Deep Shadow

THIRTY

WHEN KING SWUNG THE LIGHT AWAY FROM WILL Chaser and they heard a man screaming for help somewhere out there on the lake, Tomlinson said to Arlis Futch, not bothering to whisper, “That’s not Doc. That’s not Doc’s voice.”

Arlis, who was using a cypress stave for support because he felt so sick, took a moment to listen before he replied, “How can you be so sure? It doesn’t even sound human to me.”

After another moment, though, Arlis’s voice brightened, as he added, “Know who I think that is? I think it’s that bastard Perry. That skinny Yankee scum rifle-whipped me—and his partner kicked me when I was down. What do you think? Maybe that dragon’s got him?”

Using the walking stick, Arlis limped out of the shadows and peered toward the lake, before he said softly, “My God Aw’mighty. That devil’s finally getting his due.”

Tomlinson didn’t allow himself to look. He was focused on Will, watching the teenager while his brain translated the boy’s behavior into patterns of thought and motive. Will was on his knees now, the knife in his right hand, his eyes following King as he jogged toward the lake and away from the generator, where the Winchester rifle was braced at an angle—maybe loaded, maybe not.

Tomlinson didn’t know anything about guns, but he could see the boy’s head swiveling, gauging the distance, and he knew what was in the boy’s mind because Tomlinson could feel rage emanating from Will’s body, a rage that appeared as a red aura, the most potent and dangerous shade in the auric spectrum. Tomlinson had witnessed the phenomenon before, but only rarely—and usually in his friend, Doc Ford.

Tomlinson called to the boy, “Will! Stay here with Arlis. I’m going to try and find Doc.”

The boy was crawling toward the generator now but paused long enough to say over his shoulder, “Instead of spying on me, you should open your eyes. Doc’s right out there, swimming for shore.”

As Tomlinson moved, trying to see, he heard a gunshot . . . then another . . . and then Tomlinson could see Doc, with his hands up, marching toward the beach fire with one of the convicts behind him pointing something at his back. It was a pistol, Tomlinson guessed, although he wasn’t close enough to see. But then his senses sharpened when, abruptly, the screaming coming from the lake stopped, and Tomlinson thought, That must be King. He’s got a gun and he’s going to kill Doc.

Tomlinson knew he had to do something, but more than Doc’s life was at stake. In a way, Will Chaser’s life was on the line, too. It had been gutsy for the boy to lie so still while King painted him with the flashlight—it was, in fact, a chilling display of nerve and self-control that few people possessed. Tomlinson didn’t doubt Will’s courage, but he feared what might happen if Will got his hands on that gun. In Tomlinson’s mind, the boy was teetering between two worlds—the worlds of darkness and light. Will’s ancestors hadn’t gifted them with a tour of the ancient underworld just to turn the boy into a stone-cold killer . . . or had they?

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.