Deep Shadow df-17

by Randy Wayne White

  I said, “It could have been you instead of Perry.”

  “No way, Jock-o. Some people are born to be snack food, but I’m not one of ’em. Perry lived what we’d call an unhealthy lifestyle. Maybe it made him tasty. But if that slimy son of a bitch had messed with me? We’d be roasting the damn thing’s tail over that fire right now.”

  I didn’t trust myself to respond.

  King motioned with the gun, his eyes nervous as they swung from me to the inner tube. “Move your ass out of there. Lock your hands behind your head and walk toward the fire. There’s something I’m just dying to see.”

  I did it as I calculated my next move, not listening to King, who continued talking to mitigate his nervousness, telling me, “I tried to help ol’ Per, I really did. But there’s only so much a man can do. He’s a murderer, you know. A couple days ago, Perry got drunked up and murdered five people. I tried to stop him because a couple were just kids—he stabbed them to death and then the asshole bragged about it. And I’m pretty sure he raped the girl. Or maybe you already figured that out, you being such a genius.”

  King added the last part so bitterly that I believed he might shoot me in the back, so I said quickly, “I loaded two sacks with coins when I was down there. I found a couple of gold bars, too. I left them in the shallows, though, until we had a chance to discuss it. Just because Perry’s dead—or dying—that doesn’t mean our deal’s off.”

  “Sure you did . . . sure,” King said, letting me talk. I got the impression that, if it wasn’t for the monitor lizard, he would have shot me where I stood, still ankle-deep in water, but he didn’t want to risk searching my body until he was a safe distance from the lake.

  Maybe I was right because when we were close enough to feel the fire’s heat, King said, “Okay. Take off that wet suit. Let’s see what you really found.” As he spoke, he used the flashlight to search along the base of the cypress grove as if expecting to see something, but then he stuffed the light in his pocket and gave me his full attention. “Don’t be shy,” he added. “There’s no one around but just us guys.”

  The coins were in a mesh pocket, near my left armpit, inside the neoprene. He would have to turn the wet suit inside out to find them, which might give me the opening I needed, but I didn’t want to appear too eager.

  I said, “There’s no need to search me, I’ll tell you right now what I’ve got. I’ve got about a dozen coins on me, but there are three, maybe four, hundred more lying out there in bags. Why not do something smart for once in your life, King? Stop acting like a hard-ass. All we have to do is wait for that monitor lizard to clear out. You take your bag of coins, take the truck, too. You’ll leave here a rich man.”

  “A monitor lizard,” he said. “That’s what that thing is? Like those three little bastards we saw earlier. Only the giant economy-sized version.”

  “When the cops show up,” I said, “I’ll blame everything on Perry. Think about it. Why would I want the cops to find you? If they find you, they’ll find out what I took out of that lake.”

  King tilted his head back to smile. “Now, isn’t that sweet of you, making me such a fair offer.” His smile vanished as he pointed the pistol at me. “I’m not going to say it again. Strip off that goddamn wet suit!”

  I reached behind my back to find the zipper lanyard as King continued walking, making a slow circle, until he was on the other side of the fire, safely away from the water’s edge. The positioning provided me with a couple of options—neither of them good—but I would have to choose one soon because the man had made up his mind now. That was apparent. He was going to shoot me. Even with the prescription face mask hanging around my neck, I could read King’s intent in his twitching mannerisms and his nervous smile as he watched me peel the wet suit down around my ankles.

  When I stepped free of the thing, he clicked his tongue and said, “My, my, my . . . Why, look at you, Jock-a-mo! You’d have been real popular back in the joint. I bet you’re a regular lady-killer.”

  I said, “That’s something else we don’t have in common. Do you want to search this thing or not? Here it is.”

  King motioned with the gun. “Kick it over here. I want that fancy night vision thing, too. Take it off.”

  I had been hoping he’d give me a reason to get a hand on my face mask. It was the size and shape of a brick, and the monocular added enough weight to cause serious damage if I got a chance to rifle the thing at his face. As I was removing the mask, though, King told me, “Hold it. Don’t move,” his voice sounding strange enough to cause me to stop what I was doing.

  He was looking toward the lake. When I turned, I understood.

  In the oscillating light of the fire, I could see the Komodo monitor. It was gliding along the rim of the lake, tail ruddering smoothly, as it swam toward the marshy juncture where pastureland became swamp. Perry was in the lizard’s jaws. His body was hanging limp, his eyes open wide and dead, staring up at the stars.

  Behind me I heard King whisper, “Look at the size of that goddamn thing,” and then I heard WHAP!

  It took a microsecond for me to understand that King had just fired at the lizard—fired his last round. I was so shocked that I dropped low even as I saw the slug punch a silver furrow in the water that missed the monitor by yards. How the lizard reacted, I didn’t know or care. I was already turning toward King, my arm drawn back, and I threw the mask so hard that he didn’t have time to flinch before it glanced off his forehead.

  He stumbled backward and fired off another round as I charged toward him, which was even more unexpected because the pistol should have been empty, and I thought, Wrong again, Ford. He had reloaded.

  But it was too late to stop what was happening. I dodged past the fire as King got to one knee, his hand coming up fast, aiming the pistol at my chest, his mouth contorted as if to say something, but then I went airborne, diving toward him, and he fired again. The impact of the bullet that might have hit me, and the impact of me crashing into King were too closely spaced to know if I had been shot, but my hands and brain were still working as I tumbled clear of the gun, then used an elbow to knock the man’s jaw crooked and send him sprawling on his back.

  I rolled to my feet, took a step toward him, hesitated—which was a mistake—and then stopped. Because I’d hesitated, I now had no choice. King’s mouth was bleeding but not badly. He looked dazed, but I had failed to knock him unconscious and he was still holding the pistol. He had fired five times since I had surfaced. If he had reloaded a full six rounds, he still had one round left. And now he was so close that it was unlikely he would miss again.

  “You motherfucker,” he croaked, holding his broken jaw with his left hand. “You don’t feel so goddamn smart now, do you?”

  No, I did not. I felt ridiculous and vulnerable, standing there in shorts, knowing that I had failed once again, and that I was about to be shot by a loser like King—shot for the first time, because I could see no blood when I glanced down at my belly. King was using a small-caliber pistol, though, and it would take more than one round to stop me unless he put a bullet through my head.

  It was another one of those moments—perhaps my last. King would pull the trigger and drop me or within seconds I would have my hands on him and that would be the end of him. Either way, I wasn’t going to stop now.

  I took a step toward him, saying, “Go ahead. But you’d better hit me in the heart,” and I watched him scoot backward on his butt.

  I took another step, as King extended his arm, and I watched him squint one eye closed to fire. But before I could dive for him and before he could pull the trigger, we both heard a rustling noise in the shadows that caused us to pause. King’s eyes swiveled, I turned. We watched a person I recognized step into the circle of firelight. He was sighting down the barrel of the Winchester rifle, taking careful aim at King.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” he told King. “But I will.”

  THIRTY

  WHEN KING SWUNG THE LIGHT AWAY FROM WIL
L Chaser and they heard a man screaming for help somewhere out there on the lake, Tomlinson said to Arlis Futch, not bothering to whisper, “That’s not Doc. That’s not Doc’s voice.”

  Arlis, who was using a cypress stave for support because he felt so sick, took a moment to listen before he replied, “How can you be so sure? It doesn’t even sound human to me.”

  After another moment, though, Arlis’s voice brightened, as he added, “Know who I think that is? I think it’s that bastard Perry. That skinny Yankee scum rifle-whipped me—and his partner kicked me when I was down. What do you think? Maybe that dragon’s got him?”

  Using the walking stick, Arlis limped out of the shadows and peered toward the lake, before he said softly, “My God Aw’mighty. That devil’s finally getting his due.”

  Tomlinson didn’t allow himself to look. He was focused on Will, watching the teenager while his brain translated the boy’s behavior into patterns of thought and motive. Will was on his knees now, the knife in his right hand, his eyes following King as he jogged toward the lake and away from the generator, where the Winchester rifle was braced at an angle—maybe loaded, maybe not.

  Tomlinson didn’t know anything about guns, but he could see the boy’s head swiveling, gauging the distance, and he knew what was in the boy’s mind because Tomlinson could feel rage emanating from Will’s body, a rage that appeared as a red aura, the most potent and dangerous shade in the auric spectrum. Tomlinson had witnessed the phenomenon before, but only rarely—and usually in his friend, Doc Ford.

  Tomlinson called to the boy, “Will! Stay here with Arlis. I’m going to try and find Doc.”

  The boy was crawling toward the generator now but paused long enough to say over his shoulder, “Instead of spying on me, you should open your eyes. Doc’s right out there, swimming for shore.”

  As Tomlinson moved, trying to see, he heard a gunshot . . . then another . . . and then Tomlinson could see Doc, with his hands up, marching toward the beach fire with one of the convicts behind him pointing something at his back. It was a pistol, Tomlinson guessed, although he wasn’t close enough to see. But then his senses sharpened when, abruptly, the screaming coming from the lake stopped, and Tomlinson thought, That must be King. He’s got a gun and he’s going to kill Doc.

  Tomlinson knew he had to do something, but more than Doc’s life was at stake. In a way, Will Chaser’s life was on the line, too. It had been gutsy for the boy to lie so still while King painted him with the flashlight—it was, in fact, a chilling display of nerve and self-control that few people possessed. Tomlinson didn’t doubt Will’s courage, but he feared what might happen if Will got his hands on that gun. In Tomlinson’s mind, the boy was teetering between two worlds—the worlds of darkness and light. Will’s ancestors hadn’t gifted them with a tour of the ancient underworld just to turn the boy into a stone-cold killer . . . or had they?

  The possibility was disturbing to consider, and it gave Tomlinson pause.

  There had been violence done in the lizard’s den—and death, too—violence and darkness that dated back centuries. The aura was there, among the bones and pottery and flint-sharp spear points. And there was no mistaking the scent of death.

  It was a realization that made Tomlinson decide to do something he seldom had the nerve to do. He knew he had to intercede. He didn’t often jump in the path of karma, but sometimes God helped those who helped themselves, and this might be one of those times because the kimchee was really about to hit the fan.

  Will saved my ass at least twice, Tomlinson thought. It’s about time I save his.

  He stood. His eyes were still on Will as he turned to Arlis and said, “Stay here with the boy. I’m going after Doc.”

  Arlis replied, “I hope you grab that Winchester instead of your cell phone,” but Tomlinson didn’t hear him because he was already running, sprinting hard, trying to beat Will to the generator because he was up and running now, too.

  Using the cypress stave to hop toward the campfire, Arlis Futch was thinking, I hope the boy’s got that rifle, not Tomlinson. Tomlinson will get us all killed. We’d all be better off if my finger was on that trigger.

  Arlis could see the shadows of the hippie and the boy creeping up behind the pickup truck, getting closer to the fire, but he couldn’t make out details. He could no longer see Ford and King, either. The truck blocked his view.

  Fifteen yards from the truck, Arlis had to stop for a moment to rest. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to because he felt like he might pass out unless he got some air, and the throbbing headache had started beating again in his temples. It was the ground-glass pain, which told him his brain might explode if he kept going. Worse was the burning sensation in his veins, circulating through his body, making him sick and sleepy. It was poison, Arlis knew, from the lizard, which was a piss-poor way for a Florida boy to die after all the years he had spent hunting the Everglades.

  Arlis thought, I’ve got to get my hands on that by God Winchester before I fall out.

  He had started hopping toward the truck again when he heard WHAP!, a gunshot. Then he could hear the wild sounds of men fighting—a distinctive, out-of-control yelling, plus the smack of flesh hitting flesh. It was familiar to Arlis, having witnessed many fights around the docks, and he had been in a few himself. He began to hobble faster, thinking, Doc’s probably not much of a fighter, but King’s a coward so who knows?

  As Arlis drew closer to the truck, though, he could see that Doc had done okay. King was sitting flat on his ass, with his mouth bleeding, and his face looked crooked like maybe his jaw was busted. Doc hadn’t done a complete job of it, though, because King was still holding that little bitty pistol of his and it was pointing at Doc’s chest.

  Arlis started to call out a warning but then caught himself because he saw Tomlinson and Will Chaser step out of the shadows and into the firelight, and their intentions were plain. They had done a good job of sneaking up, but now instead of just shooting that son of a bitch King when they had the chance they were going to confront him.

  As the two moved closer to the fire, Arlis understood why.

  He was thinking, God Aw’mighty, we’re in trouble now.

  It was Tomlinson who had the Winchester.

  As the hippie leveled the rifle at King, Arlis Futch hurried to catch up before Tomlinson did something stupid or before the hippie’s nerve failed them all.

  THIRTY-ONE

  WHEN TOMLINSON STEPPED CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE fire for both of us to see him, I hoped that King didn’t recognize the uncertainty in my friend’s voice when he said, “I don’t want to kill you. But I will.”

  It was a shock to see Tomlinson after so many hours—and I was relieved, of course—but he wasn’t the man I would have chosen to come walking out of the shadows with a gun. Tomlinson was Tomlinson. He was the lifelong advocate of passive resistance, the prophet of peace, love, harmony and goodwill toward men. There was no doubt that Tomlinson didn’t want to kill King. But did he even have the nerve to pull the trigger? And if he did, what were the chances that he also had the resolve to fire a second time if he missed? As far as I knew, Tomlinson had never fired a weapon in his life, yet he stood there somberly with the Winchester pressed against his left cheek as if he meant to do it.

  I took a step back from King, who was still pointing the pistol at me, and I said, “Let’s all calm down now. This doesn’t have to happen. King? Toss the pistol away. Your partner’s dead, but that doesn’t mean you have to die, too.”

  I had observed panic in King’s face when Tomlinson first appeared, but now I saw the convict’s brain working as he studied him. Tomlinson’s long hair was sticky with mud, a sleeve from his wet suit was missing. He looked pale and shaky in the firelight, about as unimposing as a scarecrow with a toy rifle. King’s reaction was no surprise, nor was the finesse he attempted next.

  Looking from me to Tomlinson, King said, “I think we’ve got ourselves a misunderstanding. I got no intentions of shooting Dr. Ford.
You’re wrong about that. This business isn’t as serious as you think—it doesn’t have to be, anyway.”

  I was thinking, Pull the trigger . . . Pull the damn trigger, hoping for once that it was true that Tomlinson could read my thoughts. If he engaged King in conversation, I knew what King would probably do. He would use it as an opening to put his last round into Tomlinson and then race me for the rifle.

  Tomlinson didn’t pick up on my message, though, because he answered King, saying, “I’m glad to hear that. Lose that gun, brother, and we’ll talk. Talking’s always better. This killing-each-other bullshit is wrong, man, really wrong.” There was a pleading quality in his tone that boosted King’s confidence.

  Now I was thinking, Don’t let him do it!, as King swung the pistol toward Tomlinson and then showed him a crooked smile with his broken jaw, which added a painful articulateness to his speech. “No . . . you put the rifle down first. You seem like a reasonable sort of dude. Personally, man, I hate violence. In fact, toss that rifle into the bushes, just to be safe. I’ll do the same—I promise. Then you can work it out with the King.”

  Tomlinson sounded confused, asking, “The King?”

  “Me,” King told him. “I bet you’re an Elvis fan, too. Aren’t you, now? Admit it.”

  Tomlinson lost his concentration and lifted his cheek away from the rifle stock long enough to say, “Sure, man—‘the King,’ I get it. We’ve got that in common. So why are you still pointing that gun at me?”

  King said it again, “You toss the rifle away first—and hurry up before my finger slips.” He motioned with the pistol toward the shadows, telling Tomlinson that’s where he should toss the Winchester.