walk the deer toward them. Why more men aren’t shot using this practice he’s never understood.
They’re running me like a goddam deer. Well, I won’t let them.
Fight or flight.
I’m staying. Making my stand.
I’d rather die standing than running.
He finds this thought amusing since at the moment, he’s lying down.
Remington had hoped the man would trip over the fallen tree the way he had, but coming in several feet further to the south, he misses it completely.
—You see him?
—Not yet.
—Just keep moving toward us.
Similar Books
