Deep Shadow df-17

by Randy Wayne White

  I knelt, popped the air bottle free of the vest, then ripped open a Velcro pocket. I flipped one gold coin toward King’s feet but kept the other.

  Perry said, “No shit! How many did you find down there?,” as he scrambled to get to the coin while King stared at me.

  I stared back. “Not nearly as many as I could have. Some idiot screwed up the jet dredge when he yanked it out of my hands. Guess who?”

  Perry’s eyes moved to King as King told me, “I was getting bored. What can I tell you?” Then he said, “If there’s so much of the stuff, why’d you come back with just two of these little beauties? And no gold bars.”

  I said, “You. You’re the reason. You caused another landslide with your screwing around, playing games with the dredge. Now the whole bottom’s changed. Most of the coins are under a bunch of rock. Same with the bodies of my friends—including the one who has the keys to the truck.”

  “Bullshit!”

  I said, “I couldn’t agree more—but it’s your bullshit, King, and I’m sick of it. You want to leave here with a share of what’s down there? You want to take the truck and drive out? Then you’d better stop screwing around. All I want is you two assholes out of my life.”

  As King smiled and said, “Assholes, huh?,” Perry snapped at him, “Shut up and let the dude talk.”

  I said, “Why bother? He’s not going to listen. I want to finish what we’re doing and go our separate ways. No more of your partner’s asinine stunts, okay?”

  Perry was paying attention. He gave King a look as he said, “The dude’s right. I saw your bullshit fisherman act. You need a job in the circus, numbnuts. Nothing but hicks in the audience because who else would want to watch?”

  King attempted to laugh it off, but his face showed a childish irritation, eager to engage, but he was also unsettled by Perry’s assertiveness. The guy was afraid of his jittery partner, I could see it—a recent development, I guessed, in what had been a one-sided partnership.

  There had to be a reason. The murders in Winter Haven maybe. Or maybe King had learned something about Perry while they’d killed five innocent people. More likely Perry had learned something about King.

  Perry said, “Goddamn it, I want the money that’s down there and I want the truck. So shut your mouth and listen to what the man has to say.”

  I had turned my back to them, rearranging my gear, pretending to be very busy and in a hurry. But I wasn’t. Not now. Sunset was a little after six—only half an hour away.

  After a long silence, Perry said, “You got more air tanks, right? Fix yourself up another tank of air or whatever it is you need. This time, when you go down, you won’t have no problems. I promise. Deal?”

  I stood and turned. “Cut Captain Futch loose and we’ll take it from there. That’s the only deal I’ll make.”

  King said, “Tough guy like you, what’s it matter? You already screwed up and got two of your girlfriends killed. Third time’s a charm, haven’t you heard?”

  I behaved as if King was invisible and spoke only to Perry, “The old man’s hurt too badly to be a threat to you. With a head injury like that, he could aspirate and die. There’s no way for him to move, or even roll over, because his hands are tied behind him.”

  Perry said, “Aspirate? . . . Well, yeah, I guess he could,” not sure what the word meant, as King cut in, “How about I just shoot you in the goddamn knee unless you hand over those keys! I’ll give you exactly one minute.”

  I continued speaking to Perry. “Your pal’s not very bright. Haven’t you figured that out yet? You could drive out of here a wealthy man. But instead you’re letting him do your thinking for you.” I shrugged, my expression saying It’s your choice, not mine.

  “He’s a fucking genius, just ask him,” Perry replied, and I noted the subtle way Perry had turned, the rifle now pointing in King’s direction.

  I found a mesh dive bag and held it up for Perry to see before tossing it toward him. “Because of the second landslide, most of the plane wreckage is covered up. That fisherman stunt cost us all a lot of time.”

  King made a whining groan of protest as I continued, “The cargo’s scattered all over the bottom of the lake now. But if we do this right, and if your buddy stops clowning around, I’ll fill that bag with whatever I can find and surface with the keys. But it’s going to take me at least an hour—and I can’t do it by myself. Not now.”

  King started to say something but Perry silenced him with a look. “What do you want us to do?”

  I said, “Start by cutting the captain loose. I think he’s dying. At least let him die with his hands free. He needs water, too. There’s a bunch in the cooler—and I’m going to make a place for him to lie down. Under one of those trees would be good.”

  “If we do that, then what?”

  I said, “One of the guys on the bottom—the guy who has the keys—his body’s under about a ton of limestone. It would be better if I had a second diver with me. I could use the jet dredge while he moves rocks and keeps the hose from kinking.”

  Perry said immediately, “Numbnuts here—he’ll do it.”

  “The hell I will!” King snapped. His expression read Are you crazy? He was looking westward where light was congregating in a late-winter sky, the sun transitioning from silver to bronze.

  I said, “I wouldn’t trust him with me underwater even if he was willing to do it. But I’ve got to have someone on the inner tube to feed me hose when I need it. Your partner’s already proven he can’t handle the job. Without someone helping me from the surface, I can’t get the keys. And you can forget about more gold.”

  “It’ll be different, this time,” Perry replied, staring at King as he raised the barrel of the Winchester. “This time, there’ll be no more of his stupid tricks.”

  King said, “Jesus Christ, it’ll be dark in a few minutes—I froze my ass off in there last time! Jock-a-mo’s lying, you can’t tell? Let’s send his ass back in there for the keys, then get the hell out of here. A hundred grand, maybe—that’s how much we got already, counting the extra coins. Let’s move!”

  King, the invisible man, that’s how he had to feel now because Perry wouldn’t look at him, either.

  “Go cut the old man loose,” Perry ordered. “Just his hands, not his feet. No, wait—” I watched the man pat his pockets, not looking for cigarettes this time. “I’ll do it, I’ve got the knife. You keep an eye on Ford.”

  King raised his voice, saying, “Who the hell died and pinned a crown to your ass?”

  Perry, with his nervous eyes, didn’t answer, something else now on his mind. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, looking above my shoulder at the horizon. Then he said, “Son of a bitch! That’s a helicopter! A helicopter coming this way!”

  King stood straighter. He could see it, too.

  I had heard a wisp of a chopper’s thumping minutes before, but now I could see the aircraft flying toward us, low and fast, from the northeast. If it stayed on course, the crew couldn’t miss seeing the truck, and us.

  King was already striding toward the trees to take cover, but Perry appeared frozen, angling his rifle toward the chopper as if thinking about trying to shoot the thing out of the sky.

  I said, “Don’t pull that trigger or you’re screwed.”

  “What?”

  I said, “They won’t bother us. Just do what I say.”

  Perry’s eyes were locked on the helicopter. “Those are cops. I can tell by the color. We’re already screwed! Goddamn you, King, this is all because of you!”

  Now he was shouldering the rifle, only four long strides away from me. Instinct told me I could get to Perry before he swung the rifle in my direction, but that’s not what I wanted—not with the chopper crew soon close enough to make out details. In my mind, a chopper was no longer a rescue vehicle, it was a liability. The helicopter carried potential witnesses. With witnesses around, I would be denied my time alone with Perry and King.

  Talking louder, I said to Perry, “
Do what I tell you to do and they’ll leave us alone. Goddamn it, listen to me!”

  Perry snapped out of his trance and turned, his face showing confusion.

  I told him, “Hide that rifle. Slide it under the truck or toss it into the bushes.”

  King, who had pocketed the pistol, called, “Don’t be a dope, Perry. Jock-a-mo’s setting us up.” He was talking over his shoulder, moving faster toward the trees. Leave Perry to confront police, that’s what he was thinking. King was out of here.

  I picked up the BC and the spent air bottle and walked toward Perry, saying, “Take your shirt off and start walking this stuff toward the lake. Do it now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Take your shirt off.”

  “You’re crazy, dude. Let them see me? You don’t know what they’re gonna charge us with, man. You got no idea of the kinda shit that’s about to go down. If you knew, you wouldn’t—”

  “Convicts on the run don’t take time out to go scuba diving,” I told him. “Listen to what I’m saying! They won’t find out who you are unless you give them a reason to land.”

  The chopper had spotted us. I watched the craft veer two degrees, drop its nose and accelerate directly at us. Perry looked at the rifle, then lowered it before looking at me. “Okay, okay. Like I’m a tourist or something,” he said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “If you don’t run,” I said, “they’ve got no reason to be suspicious.”

  He replied, “I get it. Yeah . . . maybe . . . Maybe that’s smart.”

  Perry hid the rifle by holding it parallel to his right leg until he was close enough, then slid it under the truck. I left the BC with the bottle standing upright as Perry removed his shirt—maybe a mistake because of his prison-white skin, tattoos showing, but there was no going back now.

  As Perry carried my tank and BC toward the lake, I removed another bottle from the back of the truck and the canvas bag I usually carry on my boat, the one loaded with emergency gear. King and Perry had already pawed through the stuff, but it looked like everything I had packed was still there.

  When the chopper was high above us, the pilot hovered, taking his time descending just in case we were armed and dangerous. The craft was painted government green on white with a big golden sheriff’s star aft of the cabin. Inside, I could see the pilot plus two cops—maybe wearing tactical gear, maybe not—but one of them was using binoculars from beneath his flight helmet. I waved at the helicopter as I said to Perry, “Put on that vest. Pretend you’re adjusting it.”

  The man’s tattoos were garish red and green on his mushroom skin, a dragon covering his back, a snake crawling across his shoulders.

  Not looking at me, Perry called back, “I’m wearing pants, for chrissake. They’re not gonna believe I’m going for a swim wearing pants and shoes.”

  The chopper was dipping lower, and I was smiling up at the cops as I said to him, “You want them to ID that ink on your back? Put on that damn vest before they see it.”

  I was making sense—I could see the man’s brain working it through. He picked up the BC, saying, “Why the hell are you trying to help us? Dude, that’s what I don’t understand.”

  I didn’t reply. By the time the chopper was close enough for us to feel the wind wake, Perry had the BC on and was fiddling with the straps.

  “Look at them and wave,” I told Perry, suddenly not so sure this act was going to work, mostly because of King, who, I now noticed, was crouched down beneath trees, hiding near the truck. Behave as if you’re guilty, no matter what the crime, and cops will react as if they are dealing with killers.

  In this case, they were.

  Because of the thick palmettos, there wasn’t a clean LZ that would allow an easy landing, but if they saw King they would call for backup, then stand watch until help arrived.

  I returned my attention to the gear bag I was holding as if getting ready for another dive, but I used peripheral vision to watch as the helicopter dropped low enough that cypress trees began thrashing. King was on his belly now, hands protecting his head from debris. Look straight down, the pilot might be able to see him.

  Idiot.

  The chopper looked like an executive Bell, two big windows on the port and starboard sides. I wasn’t surprised that it was equipped with a PA system. I watched one of the cops lift a microphone to his lips before his voice boomed, “Orange County Sheriff ’s Department. Are you men okay?”

  I let the cop with the binoculars see me nod. I held a fist in the air, a big thumbs-up.

  The voice asked, “Do you have permission to be on this property?”

  I doubted if they cared. There was no way the cops could check without landing, and I knew they weren’t hunting for trespassers. It wasn’t a question, it was a test. The man was fishing for a reaction as one of his partners studied us with the binoculars.

  I nodded an emphatic Yes and added another thumbs-up.

  “We’re looking for two male suspects—two men traveling on bicycles. Or maybe on foot by now. They’re both about the same height and build. About six-three, a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Have you seen anyone in the area who matches that description?”

  As if asking Perry a question, I said to him, “Act like you’re thinking about it, then shake your head no.”

  I noted that Perry’s hands were shaking as he knelt over the air bottle and then reached for the regulator hose. He didn’t look up as he replied, “We’re fucked. I should’ve kept the goddamn rifle!”

  I said in a pleasant voice, “Shut up and don’t panic. You’re okay,” then looked up at the chopper. I shrugged and shook my head, No, my expression telling the crew Sorry, we can’t help you.

  “If you see two males who fit that description—if you see anyone suspicious—please call nine-one-one. Don’t try to confront them, don’t attempt to follow. Do you understand? These men are armed and extremely dangerous.”

  I nodded another emphatic yes as I watched the cop with the microphone listen to something the man behind him was saying. Again, the voice echoed down through the chopper wash. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  I nodded.

  The two men conversed again before the PA boomed, “It’s late in the day to be diving. Is there some kind of trouble?”

  As I shook my head no I touched my watch, then I pointed to the sun. Next, I pointed at the lake. I punctuated the response by flashing an OK with thumb and forefinger, then another thumbs-up.

  They could interpret that any way they wanted. The cops were trained in air recovery, which meant they knew something about diving. Novice divers often do their first night dive in the safe confines of a quarry. Maybe they would make the connection.

  They did.

  The PA system boomed, “Have a good day, gentlemen, but stay on your toes. The guys we’re after could be somewhere in this area.”

  I offered a final thumbs-up, feeling the binoculars fixed on us, seeing the pilot inspect our scuba gear strewn around the truck, as the chopper tilted, then lifted slowly. The noise of the rotor blade rumbled louder as the aircraft spun sharply to port, then accelerated away.

  Not moving, I said to Perry, “Keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Do it until they’re out of sight.”

  I gave it a few beats before I stood, turned and yelled to King, “Stay where you are, you dumb-ass. Don’t move! This is the second time you’ve screwed up—and it had better be the last!”

  When the chopper was gone, I walked toward the truck to check on Arlis. King emerged from the trees. He held the pistol in his right hand, not smiling. His face was different—a blanched, wide-eyed look that told me I’d finally gotten to him. The manipulator had been manipulated.

  King hollered, “No more of your smart-ass remarks—you hear me, you piece of shit? Mister high-and-mighty! Don’t think the King won’t shoot you ’cause I will.” His voice had a different quality, too. All the smirking subtleties were gone.

  I was thinking, The King, huh?, and ignored him as
he screamed, “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  The real King had finally made an appearance—a fragile ego masked by bluster and all the machinations of a vicious child.

  I didn’t look at him. I continued walking. I thought he might pull the trigger again, but felt confident that he would intentionally miss. Cuban gold pesos and a vehicle—without me, King had no venue of escape.

  From behind, I heard Perry gliding up beside me, walking fast, saying, “Hey—you gotta answer my question, dude. I want to know. Why’d you do that? You got rid of the cops—why?”

  King heard him as he intercepted us. He was nodding his head, his face was mottled with anger. “There’s something weird going on here, Perry. I don’t like it, man. I don’t trust this dweeb. What he just did makes no sense. Jock-o, what is your story?”

  I said, “I don’t have a story. You’re too dumb to understand it if I did.”

  In the back of the truck was an Igloo cooler. I opened it, took out two bottles of water and turned to Perry. “Captain Futch needs his hands free. Cut him loose. Let me give him some water. I’m not discussing our next move until his hands are free.”

  “You’re not going near the old man,” King snapped. “For all I know, you’ve got the truck keys stashed in your wet suit.”

  I pushed the bottles toward King. “Then you do it, but I’m watching every move you make.”

  I stood near the window as Perry helped Arlis sit, then used my big survival knife to cut the plastic that bound his wrists. The knife was sharp and it took only a swipe. From Arlis, I expected threats and insults, but the man had been paying attention. For an instant, his eyes locked onto mine, and I understood. He was playing a new role now, the role of the injured old cripple. Let them think he was beaten. Arlis was still in the game.

  I said, “Cut his ankles free, too. If he vomits again, he’s got to be able to climb out of the truck.”

  Perry was in charge and he let me know it, saying, “Shut your mouth. Grandpa can puke all he wants, I don’t give a shit. I’m not watching the old bastard every second. His feet stay tied.”