Deep Shadow

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 straightened 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