Deep Shadow

by Randy Wayne White

  I told Perry, “This man needs to be treated for shock. He needs water and the first-aid kit.” I turned away, adding, “There’s a first-aid kit in my bag, the one by the lake. Go get it.”

  In the bed of the truck was a toolbox. I rummaged around until I found blunt-nosed pliers. From the back of the cab, I also took a blanket. Perry watched as he returned carrying my canvas bag. Neither he nor King protested when I clipped the tie wraps binding Arlis’s ankles and helped him out of the truck.

  I got the fisherman’s arm over my shoulder, and the two of us staggered several paces to dry ground. When Arlis was on his back, he gave me another private wink.

  In a normal voice I said, “Arlis, can you hear me? You need fluids. Rest a bit, then try to get some water down.”

  The man groaned but didn’t reply.

  I knelt to spread the blanket, then placed bottles of water within reach. I returned to the truck, pretending to palm the pliers. I opened the toolbox, thrust my hand in and then slammed the thing, but in fact I had left the pliers and a small flashlight wedged under Arlis’s shoulder when I’d placed the water next to him.

  Perry didn’t notice. His attention was scattered. Maybe he was crashing from whatever drugs he was using. I didn’t know, I didn’t care. He and King were sloppy. If things went my way, their sloppiness would kill them.

  King had remained near the lake—obeying orders, for once—and now he hollered to Perry, “Get those keys out of the ignition before they try it again. Hear me? Stick them in your pocket, someplace safe. You can kiss and make up with your new playmates later.”

  Perry was watching me as I knelt beside Arlis and opened the first-aid kit. He reached through the truck window, pocketed the keys, then surprised me after a moment by circling the truck and kicking the passenger’s-side fender. Then he yelled, “Shit! I can’t believe this. Why does shit like this always happen to me?”

  It took me a moment to understand why he was mad. Perry was on the opposite side of the vehicle where he could now see the damage close up. It was worse than he’d thought, apparently. I left the first-aid kit open and walked over to take a look.

  The impact with the tree had crushed the front fender and jammed the bumper into the right tire. The tire was shredded, but it appeared that the metal wheel was okay.

  Furious, Perry looked through the passenger window and saw Arlis on the blanket thirty yards beyond, groaning in the shade. He screamed, “You lying old son of a bitch, I’ll kill you for this!”

  I didn’t hurry, but I got to the door as Perry raised the rifle. I stepped in front of the open window, shielding Arlis. “What good will that do?” I said. “He’s probably going to die, anyway, so why risk a murder charge?”

  Perry yelled, “As if it makes any difference now!” He shouldered the rifle for another second before spinning away in frustration. “Shit! Now we’ve got no way out of here. We’re totally screwed.”

  If I didn’t keep Perry under control and on my side, Arlis and I were screwed, too. I had to do something, so I said, “You worry too much. You can still use the truck. Think it through.”

  Perry backed away as I moved closer and knelt beside the damaged fender. “There’s a spare tire under the bed and plenty of tools. All we have to do is hammer the fender out, create some clearance, then we change the tire. It’s no big deal.”

  Perry snapped, “Everything’s easy, the way you talk.”

  I said, “We’ve got to move the truck to solid ground first. Closer to the lake. It’s too soft here for a jack.”

  “That damn old man! I should’ve listened to King.”

  I stood and faced Perry, aware that everything hinged on what transpired during the next few seconds. If Perry sided with King, he would shoot me—or use my own knife—then make sure Arlis was dead, too, before the two of them tried to escape on foot. Perry would do the dirty work while King supervised. It was that kind of partnership.

  Perry took a step closer, the sunlight harsh on his face. The man’s history was there and it was not encouraging. Among the topography of long-gone acne were playground and battle scars and the unsound genetics of too many generations of dropouts, trailer parks and booze. The way his eyes glittered reminded me of glass from the shattered windshield. The sockets of his eyes were bright and empty.

  Perry said to me, “Goddamn it, you knew he had those keys. Didn’t you?”

  Before I answered, I reminded myself of a Tomlinson maxim: People will believe a dozen outlandish lies if the lies are prefaced by a single self-incriminating truth.

  I replied, “That’s right. I knew he had the keys. Not at first, but I knew it before I went back in the water.”

  “It was all bullshit, that business about the keys being underwater with your dead buddies. Wasn’t it?”

  I said, “I just told you it was.”

  “You’re a lying sack of shit, you know that?”

  I said, “I wanted at least one of my friends to get out of here alive. I’d lie to you again if I thought it would bring any one of them back. But it’s too late for that now.”

  King, who had moved close enough to hear, chided, “I don’t want to say I told you so, Perry, but I goddamn well told you so!”

  Perry took a step toward me, but not close enough for me to make a move. He said, “Then you were lying about the gold, too. About what the cops would do and that bullshit about property rights—it was all lies. You didn’t care if the old man took off in the truck and got help ’cause there’s nothing down there to salvage!”

  I watched him pull my heavy survival knife from his belt as his brain built a case against me, the veins in his neck showing, his face a bloated crimson.

  I shrugged, my expression telling him Believe what you want, before I asked, “Then why didn’t I tip off the police?”

  It set him back and he listened to me say, “If I hadn’t told you to put on that vest, they would have seen your tattoos and would have known. Or I could have waved them in. If there’s no gold, why didn’t I?”

  I waited in silence as the two men exchanged looks. In their faces I read frustration and irritation, but they didn’t have an answer.

  After a few seconds, I said, “I’m not lying about the plane or what’s down there on the bottom. It would have been harder for me if Captain Futch had taken off in the truck, sure. But I could’ve hidden my share and come back later. The guy who owns this land will get most of it once the police see what’s down there, but I could’ve stashed away enough to last me a long time.”

  Perry was shaking his head, confused. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “why does this sort of shit always happen to me?”

  “Give me half an hour,” I said, “and I’ll prove it to you. I’ll come back with a significant amount of coins, you’ll see.”

  “Significant? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  I said, “Enough to split three ways. A half million each, maybe more—all I can do is guess. You’ve got to help, though. I need a man in the water and one of you by the generator to keep the intake clear. That was our deal.”

  King yelled, “He’s lying. What are you waiting for, Perry? Do it!”

  Perry snapped, “Why does it always have to be me! If your balls were as big as your mouth, you might be worth a damn.”

  I said, “Perry, he’s the problem and you know it. King knows I’m telling the truth. The gold’s down there. There was no other reason for me not to signal the cops.” I looked toward the lake as I added, “Isn’t that right, King?”

  “You got all the answers, Jock-o. Why bother asking questions?”

  To Perry I said, “Your partner’s afraid. You just nailed it. He’s manipulating you—probably always has. He doesn’t want to go in the water because it’s getting dark. Whenever I mention it, watch his reaction—he’s scared. You could leave here rich. Instead, your partner would rather run.”

  King said, “You think you know so much.”

  I said, “I know what I see.�
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  “I don’t hear Perry volunteering to go in the water, wise-ass.”

  “You’re the expert scuba diver,” Perry countered. “An expert on everything! Hell, I can barely swim a stroke or I’d go in myself. Damn right I would. If it meant getting rich? Hell, I’d do it in a second.”

  I relaxed a little when I heard Perry say that. It was an obvious lie that told me that he had been reeled back into the fantasy I had created.

  I should have stopped there. Instead, I pressed too hard, saying, “It’s up to you. If King doesn’t have the balls, there’s nothing I can do to force him.”

  I looked at the Winchester for a moment, reminding Perry that he could force King into the water, before adding, “But if you pull the plug now, we all leave here empty-handed. Only difference is, I might get the chance to come back. You two won’t.”

  Once again the two men traded looks, but it was a different sort of exchange. I could see in their faces that I had screwed up. I had been a little too smooth, too eager. I had talked too much—a manipulator’s red flag on both sides of a prison wall.

  King said, “Real-l-ly,” in a sarcastic way. I watched him take his time as he walked down the embankment from the lake, his eyes moving from Perry to me, then to Arlis as he approached the old fisherman on the blanket.

  For a few seconds he stood over Arlis, who was on his back pretending to be unconscious. King nudged Arlis with his foot, then looked at me, smiling. He maintained eye contact as he suddenly bounce-stepped and kicked Arlis hard in the thigh.

  How Arlis managed not to respond, I don’t know. His only reaction was a soft, sleepy moan.

  I yelled, “Knock it off!,” and started toward King. The man palmed the pistol, waiting for me, his face registering an exaggerated indifference until I got within ten yards.

  “You can stop right there, Jock-o,” King said, lifting the gun to chest level. “Perry? Am I allowed to offer you another little piece of advice? With your permission, of course.”

  Perry said, “Goddamn it, King, all I want is a chunk of that money and to get the hell out of here. I don’t want any trouble between us.”

  “We don’t have any trouble, partner.” King smiled. “Everyone pisses on their own boots occasionally. Mr. Smart-ass here, he’s the one to blame.”

  Perry said, “But why not at least give it a try, man? Let this asshole go down and swim around on the bottom while we fix the truck. Those cops ain’t gonna give up looking for us and you know it. We need money, man!”

  King nodded, thinking about it. He said, “That’s right, we do. I can’t argue with that one.”

  “He says it’ll take half an hour? What’s a half hour matter? It’ll give us time to change that tire.”

  King leaned his head back, squinting as he smiled at me, and said, “Okay—Jock-o, looks like you win,” but his expression said just the opposite. King was back in charge now and he stared at me until he was sure I knew it.

  “So how about we handle it like this,” King said to Perry. He backed away from me until he was next to Arlis, then swung the pistol toward Arlis’s head. “How about we make Professor Smart-ass get down on his belly so we can tie him up nice and tight? Just until we get the truck working. How’s that sound to you, Per?”

  Perry replied, “Wait, you mean? I don’t know.”

  “The darker it is, the better it is for us. Unless you’d rather listen to Dr. Wise-ass here.”

  “I don’t give a shit about him. Whatever you say, man.”

  “Good,” King said. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable with Jock-a-mo swimming around in that lake all by himself while we fix a tire.”

  The last thing I wanted was to be tie-wrapped. Those flexible plastic-and-metal straps were what police used in lieu of handcuffs. Impossible to break, tough to cut.

  I said, “There’s no need for that. I have to rig fresh bottles. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Jock-o, we’re not asking you, we’re telling you. Get down on your belly.”

  When I hesitated, King leaned the gun toward Arlis and yelled, “I didn’t stutter! Do it now—but not here, dumb-ass! Over there by the lake!” He motioned toward the water, a safe distance from Arlis and the truck.

  As Perry bound my wrists, then my ankles, pulling the straps tight, King said to me, “After we get that tire changed, you’re going for a swim. Not me, just you. And you’re coming back with a bunch more of those coins or I’ll put a bullet in the old man’s head.”

  I said, “I already told you, I need help with the hose.”

  “Sorry, Jock-o. That’s the way it is.”

  “But the hose on the jet dredge busted when you—”

  “No more of your damn excuses!” he shouted. “If you don’t come out of that lake with a sackful of coins, you’re better off not coming back at all.” King looked at Perry, his tone confident, as he offered, “Sound fair to you, Per?”

  Perry was pacing, eyes wary as he studied the darkening sky. “Whatever,” he replied.

  SIXTEEN

  IN FEBRUARY, IN FLORIDA, BECAUSE OF DAYLIGHT savings time, it’s already dark by the time most people get home from work. It was dark now as I listened to something large in the distance, crushing its way through bushes, moving toward the lake. It was an animal of some type, I guessed—maybe the gator Arlis had been hunting. The sound came from the cypress swamp, beyond the cattails at the water’s edge, several hundred yards away.

  It had to be big for the sound to carry that far.

  I had plenty of other things to worry about, but I was tied, lying immobile on the ground. There was no way to run if I needed to run, so maybe that’s why the noise captured my attention.

  Initially, the first thing that flashed into my mind was an image of Tomlinson and Will slogging their way back through the swamp from . . . somewhere. But the rhythms didn’t mesh. Plus, it was an absurd hope. I couldn’t see my watch, but the sun had set, it was now full dark, so I knew that at least two hours had passed since Tomlinson, Will and I had gone into the water. It would have required a miracle for them still to be alive, and I don’t believe in miracles.

  A gator? I strained to listen. Maybe . . . but maybe not. I couldn’t be sure of what I was hearing. I’ve spent more time than most people in Florida’s wetlands at night, but the methodical crackle of breaking tree limbs and the strange plodding continuity of movement were unfamiliar.

  Arlis would have known. The man was a master bushwhacker, a pro when it came to tracking and hunting, but Arlis was thirty yards away, lying in silence. I had seen him stir only three times—twice to gulp down water, and once to give me a brief, private thumbs-up.

  I managed to roll onto my stomach and lift my head off the ground. My hands and feet were numb because I was tied so tight. The strictures caused my pulse to thud in my ears. The auditory senses are easily confused when there is interference from within, so I gave the animal my full attention.

  Whatever the thing was, it moved slowly, which implied bulk, and with a grinding familiarity with the area. Then abruptly the thing stopped and produced a new sound—a rhythmic, ratcheting noise, like metal claws scraping on rock.

  Strange. What I was hearing wasn’t human, that was for sure. Sane people don’t hike around Florida’s swamps at night. It had to be an animal. The list of possibilities was long, though, so I finally decided yes, it was probably an alligator—and a very, very large one.

  In a way, having something new to think about was a relief.

  Prior to focusing on the strange noise, I had spent thirty miserable minutes unable to move my arms or legs because King, with Perry’s help, had strapped my hands to the band around my ankles. They’d pulled the wraps so taut that my back was bowed, as I rolled from one shoulder to the other in an attempt to keep blood circulating.

  “Hog-tied,” King had termed it, taking obvious pleasure in my pain. He’d also given me a private elbow to the kidneys or my ear whenever I winced or grunted in protest. As a final gesture of conte
mpt, he had tossed a couple of packs of MRE crackers close enough for me to get to—if I was willing to chew open the wrappers with my teeth and eat off the ground.

  I was willing. I needed fuel and I knew it.

  When the two men left to work on the truck, I had inchwormed closer to the lake, trying to find a more comfortable spot, a place where limestone didn’t jab my bare legs and arms. Such a place didn’t exist, however, so I had willed myself to relax as best I could and then comforted myself by devising violent strategies.

  Sooner or later, Perry and King would have to cut me loose. Sooner or later, I would look into King’s eyes. I would remind him of the games he’d played while my best friend and a teenage boy died. Ideally, it would happen after I had dealt with Perry. Perry was the killer. But it was King who controlled Perry’s trigger finger.

  After a while, as I lay there, my mind shifted to my laboratory on Sanibel Island and to the little community of Dinkin’s Bay. If I survived, I would have to return and share the news that Tomlinson and Will weren’t coming home. It was among the most painful obligations I’d ever had to consider.

  Death is difficult only for the living, and news about Tomlinson would shake the island. It would reverberate up and down the coastline, casting a wide gray wake. The news would, I believed, cause many of our friends to inspect their own frail realities. Even the strongest of them would question the inevitable losses, the pointless tragedies, that we all endure. The saddest of human refrains is also an imminently rational question: What is the point of it all?

  Tomlinson was one of those rare people who, by virtue of his own contradictions, made peace with that question even though he was unable to provide a sensible answer. Tomlinson had bridged absurdity and reason. He was a neurotic oddball, brilliantly naïve, a spiritual beacon and a respected teacher, even though he possessed the morals of a rabbit and the sensibilities of a blue-water bum. The man was blissfully independent yet a hopeless addict—addicted less to recreational chemicals than to a relentless hunger for life, and to friends, parties, women, salt water and all things that floated.