Deep Shadow

by Randy Wayne White

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I SWUNG THE SPOTLIGHT FROM THE DROP-OFF TO THE surface several times, not worried about alerting Perry now. In fact, I wanted him to see it. He had been floating up there in the dark for forty minutes, scared and cold, and like a moth he would be attracted to light. The Komodo monitor hadn’t reappeared, but I knew it was somewhere out there in the shadows—just as I also knew that I had only a couple of minutes of air left.

  I had decided there were only two workable options: I could sprint for the surface and then try to beat the animal to shore or I could attempt a diversion of some sort and buy myself a little extra time. I chose the second option. I’m a strong swimmer, but even without the drag created by my BC and tank it was unlikely I could outswim a monitor.

  I had to jettison my gear. As I stripped off my vest, I reviewed the details of a finesse that I hoped was worth a try. What did I have to lose?

  From the pocket of my BC, I took a length of nylon cord that was too long, so I had to double it to make it work. I tied one end to the handle of the spotlight and the other end to my tank harness. Next, I removed enough weight from the vest to hold me fast on the bottom for as long as I needed to stay there. Every few seconds, I interrupted my work to scan the area with the light. Maybe because I was exhausted, or maybe because I was resolute, my hands were as steady as the steady thudding of my own heartbeat. If the monitor caught me before I got to shore, so be it. There was nothing more I could do. Arlis was free at least. The man was hurt, but he was also stubborn, and I knew he would somehow manage to return with help.

  When I was ready, I lifted my BC and tank harness and held them out in front of me like a shield, tethered to the rig only by my breathing hose. Using the spotlight, I did one last slow circle, hoping I would see the monitor . . . and I did. It was at the edge of the drop-off, peering over the limestone rim, watching me.

  I shined the light directly into the monitor’s eyes, but it didn’t spook this time. It stared back at me with two blazing orange mirrors that soon began to undulate, cobralike, so I knew the animal was swimming toward me.

  It approached slowly at first as if hypnotized by the beam, but then its eyes grew incrementally larger as it gained speed. I held my ground, watching as the monitor closed the distance, coming fast now, thrusting hard with its prehistoric tail, creating a trail of silt explosions as it sought maximum speed, vectoring in for the kill.

  I was taking deep breaths, hyperventilating to reduce carbon dioxide in my bloodstream, trying to overoxygenate my lungs for what I hoped happened next. I was working the spotlight with my right hand and I had the vest’s emergency inflation cord in my left. Pull the cord and CO2 cartridges would inflate the BC like a balloon.

  I waited for another long second—the monitor was less than fifteen yards from impact, its bulk casting a shadow on the sand the size of a Cessna, its weight alone enough to snap my spine if it hit me.

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to wait another second. I took a last deep breath. Simultaneously, then, I spit the regulator from my mouth and ripped the emergency cord downward. There was an explosive hiss that snatched the spotlight and the vest from my hands.

  When I felt the rig rocket skyward, I fell back among the rocks, knees against my chest, lead weights on my lap, and I held my breath. I didn’t move. I couldn’t even allow myself to brace for a collision that I knew would preface my last cognitive thoughts.

  There was a rhythmic, crackling silence that I recognized as the flex of muscle fiber as the animal closed on me. My eyes opened. The world was all blackness and shadow, yet I still perceived a deeper, streaming darkness that was the monitor lizard. It soared past me, rocking my body with a shock wave of displaced water. I didn’t allow my head to move, but my eyes followed the shadow upward as it arched toward the surface, chasing the spotlight, which was now spinning wildly beneath the vest, casting a bizarre propeller blur of white that pierced the darkness like random lightning.

  I waited and watched. Methodically, I removed the lead weights from my lap and then activated the night vision monocular, but not the infrared because using the infrared was to invite death. On the surface, I could see a collective, frenzied thrashing that was suggestive of a shark feeding. I didn’t pause to observe. I pushed away from the rocks and swam close to the bottom, following the contour of sand and rock for more than a minute, until I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, and then I surfaced—less than thirty yards from shore, I guessed.

  Sound was suddenly added to the turmoil I had witnessed underwater. I could hear a wild splashing and Perry’s voice screaming, “King! Pull me in! My God . . . King! There’s something out here. Please! King!”

  I didn’t look back. I put my head down and sprinted for shore, taking long, strong strokes and kicking hard with my fins. I could either deal with King on land or risk the monitor coming after me when it was done with Perry.

  It wasn’t a difficult choice to make.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  WHEN KING HEARD A VOICE WHISPERING IN THE shadows of the cypress grove, he figured it was the old man. Gramps had been out there wandering around in the darkness of the swamp, probably lost and scared shitless, and now here he was back again ready to beg for forgiveness. The old fool would expect a share of the gold, too, no doubt—and after he and Perry had done most the work!

  The greedy old ass-wipe.

  Thinking that caused King to frown, as he pulled the little automatic from his pocket and started toward the tree line that lay beyond the truck and the generator and outside the yellow perimeter of the fire he had been tending. He moved slowly because he didn’t like the idea of straying too far from the fire. He had been piling on the wood, building the thing higher and higher, because who knew what kind of animals were roaming around out there in the blackness of stars and wind and trees.

  After what they’d heard—that weird hissing noise—and the size of the thing he’d seen slide into the lake? Man, he couldn’t wait to get back to a decent-sized city.

  What King hoped to see before he walked much farther was the old man stumbling out of the shadows too worn out and hurt to be much trouble now. When that happened, he would . . . do what?

  King had to think about it. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. The pistol was freshly loaded—five rounds in the clip and one in the chamber—and he liked the feel of it, hard and dense in his fingers, and he enjoyed the power it gave him, remembering the way that smart-ass Ford had almost crapped his pants when King had fired a few rounds—three at least—to scare him.

  The first time was the best. Just a few inches to the right and the bullet would have gone into Ford’s thigh or pelvis instead of the fender of the pickup truck. King hadn’t intended to come so close—cheap little automatics weren’t accurate—but that’s the way it had happened. Only a few inches, but what a difference it would have made, which caused King to wonder how that would feel actually shooting a man.

  It would’ve made a hell of a big difference, King thought. Especially a superior-acting dude who reminded him of that ass-wipe science teacher who’d flunked him, which was why he’d had to take the fucking eighth grade all over again.

  Great, King decided, that’s how it would feel to shoot Ford. Maybe it would feel just as good to shoot the mouthy old man. Later, if he had to, he could blame it all on Perry, the born killer.

  Why not?

  Hanging another murder on Perry would be easy enough if the cops near Orlando had done their work and collected DNA from the body of that girl Perry had stabbed to death after they’d both had some fun with her.

  King had played around with the girl, but that’s all. It was Perry who had actually used her while killing her. Judging from the sounds King heard, Perry probably left enough evidence behind to hang himself.

  Perry . . . Perry was a problem. King had been thinking about it as he fed the fire. The man had been dangerous from the start, but now he was crazy, too—mean crazy, with an attitude—so maybe it
made sense to shoot the old man to sort of get used to what it was like killing a person. Practice made perfect, after all. The part King couldn’t figure out, though, was how could he blame Perry for seven murders if the cops found Perry dead with a bullet in him?

  The key to it all, of course, was to end up in Mexico with enough money not to get caught.

  As King neared the pickup truck, he stopped and took a flashlight from his pocket—the bright little light he had stolen from Ford’s bag. He touched the switch, pointed the beam at the base of the tree line and began panning slowly, seeing a miniature forest of ferns and those weird-looking cypress roots poking out of the ground . . . And then he saw something that made no sense and he took a couple of steps closer. Lying in weeds near a cypress tree was what looked sort of like the body of a man lying flat, facedown—a young man, maybe, but not the old man—which surprised King and caused him to raise the pistol fast, ready to fire.

  That’s when he heard a voice behind him screaming, “King! Help me! Kinnnggggggg!”

  King spun toward the lake. It had to be Perry, but it didn’t sound like his voice because the screaming was so wild and shrill, and now King could hear frenzied splashing, too.

  He took another quick look at the tree line, where the man’s body lay—if it was a body—immobile in the bright beam of the flashlight. It had to be the old man, he decided. Yeah, that’s who it had to be—Gramps . . . probably almost dead after having groaned for help, which would have explained the whispering he had heard.

  King thought, Good!, as he turned and began running toward the lake. The frantic splashing was louder, and now Perry was screaming, “There’s something after me! King! Pull me in . . . King? For God’s sake, help me!”

  King was wondering if maybe Ford was trying to drown the whacko son of a bitch, which caused him to relax a little, and he felt even better.

  Now King was thinking, I hope he does it.

  King had the flashlight on when he got to the shoreline, but the beach fire was bright enough that it cast a flickering, shadowed glow midway across the lake, where he could see the inner tube looking silver in the misty light. The tube was rolling, as if in heavy surf, even though the lake was black and still beneath the stars. But it wasn’t until King froze the scene with his flashlight that he saw what was happening.

  It was such a bizarre mix of images that it took a moment for King to separate them in his brain. Perry was on his knees atop the coil of hose, leaning his chest over the inner tube and paddling wildly with his hands, as he continued to scream for help. Floating on the other side of the inner tube was what looked like a log floating high in the water. The log was as long as a tree, but it had a tail that was fanning the water into a froth, which caused the log to hammer against the inner tube over and over as Perry paddled, trying to get back to shore.

  At first, King thought that an alligator, maybe, was trying to crawl up onto the log, but then as he moved the light he realized that he was wrong. It wasn’t a log he was seeing and it wasn’t an alligator. It was a huge reptile of some type, with a snake-shaped head and glowing orange eyes. The thing resembled the monitor lizards he’d seen earlier, only this animal was about twenty times bigger.

  King thought, Jesus Christ, that’s the thing I saw crawl into the lake, and he began to back away, still watching, because he couldn’t take his eyes off what was happening now.

  He watched the creature’s head lift high above the water as its paws tried to find traction on the inner tube, but the tube squirted away when it tried to lift itself close enough to get to Perry. It swam after the inner tube, its tail stirring a smooth wake, and then the same thing happened. This time, Perry stopped clawing at the water long enough to squint into the beam of the flashlight and holler, “King, shoot the fucking thing, goddamn it! Shoot!”

  King had the pistol in his hand, but now he slipped it into his pocket as he watched the creature pursue the inner tube. It reminded him of something he’d seen at a beach on Lake Michigan, a Labrador retriever swimming after a beach ball that was too big to get into its mouth.

  King cupped one hand to his lips and yelled, “Get out and swim for it!,” hoping his partner would because that would mean the end of him and the end of one more pain-in-the-ass problem.

  As he watched, King began to relax again, and he realized that he was smiling. It was sort of fun, as long as that big slimy bastard didn’t come after him, and it only got better when the animal tried something different, this time swimming so fast that its body skated halfway up onto the inner tube, where King could see Perry crouched low, with his hands up, palms out, eyes white and wide in the beam of the flashlight, as he moaned, “Help me, King . . . please.”

  The creature lifted its head high and paused for a moment, as if surprised that Perry’s body was right there beneath its claws, and then the glowing eyes blurred as it struck at Perry’s leg three times, so fast that King began walking backward again, as he whispered, “Jesus Christ Aw’mighty.”

  Perry was sobbing now, calling, “It bit me! Pull me in, King! The fuckin’ thing just bit me!”

  King thought he should say something—give Perry a taste of his own medicine, maybe, by yelling, What-ever—but he didn’t because he realized that he’d been so focused on Perry, he hadn’t noticed something important happening nearby.

  There was a man in the water not far from where the inner tube had been anchored. He was swimming fast in the darkness, using long, clean strokes, headed for the shoreline near the pickup truck.

  It was Ford. The ass-wipe wasn’t wearing all his heavy scuba gear, either, which suggested that he was trying to sneak off on his own—probably carrying a bunch more gold coins somewhere on him, too.

  King pulled the pistol from his pocket and started running. He didn’t like Ford—hell, he despised the man—but Perry had been right when he’d said there was something quiet and scary about the professor-looking dude. King didn’t want to have to face the man, not just the two of them, alone on dry land.

  As King sprinted along the shore, there was something else he realized, judging from the direction Ford was headed. He had to beat Ford to the generator, where his idiot partner, Perry, had left the Winchester unattended.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WHEN I REACHED SHALLOW WATER, I ROLLED ONTO my back and continued kicking fast over the bottom toward shore, wanting to avoid the slippery limestone and muck beneath me. Through the night vision, I could see what was happening forty yards away.

  The Komodo monitor was trying to climb onto the inner tube and get to Perry, who hadn’t stopped screaming for help since I’d surfaced. Underwater, the lizard had appeared big. On the surface, though, with its tail slashing and the breadth of its back visible in the glow of the beach fire, it was massive.

  Perry was still alive. I was surprised. But Komodos feed differently than most animals, as I knew, striking and then waiting for their venom to do its work.

  I could also see my BC vest, spotlight attached, drifting shoreward in the wake of all that splashing, and I could see King, too, sprinting toward me, the pistol in one hand, my flashlight in the other. The angle wasn’t good, and I knew it was going to be close. I was thinking about changing directions and swimming to the other side of the lake, but I remembered that King had left the Winchester leaning against the generator out in plain sight.

  Was it still there? I swung my head to look and there it was, standing lean and western-looking against the Honda generator, with two rounds left in the chamber. And the pickup truck was parked nearby.

  I was closer to the rifle than King was, but I was at least thirty yards away. And I was still in the water. I abandoned the idea of changing directions and decided to risk a footrace. Three times, King had fired the little pistol at me. Cheap pocket guns are notoriously inaccurate, and he had only three rounds left—unless the man had been smart enough to reload, which was unlikely.

  King was sloppy. If I could get to my feet before he was close enough to ope
n fire or if he started shooting too soon, his sloppiness would get him killed.

  When my butt banged bottom, I swung my legs under me and yanked off my fins, hearing King yell, “Get your hands up, Jock-o! Don’t move a goddamn muscle!”

  I glanced at him as I stood, feeling moss-coated rocks beneath my feet, and I yelled in reply, “Help your partner. Fire a few rounds, maybe you’ll scare off the lizard.” It was possible King heard me, but maybe he didn’t because Perry was shrieking for help now, his words interrupted only by his own wild sobbing and the depth-charge implosions of the monitor’s tail hitting water. I guessed that the monitor had begun to feed.

  “Stay right where you are! I don’t want to shoot you but I will, goddamn it!”

  It was the first time King had said he didn’t want to shoot me, which told me the opposite was true—this time, he meant to do it. I pulled my face mask down around my neck before throwing my hands up because now he was blinding me with the flashlight. King mistook the gesture for surrender and he immediately slowed to a walk. When he did, I dropped my hands and took off running toward the Winchester, kicking water, knees high, but it was tough to keep my balance because of the moss.

  WHAP!

  King fired. The slug threw a geyser up a few feet in front of me, where the water was only ankle-deep, but I kept running, trying to juke a zigzag pattern, which would have been a smart tactical move on land but not in the shallows of a lake, all limestone and marl. Only a couple of yards from shore, my ankle snagged the lip of a rock and I stumbled, almost regained my footing, but then hit a slippery patch, and I crashed, shoulder first, into the water, hitting hard.

  When I raised my head, I heard King fire again—WHAP! The slug skipped off the water so close to my face that I wondered for an instant if I’d been hit, and I knew that King was lying again when he yelled,

  “That’s the last time I fire a warning shot, Jock-o! Stay right where you are, goddamn it!”