Double Exposure Read Online Free PDF

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    S oft, 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.
    I ncapable 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