Deep Shadow (15 page)

No doubt about it, Perry got off on killing people, and there was no going back. Perry had found himself.

Question now was, how would King deal with that? He would have to come up with a way, he knew it, and he would—later.

Ford was bitching at him again. “Okay . . .
enough.
Take off your damn fins and lay them on the inner tube beside the pump. I know what you’re doing and I don’t have time for your crap!”

King had been letting his fins drag, but now subtly began kicking in reverse, as he said, “I’m doing the best I can. If I take off my fins, I might drown. Then who’s gonna help you with this hose?”

The expression on Ford’s face, pure frustration—and King
loved
it.

“I thought you said you could swim. You never spent one day as a lifeguard. Have you ever told the truth about anything in your life?”

King used that smile again—
Who? Me?—
teasing the man with the truth. “You think I’m lying? Well . . . maybe you’re right. But don’t tell Perry, he’s just a kid. You wouldn’t want to disillusion a kid, would you?”

As he grinned at Ford, the King was thinking,
Now who’s the dumb-ass?

The hell he couldn’t swim. Swimming was one of the few things King was pretty good at. He’d done a lot of it at the municipal pool, growing up. Of course, he had never actually been a lifeguard like he’d told Perry. But he could have been. Maybe. So what was the difference?

King was enjoying it, teasing the professor-looking guy because the guy was such a damn tight-assed nerd.

“Maybe my technique’s wrong,” King said. “Let me try something different. Don’t think you’re the only one worried about your pals trapped down there under all that rock.”

When Ford replied, “Sure you are,” King told him, “Seriously. I believed it when you said we need four men to salvage the stuff ’cause it’s so heavy. I’m looking at this as a business deal—you’re the one who got us into this, so don’t blame me!”

As Ford started to say something else, King floated his legs out behind him, then kicked hard with his fins. The sudden thrust caused the inner tube to shoot forward and almost run over the man.

When Ford surfaced, spitting water, King said, “Now look who’s slowing us down. You expect me to push this heavy bastard all by myself?” He couldn’t help laughing—Christ, the expression on the dude’s face!

It didn’t matter whether he cooperated or not now. They were already at the orange buoy.

King watched Ford check his watch, his eyes cold, then look around until he said he could see two sets of air bubbles not far from the buoy. The bubbles weren’t well defined because the wind was coming up, raking the pond’s surface into rows of moving water.

“How much time do your girlfriends have left?” King asked.

Rinsing his mask, then positioning it on his face, Ford replied, “Just shut up and make sure the hose doesn’t kink. Think you can handle that?”

King was grinning as the professor dude disappeared beneath the surface.

 

 

Perry was standing
next to the truck, with its tailgate open, scuba gear scattered on the ground near the little Honda generator. The guy, Ford, had gotten ready in a hurry, yelling orders, throwing things around. That’s why the area was such a mess.

Perry was watching Ford now as King helped him swim the inner tube, loaded with gear, toward the orange buoy, where the color of the water changed from silver-blue to black.

Water was deeper out there, Perry guessed.

It gave Perry the creeps, wondering about what might be living deep in the black water below the two of them, looking up from the bottom at their shapes and bare legs.

Man . . . it was
scary
just thinking about it.

Perry wouldn’t have admitted that, though, even to King. Not after what he done two nights ago, the way he’d felt, chasing the woman and those kids through the dark house. Perry believed he would never have to show fear again.

After feeling that kind of power? The night had changed him in an unexpected way, made him feel larger, more knowing—treetop tall—a man who could look down and choose his targets instead of living in fear, as Perry had lived all his life.

People died so
easily
beneath his hands.

It was the most surprising truth he had ever experienced. It had created a power in him, a soaring feeling that connected his brain and his heart, and a strange hunger, too, that was ready and waiting, close beneath the surface, eager for the next time.

There would be a
next time.
It would happen. The power was there, a bottomless hunger, like jonesing for a cigarette. So what did he have to fear?

Black water, that’s what. That was true, too. He couldn’t admit it, but there it was.

Perry let his eyes move to the trees, then to the curving shoreline. Automatically, his hands went to his pockets, seeking a pack of Marlboros that wasn’t there.

It brought the memory back to him, Sunday afternoon, lighting his last cigarette, crumpling the pack and lobbing it into the lake. Wind had pushed the silver-cellophaned Marlboro 100s toward the black water, not far from where the orange buoy was now anchored.

That’s when something . . .
something
had ascended beneath the pack, a long black shape that was blacker than the black water, with a tail that looked to be almost as long and wide as a man.

Perry hadn’t imagined it. He’d been jazzed on Adderall, sure, but he wasn’t drunk. He had seen it.

The thing—whatever it was—had appeared suddenly, as if it had rocketed up from the depths to swallow the cigarette pack. At the last second, though, it had slowed itself, large and dark beneath the surface, and the big tail had swirled a whirlpool of water that was half the size of the truck that Perry now leaned against, trying to freeze that image in his mind . . . .

“Your idiot friend swims like a damn anchor. Look at him, holding Ford back.”

Goddamn
old man. He never stopped talking.

Perry said to him, “The only reason you talk so tough is ’cause you’re too old to fight. Shut your mouth for a change.”

Arlis snapped back, “I might be too old to fight you, but I ain’t too old to kill you. If you had any brains, you’d know how dangerous it is to mess with a man too old to fight.”

Perry muttered, “Fucking old dudes . . .
man.
”

“You hear what I said?” Arlis pressed. “Or maybe you’re whacked out on some kind of drug—marijuana and crack cocaine, maybe. Where’d you scum come from? Wherever it is, I wish you’d go back and climb under your rock.”

Damn it.
Arlis Futch had just ruined the way Perry’s mind had been replaying the scene. Even with a busted mouth, the man couldn’t stay quiet.

Perry’s mind blanked, and the dark creature vanished. That quick, he was standing next to the truck again, where the generator was running smoothly and not too loud for him to hear the old man yammering away, bitching and criticizing, despite the blood seeping from the back of his head.

“Our friends are down there dying and your hotshot pal is dragging his ass. Look at him! He’s doing it on purpose.”

The old man had gotten to his feet and walked away from the blanket that Ford had spread for him in the grass beneath a tree thirty yards from the truck. Now he was standing knee-deep in the lake, filling a water bottle, then pouring it over his head, after having just been sick, kneeling behind a tree for privacy, coughing until there was nothing left in his belly.

Perry had felt good, hearing the old man be sick. He had caused it.

As the old man washed, Perry watched King and the professor-looking dude as they approached the orange buoy. The buoy was bouncing like a punching bag as waves passed beneath it, but the thing stopped when Ford got a hand on it.

“Ten minutes, maybe, that’s all the air our guys have left. You two Yankee scumbags don’t care what happens to them. All you want is our damn gold! And you’re trespassing on private property, which I’m gonna keep reminding you until you two turds go off and leave us alone.”

There was something about a redneck accent that was grating, and Perry tried to ignore the man. Later, after he had loaded his backpackful of Cuban coins, he knew how he would handle it. Perry would march Futch into the trees—the old man’s hands would be tie-wrapped, of course—then he would use Ford’s big steel knife with the serrated blade, not the switchblade he had borrowed from King. Right in the throat, that’s how he would start, just like he’d described it to King.

Knives. Perry liked them. In Mexico, after they put money in the bank and found a big house with maids—a “hacienda,” King called such places—maybe he would buy himself a nice knife. Good steel that didn’t rust, and a genuine bone handle, not plastic, like the one in his pocket.

And, of course, he would keep Ford’s knife. The man soon wouldn’t have any use for it, anyway.

Until then, though, Perry knew that he had to tolerate the old bastard. Kill him now, they would have no way to leverage Ford, the expert diver. Ford might try to drown King, then sneak off into the swamp without sharing a penny, if the old man wasn’t there to give Ford a reason to come back.

“You’re not going to get one ounce of that gold if you let our friends die. You know that, don’t you? One of them’s just a boy, a teenage Indian kid off the Oklahoma reservation, and now this happens to him!”

Perry, who was holding the rifle in the crook of his arm, said to Arlis Futch, “Shut up and keep your opinions to yourself. You want some more of me?” He swiveled just enough to point the rifle toward the lake where Gramps was standing.

The old man stopped pouring water over his head and looked at Perry long enough for his expression to be read
Anytime.
Of course, the man didn’t make a move to do anything about it. All talk, just like King.

Perry said, “That’s what I thought,” and returned his attention to the orange buoy, which marked the site of the plane wreck. It was too late to re-create the details about Sunday afternoon, the big creature surfacing, but he could see what was happening now.

He watched Ford say something to King, a pissed-off expression on his face, then pull the mask down and disappear underwater, hauling two extra tanks and the PVC nozzle with him. He watched King handling the coiled hose, feeding it out but not too fast.

That was to be expected. King had whispered to Perry before wading into the lake, “There’s no reason for us to be in a hurry, is there? Watch how I deal with that tight-assed prick.”

Nope, there was no reason to hurry, but Perry had added, “Unless the cops come looking in their helicopters again. If that happens, I’m outta here, dude. So don’t waste too much time, that wouldn’t be smart.”

No shit, Sherlock.
That was King’s know-it-all response.

The orange buoy and the inner tube were less than halfway across the lake but only about forty yards away, which was close enough for King to know he had an audience now that Ford was underwater. King was a show-off, and Perry wasn’t surprised when his partner suddenly pretended to be fighting a fish, pulling on the hose as if it were a fishing line. Perry wondered how Ford was dealing with that, the man now swimming somewhere beneath the water’s surface. The hose went taut at first, but then it went slack. Perry guessed that King had pulled the damn thing right out of Ford’s hands.

The old man didn’t think so.

“What is that useless son of a bitch doing out there now? Jesus Christ! Doesn’t he know men’s lives are on the line?”

Perry told him, “Shut your damn mouth or I’ll hit you with this rifle again. I’d rather listen to you spitting teeth than your goddamn yammering.”

That quieted the old fool. Perry stopped giving him his hard-ass stare long enough to check the sky. It had been calm, but now wind was starting to move through the trees. The wind was pushing vultures high overhead, in a whirlpool circle, but there was no sign of helicopters searching the horizon. All he saw was blue sky and sunlight, black birds and wind. But it was getting late now, the sun hanging low in the sky.

Good.
Maybe the cops had given up.

Perry hoped it wouldn’t get cold again. For the first time since Saturday night, it felt like he was in Florida, the way the air felt grassy warm like summer, and he didn’t want it to change.

The old man interrupted his thoughts again, saying, “I’ll be damned. I didn’t notice these before.”

Now
what was the old bastard doing? Futch was wading around in the shallows, looking at the bottom. He had a towel—the thing was black with blood—draped over his head as if to keep the sun out.

Perry stepped away from the truck toward the water. “What are you looking for? You old son-bitch, if you tossed those truck keys in the water, I’ll—”

“The keys to the truck are with our friends, just like we told you,” the old man shot back. “You wouldn’t understand what it is I’m looking at—since you’re nothing but Yankee white trash.”

Perry’s hands went to his pockets, feeling for cigarettes but finding the switchblade instead.

Walking toward Futch, Perry listened to the old man say, “Gator tracks, that’s what I’m looking at. A damn big gator, too. And the tracks are fresh. First time I noticed them. You ever seen a big bull gator? Not in some zoo—a real live predator, out here in the wild.”

That caused Perry to stop. “How big? Are you serious?”

“Boy,” the old man said to him, “you’re talking to one of Florida’s foremost leading experts on alligators. It’s what I do for a living. What you think brought me out here to this lake to begin with? I was hired to catch a big-ass gator that was killing cows on this property. But, damn, if this isn’t the first sign I’ve seen of the thing.”

Perry said, “Show me,” and walked to the edge of the lake as the old man reached down into the water, picked up a rock or something, while pointing with his free hand.