Deep Shadow

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.

Funny.

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.

“Right there,” Futch said. “You got to be blind not to know what made that track.”

Perry stayed a safe distance away from the man and leaned to look, saying, “Sunday afternoon, I was standing over there by the trees and I saw something big come close to the surface. But then it disappeared. I’ve been wondering what it was.”

The old man straightened as if surprised. “Sunday?” he said.

“It looked black. Are alligators black?”

The old man asked, “Are you sure?,” suddenly sounding concerned for some reason.

Perry was trying to see down into the water, waiting for the murk to clear. Every time the old man moved his feet, a cloud of silt exploded around them.

Perry replied, “I just said it, didn’t I? Of course I’m sure.” Then he said, “Where? I don’t see any tracks. Wait—is this what you’re talking about? This isn’t an animal track . . . you made this with your hand.”

It was true, Arlis had made the track, wanting to scare the skinny Yankee idiot and also to divert his attention, but he didn’t reply. He was looking at the lake now, studying the surface, his expression worried.

Perry said, “Tell the truth, you lying old bastard. These aren’t claw marks. You used your fingers to make some bullshit fake track, trying to scare me. I got eyes, dumb-ass. I can see.”

Something Perry didn’t see was Arlis slipping the keys to the truck, dripping wet, into his pocket.

TEN

I WAS UNDERWATER NEAR THE EDGE OF THE DROP- off when I felt the hose go taut, as if King, his fins still visible above me, were a fisherman setting the hook and I was a fish.

The strike was so unexpected that it yanked the PVC nozzle out of my hand. It also caused me to drop the air bottles I was carrying, two aluminum tanks plus regulators, all roped together. Because the tanks were full, they sank as if they were made of solid steel.

I had been looking for the crevice where earlier I’d wedged the yellow air bottle. I wanted to plant another tank in its place. Instead, I watched the tanks clank against the lip of the drop-off, tumble briefly down the side, then accelerate, stems first, toward the lake bottom, regulator hoses flailing, where they hit another ledge, plowing up twin clouds of silt, then continued rolling downward into an unseen crevice.

What appeared to be the lake’s bottom, fifty feet below, was not the deepest part of the lake. I guessed