30-30, a classic carbine favored by cowboys and at least one alligator hunter. It was Arlis Futch’s rifle. Arlis being Arlis, I knew the weapon was loaded.
Obviously, the two men had already been inside the man’s pickup truck. It was parked behind them, beneath cypress trees, the driver’s-side door still open. I wondered what they had done with our cell phones and the handheld VHF.
The edge of the lake was moss coated and slippery. I was carrying fins but kept my hands at chest level. As I walked, my eyes shifted from Arlis to the man with the rifle—Perry—then to his partner, who held the little silver automatic. “Pistol”—it became his designation, a way to differentiate between the two because they looked so much alike. They were of similar height, one a decade older than the other, but both men skinny in slacks. Perry wore a short-sleeved shirt, Pistol wore a jacket so wrinkled that it looked like he’d slept in the thing. Maybe he had. The men might have been brothers were it not for differences in facial structure.
So far, Pistol had done all the talking, and I now listened to him ask, “Why were you yelling for Gramps to call nine-one-one? One of your buddies get eaten by a shark?”
Gramps—he meant Arlis.
I said, “There’s no need for guns. I’ve got two friends in trouble. If you help us, maybe we can help you.”
Pistol replied with a mocking grin, and said, “Of course we’ll help you. But, Jock-a-mo, we need you to do us a favor first. We want the keys to that cowboy Cadillac. The old man says he doesn’t know where they are.”
The man nodded toward Arlis’s black diesel truck: twin cab, four-wheel drive, tow-rigged with mud flaps, a bumper sticker that read EAT MORE MULLET .
I didn’t respond.
As I drew closer, the man pressed, “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m trying to be friendly. It can be dangerous out here in the sticks, you know.”
I was looking at Arlis, seeing his left eye swollen purple, his mouth busted, lips the color of grapes. Normally, Arlis is a talker. He’d been badly beaten. It explained his silence.
Pistol was getting mad, which broadened the vowels of his Midwestern accent. “You got a hearing problem, mister? I want those goddamn truck keys!”
When Arlis signaled me with a slight shake of his head— Don’t cooperate— the man with the rifle, Perry, decided to demonstrate that his partner was serious. He crow-hopped toward Futch and used the rifle butt to spear him behind the ear. The sound of wood on bone was sickening.
Arlis buckled forward and fell. Because his hands were taped behind him, he couldn’t break his fall. He landed hard, face-first, on limestone.
I tossed my fins onto shore and slogged faster toward Arlis, ignoring shouts—“Stop right there, Jock-o!”—as I used my peripheral vision to process details about the gunmen. I had to read the situation fast and accurately or we would all die, Tomlinson and Will included.
Both men had the bony, wasted look of hitchhikers. The type you see at intersections, holding signs, their displaced expressions as masked as their egos. They had feral, gaunt faces. Long Elvis hair matted from sleeping on cardboard; clothes from some Salvation Army box or maybe pilfered from a trailer-park laundry.
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
Obviously, the two men had already been inside the man’s pickup truck. It was parked behind them, beneath cypress trees, the driver’s-side door still open. I wondered what they had done with our cell phones and the handheld VHF.
The edge of the lake was moss coated and slippery. I was carrying fins but kept my hands at chest level. As I walked, my eyes shifted from Arlis to the man with the rifle—Perry—then to his partner, who held the little silver automatic. “Pistol”—it became his designation, a way to differentiate between the two because they looked so much alike. They were of similar height, one a decade older than the other, but both men skinny in slacks. Perry wore a short-sleeved shirt, Pistol wore a jacket so wrinkled that it looked like he’d slept in the thing. Maybe he had. The men might have been brothers were it not for differences in facial structure.
So far, Pistol had done all the talking, and I now listened to him ask, “Why were you yelling for Gramps to call nine-one-one? One of your buddies get eaten by a shark?”
Gramps—he meant Arlis.
I said, “There’s no need for guns. I’ve got two friends in trouble. If you help us, maybe we can help you.”
Pistol replied with a mocking grin, and said, “Of course we’ll help you. But, Jock-a-mo, we need you to do us a favor first. We want the keys to that cowboy Cadillac. The old man says he doesn’t know where they are.”
The man nodded toward Arlis’s black diesel truck: twin cab, four-wheel drive, tow-rigged with mud flaps, a bumper sticker that read EAT MORE MULLET .
I didn’t respond.
As I drew closer, the man pressed, “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m trying to be friendly. It can be dangerous out here in the sticks, you know.”
I was looking at Arlis, seeing his left eye swollen purple, his mouth busted, lips the color of grapes. Normally, Arlis is a talker. He’d been badly beaten. It explained his silence.
Pistol was getting mad, which broadened the vowels of his Midwestern accent. “You got a hearing problem, mister? I want those goddamn truck keys!”
When Arlis signaled me with a slight shake of his head— Don’t cooperate— the man with the rifle, Perry, decided to demonstrate that his partner was serious. He crow-hopped toward Futch and used the rifle butt to spear him behind the ear. The sound of wood on bone was sickening.
Arlis buckled forward and fell. Because his hands were taped behind him, he couldn’t break his fall. He landed hard, face-first, on limestone.
I tossed my fins onto shore and slogged faster toward Arlis, ignoring shouts—“Stop right there, Jock-o!”—as I used my peripheral vision to process details about the gunmen. I had to read the situation fast and accurately or we would all die, Tomlinson and Will included.
Both men had the bony, wasted look of hitchhikers. The type you see at intersections, holding signs, their displaced expressions as masked as their egos. They had feral, gaunt faces. Long Elvis hair matted from sleeping on cardboard; clothes from some Salvation Army box or maybe pilfered from a trailer-park laundry.
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
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