Double Exposure Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 Cannon 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 goddam 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