Deep Shadow

The possibility was disturbing to consider, and it gave Tomlinson pause.

There had been violence done in the lizard’s den—and death, too—violence and darkness that dated back centuries. The aura was there, among the bones and pottery and flint-sharp spear points. And there was no mistaking the scent of death.

It was a realization that made Tomlinson decide to do something he seldom had the nerve to do. He knew he had to intercede. He didn’t often jump in the path of karma, but sometimes God helped those who helped themselves, and this might be one of those times because the kimchee was really about to hit the fan.

Will saved my ass at least twice, Tomlinson thought. It’s about time I save his.

He stood. His eyes were still on Will as he turned to Arlis and said, “Stay here with the boy. I’m going after Doc.”

Arlis replied, “I hope you grab that Winchester instead of your cell phone,” but Tomlinson didn’t hear him because he was already running, sprinting hard, trying to beat Will to the generator because he was up and running now, too.

Using the cypress stave to hop toward the campfire, Arlis Futch was thinking, I hope the boy’s got that rifle, not Tomlinson. Tomlinson will get us all killed. We’d all be better off if my finger was on that trigger.

Arlis could see the shadows of the hippie and the boy creeping up behind the pickup truck, getting closer to the fire, but he couldn’t make out details. He could no longer see Ford and King, either. The truck blocked his view.

Fifteen yards from the truck, Arlis had to stop for a moment to rest. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to because he felt like he might pass out unless he got some air, and the throbbing headache had started beating again in his temples. It was the ground-glass pain, which told him his brain might explode if he kept going. Worse was the burning sensation in his veins, circulating through his body, making him sick and sleepy. It was poison, Arlis knew, from the lizard, which was a piss-poor way for a Florida boy to die after all the years he had spent hunting the Everglades.

Arlis thought, I’ve got to get my hands on that by God Winchester before I fall out.

He had started hopping toward the truck again when he heard WHAP!, a gunshot. Then he could hear the wild sounds of men fighting—a distinctive, out-of-control yelling, plus the smack of flesh hitting flesh. It was familiar to Arlis, having witnessed many fights around the docks, and he had been in a few himself. He began to hobble faster, thinking, Doc’s probably not much of a fighter, but King’s a coward so who knows?

As Arlis drew closer to the truck, though, he could see that Doc had done okay. King was sitting flat on his ass, with his mouth bleeding, and his face looked crooked like maybe his jaw was busted. Doc hadn’t done a complete job of it, though, because King was still holding that little bitty pistol of his and it was pointing at Doc’s chest.

Arlis started to call out a warning but then caught himself because he saw Tomlinson and Will Chaser step out of the shadows and into the firelight, and their intentions were plain. They had done a good job of sneaking up, but now instead of just shooting that son of a bitch King when they had the chance they were going to confront him.

As the two moved closer to the fire, Arlis understood why.

He was thinking, God Aw’mighty, we’re in trouble now.

It was Tomlinson who had the Winchester.

As the hippie leveled the rifle at King, Arlis Futch hurried to catch up before Tomlinson did something stupid or before the hippie’s nerve failed them all.

THIRTY-ONE

WHEN TOMLINSON STEPPED CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE fire for both of us to see him, I hoped that King didn’t recognize the uncertainty in my friend’s voice when he said, “I don’t want to kill you. But I will.”

It was a shock to see Tomlinson after so many hours—and I was relieved, of course—but he wasn’t the man I would have chosen to come walking out of the shadows with a gun. Tomlinson was Tomlinson. He was the lifelong advocate of passive resistance, the prophet of peace, love, harmony and goodwill toward men. There was no doubt that Tomlinson didn’t want to kill King. But did he even have the nerve to pull the trigger? And if he did, what were the chances that he also had the resolve to fire a second time if he missed? As far as I knew, Tomlinson had never fired a weapon in his life, yet he stood there somberly with the Winchester pressed against his left cheek as if he meant to do it.

I took a step back from King, who was still pointing the pistol at me, and I said, “Let’s all calm down now. This doesn’t have to happen. King? Toss the pistol away. Your partner’s dead, but that doesn’t mean you have to die, too.”

I had observed panic in King’s face when Tomlinson first appeared, but now I saw the convict’s brain working as he studied him. Tomlinson’s long hair was sticky with mud, a sleeve from his wet suit was missing. He looked pale and shaky in the firelight, about as unimposing as a scarecrow with a toy rifle. King’s reaction was no surprise, nor was the finesse he attempted next.

Looking from me to Tomlinson, King said, “I think we’ve got ourselves a misunderstanding. I got no intentions of shooting Dr. Ford. You’re wrong about that. This business isn’t as serious as you think—it doesn’t have to be, anyway.”

I was thinking, Pull the trigger . . . Pull the damn trigger, hoping for once that it was true that Tomlinson could read my thoughts. If he engaged King in conversation, I knew what King would probably do. He would use it as an opening to put his last round into Tomlinson and then race me for the rifle.

Tomlinson didn’t pick up on my message, though, because he answered King, saying, “I’m glad to hear that. Lose that gun, brother, and we’ll talk. Talking’s always better. This killing-each-other bullshit is wrong, man, really wrong.” There was a pleading quality in his tone that boosted King’s confidence.

Now I was thinking, Don’t let him do it!, as King swung the pistol toward Tomlinson and then showed him a crooked smile with his broken jaw, which added a painful articulateness to his speech. “No . . . you put the rifle down first. You seem like a reasonable sort of dude. Personally, man, I hate violence. In fact, toss that rifle into the bushes, just to be safe. I’ll do the same— I promise. Then you can work it out with the King.”

Tomlinson sounded confused, asking, “The King?”

“Me,” King told him. “I bet you’re an Elvis fan, too. Aren’t you, now? Admit it.”

Tomlinson lost his concentration and lifted his cheek away from the rifle stock long enough to say, “Sure, man—‘the King,’ I get it. We’ve got that in common. So why are you still pointing that gun at me?”

King said it again, “You toss the rifle away first—and hurry up before my finger slips.” He motioned with the pistol toward the shadows, telling Tomlinson that’s where he should toss the Winchester.

I was aware of movement behind Tomlinson. It was Will Chaser, I realized, who was circling into position behind the convict. King noticed him, too, and appeared startled, saying, “Hey, you—kid! Stop right where you are.”

His voice flat, Will answered, “I don’t think so,” and he continued walking until King was unable to see him without taking his eyes off Tomlinson—a risk he couldn’t take.

King snapped, “Get back here where I can see you or I’ll put a bullet through your sugar daddy’s head.”

Tomlinson said, “Hey, now,” sounding offended, as Will surprised us all by stepping close enough to the fire to flash a knife in the yellow light and saying, “Mister, if you pull that trigger, I’ll cut your goddamn throat.”

Will’s voice was spooky calm. It was a chilling voice to hear, which caused King to glance at the boy again in reassessment, his eyes widening with concern, then a growing panic. He tried to scoot away to reposition himself so he could see Tomlinson and Will both, but the pile of blazing driftwood was behind him and he couldn’t get the