Deep Shadow

by Randy Wayne White

  Pistol was getting mad, which broadened the vowels of his Midwestern accent. “You got a hearing problem, mister? I want those goddamn truck keys!”

  When Arlis signaled me with a slight shake of his head—Don’t cooperate—the man with the rifle, Perry, decided to demonstrate that his partner was serious. He crow-hopped toward Futch and used the rifle butt to spear him behind the ear. The sound of wood on bone was sickening.

  Arlis buckled forward and fell. Because his hands were taped behind him, he couldn’t break his fall. He landed hard, face-first, on limestone.

  I tossed my fins onto shore and slogged faster toward Arlis, ignoring shouts—“Stop right there, Jock-o!”—as I used my peripheral vision to process details about the gunmen. I had to read the situation fast and accurately or we would all die, Tomlinson and Will included.

  Both men had the bony, wasted look of hitchhikers. The type you see at intersections, holding signs, their displaced expressions as masked as their egos. They had feral, gaunt faces. Long Elvis hair matted from sleeping on cardboard; clothes from some Salvation Army box or maybe pilfered from a trailer-park laundry.

  Look into their faces, and I suspected that I would see interstate highways. I would see random crimes.

  Random. That was my quick read. Stray dogs in primate bodies. It insinuated a pointless wandering, a string of indifferent outrages. They struck me as loners who had lived their lives in corners but who lacked some basic human component that drives others to seek bottom in an attempt to change.

  My mind shifted to the recent murders in Winter Haven, remembering details I’d heard at the marina. Winter Haven was forty miles north. The newscaster, though, had reported that police had caught the killers near Atlanta, driving the maid’s car.

  Suddenly, I was unconvinced.

  What were the odds of running into the killers? The astrology crowd does not believe in chance intersectings and random meetings. But here, in these two men, was an illustration of randomness incarnate.

  They were cons, or ex-cons, I decided. And desperate. They were on the run from prison or from the Winter Haven killings and had bush-whacked to this remote area to hide. Why else were they willing to shoot two men for the keys to a truck?

  More than willing. They were eager, in fact. That was evident, too. I perceived it in Perry’s brittle movements, his twitching impatience. He had used the rifle butt on Arlis’s head with an explosive, joyous abandon. I would be next, if I gave him a reason.

  Pistol was the mouthpiece, I decided. Perry was the killer.

  When I got to Arlis, I knelt beside him. He was trying to roll onto his back. The skin on his forearms felt loose, paper-thin, as I lifted him to his knees, then helped steady him on his feet. The rifle butt had dented the bone below his ear, blood was flowing.

  Arlis is seventy, but he had never showed—or acted—his age. Until now. The man moved with a weary, testing fragility. But the fire inside him was still burning. It was in his expression, visible in his eyes. His eyes were pale, smoldering and resolute. They communicated more than an apology when I looked into his face. Arlis Futch was furious—furious at his captors and at himself.

  It gave me a little boost.

  Arlis spit, then spit again, hacking sand from his ruined mouth. “That son of a bitch,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Cut me loose, Doc. I’d trade ten years at Raiford for ten minutes alone with this Yankee spawn.” He stared at the men, talking loud enough for them to hear.

  It earned Arlis a burst of jittery laughter. “Whoa, listen to Grandpa! Still talking like a hard-ass!”

  Perry, with the rifle, wasn’t feeling playful. “What do I care how he talks? He keeps yapping, I’ll do it again!”

  Perry couldn’t stand still. His eyes were moving, checking the horizon, scanning the sky. He reminded me of a rodent watching for hawks.

  Pistol wouldn’t let it go. “Grandpa, maybe I should make you drop your pants. You get sassy again, I’ll spank your ass good. How’d you like that?”

  More laughter.

  I caught Arlis when he lunged toward Pistol. There wasn’t time to let him calm down, so I gave him a little shake, and said into his ear, “Listen to me. We’ve got other problems. Tomlinson and Will are stuck down there. They’re alive, but they’re under a ton of rock.”

  It stunned him. Because the information required Arlis to think, it displaced his anger.

  “They’re trapped?”

  “Maybe in a crevice. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. I tried digging, but we need to rig the jet pump.”

  “How deep?” Arlis was favoring his left shoulder, I noticed. Maybe he’d busted a collarbone when he fell.

  I said, “Fifteen, twenty feet maybe. Definitely less than thirty.”

  He understood the significance. “They got a chance, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Pistol didn’t like us whispering. He was shouting at us, telling me to get away from Arlis. He told me to stop with the talking and do what I was told.

  I ignored him. Kill us now, kill us later—it was Pistol’s choice. I had to make things happen fast or there was no hope of freeing Will and Tomlinson.

  Arlis whispered, “How much air?”

  “Twenty minutes, a little more. Depends. There’s a chance they found an air pocket. It’s unlikely that deep, but I guess it’s possible.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “How bad are you hurt? That eye looks bad.” I tried to cup the man’s face in my hands and check his pupils. He pulled away as I said, “You might have a concussion, too. You need to lay down and get your legs elevated.” I glanced at the men, thinking, Give me one opening. Just one.

  Arlis ignored me as he returned his attention to the gunman. He said softly, “Did you read about the five people murdered up near Orlando? A grove owner, the television said. Plus the maid and her three kids. They were shot and stabbed, I read. I think these are the birds.”

  I didn’t want him to see how worried I was. “Good,” I said. “Then that means the cops are already looking for them. Choppers will be flying over. We might need a chopper to transport our guys to the hospital, once we get them out.”

  “If that’s good,” Arlis replied, “I don’t know the meaning of bad.”

  Arlis’s hands and his injuries told a story. His wrists weren’t taped or tied, as I’d assumed. They were tie-wrapped. Earlier, I’d seen a bag of industrial-sized tie wraps in the back of his truck. I thought about it as I let the two men watch me take my knife from its scabbard and cut Arlis free.

  While I was underwater, Pistol and Perry had surprised Futch—possibly spooking crows from the trees as I’d surfaced earlier. They had a gun. The cheap little Hi-Point pistol, black on silver. They’d used it to overpower Arlis before trying to steal his vehicle. The Winchester had been inside. Probably a couple of boxes of cartridges under the seat, too, knowing Arlis. Plus our phones and the radio.

  Arlis had put up a fight, obviously. So the men had tie-wrapped his wrists before continuing their search for the keys. I wondered what else they’d found in the vehicle.

  “Jock-a-mo, I’m tempted to shoot you in the ass right now, just for shits and grins. You don’t follow orders very well, do you?”

  The men had been yelling at me, telling me to leave Arlis tied. I had continued to ignore them, but now I wondered if maybe I’d pushed the envelope too far. As I sheathed the knife, I gave Pistol my full attention. He was edging toward the lake, probably to change his line of fire. I guessed he was thinking about pulling the trigger, giving it serious consideration. Perry had upstaged him, clubbing Arlis, then I had to add to the insult by ignoring Pistol’s orders. Maybe Pistol wanted to prove he was a tough guy, too.

  I called, “What the hell’s wrong with you two? Why beat up an old man?”

  Arlis made an indignant guttural noise as Pistol replied, “The keys, Jock-a-mo. How many times I gotta say it? You find us the keys, we’ll stop beating on Grandpa.”

  I straighten
ed and looked at them both. “My name’s Ford. This is Captain Arlis Futch. We don’t have the truck keys. You want them?” I motioned to the lake. “They’re down there.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  I said, “I can get them. Ten or fifteen minutes underwater, that’s all I need. One of my friends has them in a pouch.”

  It was a lie. I had no idea where Futch had hidden the keys, but I knew they weren’t in the lake—not with Tomlinson and Will, anyway.

  I’d told the two that I could retrieve the keys because I wanted them to believe that we had something of value to trade. I also wanted to establish our identities as individuals. Armies depersonalize the opposition for a reason. Criminals do the same. It bypasses the genetic restraints that make killing taboo.

  If Arlis had guessed correctly about these two, however, it was wasted effort. If they’d already murdered five people, two more wouldn’t bother them a bit.

  Pistol had stopped moving. He was staring at me as he evaluated what I’d said about the keys. The man with the rifle, Perry, was thinking about it, too. “Shit, King. You believe him?”

  “Shut up. Give me a minute.”

  King.

  So they were Perry and King, a pack of two. King, with the pistol, was the alpha male. Perry, the tagalong, had been gifted with the stolen Winchester, but he wasn’t beyond thinking for himself or doubting his partner’s judgment. Perry had his own agenda, and a brittle impatience. King irritated him, I could tell.

  The two men had somehow stumbled onto us . . . or possibly they had been watching us from the beginning, hiding in the trees. It was risky for the two of them, armed with only a pistol, to attempt to overpower the four of us. So they had waited, trying to time it right.

  Once three of us were underwater, King and Perry had moved in fast and hard to steal the truck, intending to make their escape before the scuba divers surfaced—and possibly after killing Arlis.

  But there had been a snag. Arlis had somehow managed to hide the keys before they got to him. And he had refused to talk—so they had beaten him. Now the men were stuck with another crime on their hands and nothing to show for it but a Winchester and whatever they had pilfered from the truck.

  The truck was parked in the shade of a cypress tree but still visible to a low-flying police chopper. If this became a crime scene, and if King and Perry couldn’t get away from the area in a hurry, they were screwed.

  But we were in a jam, too, and they knew it. They had heard me calling to Arlis, telling him we needed help. The men had seen the extra air bottles and the truck filled with gear. They had probably already robbed our duffel bags, containing wallets, glasses and cell phones.

  Three divers had gone into the water but only one had returned. They knew I had to cooperate or my pals were goners.

  King said to me, “You’re in no position to get tricky, Jock-a-mo.”

  I looked from King to the truck, then at the sky, as if there might be a helicopter approaching. I allowed my expression to tell him, Neither are you.

  Pointing the rifle at me, Perry said, “I got a bad feeling about this dude. He’s trouble. Look at how he’s acting. Why waste time talking to the asshole?”

  King didn’t answer immediately, and Perry lowered the rifle as he patted his breast pocket, then his pants. “Shit,” he added, eyes shifting to the sky. “I’m out of cigarettes.

  I stepped away from Arlis, creating some distance between targets. “If I had the keys,” I said, “don’t you think I’d tell you? I’ve got two friends down there, trapped under some rocks. There was a landslide, and I need to get them out before their air runs out. Let us rig the equipment we need and I’ll bring you the keys. You can have the truck. We’ll find our own way home.”

  King said, “That simple . . .”

  “No,” I said, “but it’s possible.”

  “How stupid you think I am?”

  I said, “Not stupid enough to kill two people, then try and hike out of a place like this. Or kill four people—that’s the way a judge will see it if my friends die down there.”

  In the hush of twittering birds and wind, I nodded toward miles of palmetto scrub, seeing a blue ridge of trees on the horizon and a couple of miniature radio towers. “It took us more than two hours to cut our way in here,” I said, “and we were riding in a truck.”

  King said, “Listen to this guy!,” trying to laugh.

  Perry said, “Maybe we should. We need those damn truck keys, man. He’s right about that.”

  King was looking at me, holding the pistol at his side. “I heard someone call you Doc. You’re no doctor. Maybe a cop. Or—you know what you look like? A teacher I had in middle school.” It was spooky the way the man was staring at me.

  “Does it matter? I’m trying to be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable, huh . . .”

  It took some effort not to check my watch. I could feel the minutes ticking away. “I’m not a cop or a teacher. I’m a marine biologist, that’s why we’re here.”

  Perry surprised me by asking, “You went diving in that lake to look at fish and bugs and stuff, huh?”

  “Fish, yes.”

  “Did you see anything big when you were underwater? Really big, I mean. A shark, maybe, like the one in the movies? Only not as long.” It was an odd question, but the man had asked for a reason, I felt certain. His intensity told me that he’d seen something in the lake. What?

  I said, “Nothing bigger than a three-foot gar.” I was watching his reaction. He’d probably seen one of us—Tomlinson, Will or me—beneath the surface and imagined he was seeing something else.

  Perry was shaking his head, his expression saying No, what he’d seen wasn’t a yard-long fish.

  For King’s benefit, I added, “In sinkholes like this, there are a lot of bass, sunfish, bream—all the typical species. But I might have seen a couple of crystal darters, too. They’re rare. Nothing bigger than the gar, though.” I wanted to convince the alpha male that I was a biologist, not a cop.

  It made me uncomfortable the way King was looking at me. The man was squinting, not smiling, seeing me but seeing something else, too. Something in his brain maybe.

  Turns out the possibility of me being a cop wasn’t what bothered him.

  King said, “This teacher I’m talking about, he was the world’s biggest prick.”

  Back on the teacher again. The teacher had done something to insult King or humiliate him, apparently, and I resembled the man.

  I thought, Damn it, and peeked at my watch. Tomlinson and Will had now been underwater for forty-six minutes. They had thirteen or fourteen minutes of air remaining, plus another couple of minutes for Tomlinson if he was able to use his spare emergency reserve bottle and maybe ten minutes for Will because I’d rigged his tank with a larger bottle.

  I tried to appear unconcerned as I listened to King say, “A couple of days ago, I was telling Perry about this teacher I’m talking about. I told Perry, ‘Man, I’d love to get my hands on that ass-wipe teacher.’ Isn’t that what I said?”

  Perry was busy shouldering the rifle, checking the horizon, still scanning the sky. He replied, “Whatever.”

  “Seriously. I don’t want Jock-o to think I’m lying. Trust is so damn important in a partnership. That’s what he’s offering us: a chance to be partners.”

  The man’s sarcasm implied intelligence, and I began to hate him for his plodding indifference. King was smart enough to know that my friends were running out of time. He was enjoying it, making me squirm.

  Perry said, “Make up your mind. If you want to do these guys, fine. Let’s finish it and get moving. But this standing-around-doing-nothing bullshit is driving me nuts.” His hand moved to his pockets again, seeking cigarettes.

  Ten seconds, fifteen seconds, King stared at me without blinking. I hoped he was thinking about my proposition, working it through to an obvious option. He could wait until I returned with the other two divers, plus the truck keys, then kill us al
l and escape in the vehicle.

  I didn’t want him to push the scenario any farther, though. Because of that, I took a chance and said, “What do you have to lose? A few minutes underwater, that’s all I need. Let me change bottles. You can take off in the truck when I get back.”

  King said, “Why the hell would anyone take keys underwater? The damn truck’s got electric windows, it’s all tricked out. And Grandpa was driving. That doesn’t make any sense, Jock-o.”

  So they had been in the trees, watching us when we arrived.

  I said, “Captain Futch was driving, but he doesn’t own it. It’s my buddy’s truck. He’s got the keys in a waterproof pocket”—I opened a Velcro pocket on my BC to validate the lie—“they’re built into the vests. That’s better than surfacing and finding your truck gone.”

  Perry muttered, “Goddamn it!,” as I continued, saying, “Half an hour at the most—any longer, my friends will be dead, anyway.”

  As the words left my mouth, I realized it was a stupid thing to tell them, but I kept going, adding, “One of the guys trapped down there is a teenage boy. The other’s the laid-back hippie type—he’s the one who owns the truck. They’re no threat to you. Give me half an hour, you’ll get your keys. It would take you half a day to hike out of here. There’s no cover, nothing but palmetto scrub.”

  Because I didn’t get an immediate reaction, I added, “Give me thirty minutes. It’s a no-brainer—for anyone with half a brain, that is.”

  That hit a nerve. King took a couple of quick steps toward me, pistol raised, as if imitating Perry, the way he had clubbed Arlis. But then he changed his mind. My knife was still strapped to my calf, and he didn’t want to put himself at risk by getting too close to someone my age, my size, whose hands were free. King was also a coward. No surprise there.

  The man was four paces away when he stopped—a safe distance. He motioned with the pistol. “Take off that vest and throw it over here. I want to see what you got in the pockets. Maybe you’re the one with the keys.”

  I ripped open the Velcro straps, slipped the harness off and tossed the BC toward his feet.