Look into their faces, and I suspected that I would see interstate highways. I would see random crimes.
Random. That was my quick read. Stray dogs in primate bodies. It insinuated a pointless wandering, a string of indifferent outrages. They struck me as loners who had lived their lives in corners but who lacked some basic human component that drives others to seek bottom in an attempt to change.
My mind shifted to the recent murders in Winter Haven, remembering details I’d heard at the marina. Winter Haven was forty miles north. The newscaster, though, had reported that police had caught the killers near Atlanta, driving the maid’s car.
Suddenly, I was unconvinced.
What were the odds of running into the killers? The astrology crowd does not believe in chance intersectings and random meetings. But here, in these two men, was an illustration of randomness incarnate.
They were cons, or ex-cons, I decided. And desperate. They were on the run from prison or from the Winter Haven killings and had bush-whacked to this remote area to hide. Why else were they willing to shoot two men for the keys to a truck?
More than willing. They were eager, in fact. That was evident, too. I perceived it in Perry’s brittle movements, his twitching impatience. He had used the rifle butt on Arlis’s head with an explosive, joyous abandon. I would be next, if I gave him a reason.
Pistol was the mouthpiece, I decided. Perry was the killer.
When I got to Arlis, I knelt beside him. He was trying to roll onto his back. The skin on his forearms felt loose, paper-thin, as I lifted him to his knees, then helped steady him on his feet. The rifle butt had dented the bone below his ear, blood was flowing.
Arlis is seventy, but he had never showed—or acted—his age. Until now. The man moved with a weary, testing fragility. But the fire inside him was still burning. It was in his expression, visible in his eyes. His eyes were pale, smoldering and resolute. They communicated more than an apology when I looked into his face. Arlis Futch was furious—furious at his captors and at himself.
It gave me a little boost.
Arlis spit, then spit again, hacking sand from his ruined mouth. “That son of a bitch,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Cut me loose, Doc. I’d trade ten years at Raiford for ten minutes alone with this Yankee spawn.” He stared at the men, talking loud enough for them to hear.
It earned Arlis a burst of jittery laughter. “Whoa, listen to Grandpa! Still talking like a hard-ass!”
Perry, with the rifle, wasn’t feeling playful. “What do I care how he talks? He keeps yapping, I’ll do it again!”
Perry couldn’t stand still. His eyes were moving, checking the horizon, scanning the sky. He reminded me of a rodent watching for hawks.
Pistol wouldn’t let it go. “Grandpa, maybe I should make you drop your pants. You get sassy again, I’ll spank your ass good. How’d you like that?”
More laughter.
I caught Arlis when he lunged toward Pistol. There wasn’t time to let him calm down, so I gave him a little shake, and said into his ear, “Listen to me. We’ve got other problems. Tomlinson and Will are stuck down there. They’re alive, but they’re under a ton of rock.”
It stunned him. Because the information required Arlis to think, it displaced his anger.
“They’re trapped?”
“Maybe in a crevice. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. I tried digging, but we need to rig the jet pump.”
“How deep?” Arlis was favoring his left shoulder, I noticed. Maybe he’d busted a collarbone when he 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.