Deep Shadow

angle right because Will continued to circle.

“I’m not going to warn you again,” King told him, focusing only on Tomlinson now.

From the shadows, Will replied, “Then go ahead and do it, mister. I’ve never been too fond of hippies, anyway,” and he began walking toward King.

Now King had a trapped expression on his face. It was the look of an animal that’s been cornered. And as he steadied the gun, getting ready to fire, I took one long step and then dived for the man because I knew there was no more talking. For an instant, King hesitated, trying to decide whether to shoot me or the guy with the rifle, then he leaned toward Tomlinson and fired.

WHAP! WHAP!

My hands found King’s throat as my body slammed into his, deafened by two simultaneous gunshots. King was writhing beneath me. But he wasn’t fighting back, I realized, and I became aware there was blood on me— blood on my hands and on my chest. As I pinned the man’s gun hand to the ground, I understood the source of the blood: A chunk of King’s left hand was missing. I saw a bleeding black hole, like a spike had been driven through it.

I slapped the pistol away, not sure it was empty, not sure of anything, in all the noise and confusion, until I turned and saw Tomlinson. My friend’s face was pale, but he appeared unhurt, standing there with the rifle at waist level, and he said to me, sounding dazed, “Are you okay, Doc? Did I kill him?”

Will Chaser was hovering over me, a dive knife gripped in his right hand, ready to pile on if I needed help, but I pushed him away to give myself room, saying, “It’s okay. Get back,” and then I stood, my ears numb to King’s cursing. He was rolling on the ground, clutching his disfigured hand and yelling, “You shot me! You shot the King, you worthless ass-wipe!”

Tomlinson took a step toward the man, as if wanting to help, and asked me again, “Where did I hit him? Is he going to die?”

Speaking over the noise, I said, “No. He’ll be okay. You hit him in the hand. Did you mean to?,” and then I knelt and picked up the pistol. I popped the clip—the chamber was empty—so I tossed the gun to Will as I skirted the fire and put my hand on Tomlinson’s shoulder. His eyes were fixated on King, and I gave him a little shake. “You did good,” I told him. “Relax. You won’t have to shoot him again. I promise. Give me the rifle.”

Tomlinson appeared to be in shock. His fingers were frozen on the weapon, and, as I began to unwrap the Winchester from his hands, he asked me. “Are you sure? Because I would do it. I’d pull the trigger again if I had to.”

I looked around, seeing Arlis Futch now limping toward us and Will Chaser, too. Staring at Will, I said to Tomlinson, “There’s no need for that. You’re right. Killing’s just wrong, man. Let’s get out of here.”

My eyes moved to Arlis, who was glaring at King. “Doc?” he said. “That’s the Yankee spawn who kicked me like a dog. Why don’t you boys walk on back to the truck and find your telephones? I’ll stand watch on this snake.” The old man’s eyes found mine as he added, “Any rounds left in that Winchester?”

From old habit, I had checked the breech immediately. “There’s one round left, Arlis,” I replied. “but you’re not going to use it. What happened to your leg?”

“That by God lizard bit me.”

“One of the small ones attacked you?”

“They tried, but it was that big bastard! It took a chunk out but not too bad. I’d be okay to stand watch over this scum. Seriously, Doc. Let me hold that rifle. He kicked me, Doc.”

It was sickening to hear that the monitor had bitten Arlis after we had dodged so many other near tragedies. I knew that we had to get the man to a hospital, fast.

I said, “I understand how you feel—the guy slapped me around, too. But we’re going to let the police deal with this”—I glanced at Will again—“because that’s the way things work.”

I was tempted to eject the last remaining cartridge onto the ground, but the Komodo monitor was still in the area, and so were its offspring, possibly watching us right now from the shadows. Night stalkers and meat eaters should never be underestimated. I learned that truth while hiding on the bottom of the lake . . . And I learned something else, too. I learned how monitors responded to infrared light.

It gave me an idea.

To Will I said, “Would you mind getting that for me?,” as I pointed to my dive mask, which lay on the far side of the fire.

Tomlinson was helping Arlis hobble toward the truck as Will handed me the heavy mask, with its pointed rail and monocular tube. I bounced the weight of the thing in my hand for a thoughtful moment before I handed Will the Winchester, telling him, “You go with Tomlinson and Arlis, okay? Find our cell phones. Captain Futch needs to be airlifted or he’s going to lose that leg. Maybe worse.”

I didn’t want the kid around to see what I was going to do next. He was smart enough to recognize false compassion for what it was—a lethal bait.

Will Chaser was staring at me, his expression suspicious. “And leave you alone with this asshole? Just the two of you, huh?” With his chin, he gestured toward King, who was sitting up now, trying to flex his wounded hand. The bleeding wasn’t too bad, I noted.

I told Will, “Oh, I get it—you want proof I’m not going to kill him.” The boy knew things intuitively, he had claimed, which implied that he knew about me.

“I didn’t say that,” Will replied.

“But that’s what you’re thinking—but why would I risk something so stupid?” I was inspecting the face mask, which appeared to be undamaged. I switched on the infrared light and confirmed that it still threw its invisible beam straight and true.

“Maybe Tomlinson was right,” I added. “Maybe we are a lot alike. How about this? Why don’t we both help Arlis back to the truck? If he loses that leg, we don’t want the rest of him to go with it.”

“And leave this guy all alone?” Will said, still unconvinced. With his expression asking Why are you going so easy on this jerk?

I replied, “He’s not going anywhere. He knows how dangerous it is out here in the sticks.” I turned. “Don’t you, King?”

The man was on one knee, trying to use his jacket as a bandage, but he stopped long enough to glare at me and say, “Go to hell.”

I was thinking, You’ll get there before me, as I double-checked to make sure the infrared light was on and then lobbed the mask close to King’s feet. His surprised expression caused me to smile, as I added, “No hard feelings, partner. When that fire burns down and you get scared? You can always use my night vision to see—Jock-o.”

And so would the monitors.

EPILOGUE

ON A BALMY, MOON-BRIGHT NIGHT IN FEBRUARY, ONE week after Arlis Futch was airlifted to the hospital and four days after police finally located King, I was on the deck outside my lab trying to bracket a camera to my new telescope when I heard the familiar two-stroke rattle of Tomlinson’s dinghy. I covered the Celestron with a towel, let the screen door slam behind me and went inside to fetch a fresh quart of beer.

Tomlinson prefers beer from the bottle. I like mine over ice—an old habit from years of traveling the tropics. We would compromise: most of the quart for him, a mug for me. It was Tuesday night, long after sunset, so there wasn’t much doubt he would be thirsty.

Tomlinson had been away. On Friday night—an hour after police confirmed that they had found King—he had left aboard No Mas on the flood, motoring to the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay before setting his mainsail, which suggested to me that the man was upset and in a hurry. In a hurry to where, there was no telling.

Who knows where Tomlinson goes? Key West is a favorite, but a four-day trip wouldn’t have allowed him much time on Duval Street. And the same was true of Pensacola, another of his favorite haunts. So I had guessed Sarasota—he likes the public anchorage there, possibly because so many pretty girls jog in the park—and he likes