Vernon followed him, his mind white-hot and completely empty. He watched Eustace put a filthy sneaker against the hay bale and tug the dart. The wooden shaft slid free but the stone point remained stuck.
“Goddamnit,” Eustace said.
“Can you at least give me a good recommendation?” Vernon said, and hated himself for asking.
Eustace walked away laughing. Vernon stood beside the target, fists clenched, took long deep breaths until his heart-beat eased. He turned to the hay bale and used the blade of his Swiss Army knife to work Eustace’s arrowhead free. The onyx point gleamed black in the bright sun. Vernon remembered how particular Eustace was about his tools — perhaps it would make a good peace offering.
Vernon stepped up to the white chalk line drawn across the clipped grass. Even with his glasses on, the paper targets 150 yards downrange seemed pitifully small. An Ice Age tree sloth, he thought, or a cave bear — those would be proper targets. This was a bad joke.
The crowd, clustered off to his left, rustled and coughed its impatience. Hurry up. All his back-and-forth mental debate about whether or not to deliberately lose the competition to Eustace seemed ludicrous. He hoped he didn’t look like a silly stoop-shouldered academic to the crowd.
He balanced his dart on the atlatl, stepped, and threw. At the top of his arm’s arc he felt a muscle, something small and vital, let go in his shoulder and he shouted — the sound halfway between a karate battle cry and a yelp.
Vernon tucked the atlatl under his arm and rubbed his shoulder to scattered applause. He squinted downrange and saw his dart sticking out of the extreme upper-right corner of the stacked hay bales. No less than six feet from the edge of the paper bull’s-eye. He felt his face burn and turned away, headed for the crowd. He used to be good, back when he practiced weekly in an empty field along Harp Creek, back when he and Eustace e-mailed one another every day with new thoughts, ideas, theories.
He saw Mackenzie at the edge of the crowd and turned toward him. A self-deprecating comment, academics and sports just don’t mix, or something along those lines, might answer perfectly. Then he noticed Green beside Mackenzie. He kept walking anyway.
“Good shot, Dr. Lemaistre,” Mackenzie said.
“Not really,” Vernon replied. He tried to smile.
“Those things are tough to aim. The first time I ever shot a dart I accidentally killed a steel garbage can,” Mackenzie said. “I haven’t touched one since.”
Eustace snorted. “That’s because you didn’t know what you were doing. This guy,” Eustace jerked a thumb at Vernon, “he used to be pretty good. Not as good as me, but pretty good. What happened?”
Vernon felt his body heat rise and his heart swell as if it was about to explode. While he spoke, a separate part of his mind attended to the strange feeling and took notes. What a strange sensation. Am I having a stroke?
“Did you know Eustace and I used to work together?” he said to Mackenzie. But somehow his voice wasn’t quite in control. “We worked on atlatls together, everyone used to think they were made to throw a rigid spear and the banner stone was just a decoration, but I thought they were wrong and Eustace and I worked on it together and I trusted him—” Words tumbled out, fast and shrill. “And then he stole my research!” he added, his spare dart pointing at Eustace like a sword.
Vernon’s search for further accusations faltered when he noticed the amused expression on Eustace’s face, Mackenzie’s wide eyes and open mouth.
“Come on, Mac,” Eustace said. “Let this guy simmer down for a little while.” He turned to walk away.
“Admit it! You stole my research.” Vernon noticed the crowd staring. Even the next contestant in the atlatl throw had turned to watch.
Eustace paused and shook his head. “You are uniformly the worst researcher I have ever known. I would be embarrassed to put my name on anything, and I mean anything, you worked on.” He turned to Mackenzie. “Goddamn shame,” he said.
“Yeah? Well, you weren’t embarrassed when you slept with my wife!” Vernon shouted at Eustace’s back.
The two men left Vernon standing there sweating in the middle of the crowd. His clenched fists trembled. Then, out on the fringes, someone clapped their hands. The applause gathered slowly until everyone, even the people closest to Vernon, took it up. A clatter like rain on tropical leaves.
Vernon slurped at his fifth beer. In the dim cool bar, his prospects seemed much better. No reason to get in his car and drive back to Orlando tonight. He’d go to the interview tomorrow, tell Mackenzie about the bad blood between him and Eustace. Maybe he’d even imply that he’d deliberately missed the target because he didn’t want to compete against his former research partner.
This trip could still be salvaged. Vernon crunched a stale pretzel. Unless, of course, Eustace was serious about applying for the job. But who knows? Maybe Mackenzie’s department didn’t have enough of a salary budget to attract Eustace. Vernon grinned when he thought about how much he made — heck, it’d be the first time his mediocre tax bracket had ever been an advantage.
Vernon pulled the powwow schedule out of his back pocket and smoothed it on the bar. A little spilled beer left a dark spot on the paper. If he left now, he could get back in time for the bonfire. He waved a hand at the bartender for the bill. He’d show them. He was a good sport — he wasn’t beaten. Not by a long shot. Vernon drained the last of his beer.
The next morning, Vernon sat in an uncomfortable chair and watched across the desk as Mackenzie blinked at a piece of paper. Purple hollows sagged under Mackenzie’s eyes and Vernon wondered if he too was hung over.
After a long moment, Mackenzie lowered the page. “Eustace Green died last night.”
“What?” Vernon stared.
Mackenzie shook his big head. Tropical light filtering through the high narrow windows gilded his hair. “The police seem to think it’s suicide.”
“I... I don’t understand.” Vernon glanced out the office window, saw the tops of palms and blue sky. “I just... Did he seem depressed to you?”
“No. Did you see him last night, surrounded by those groupies?” Mackenzie shuffled through some papers on his handsome walnut desk, but when he stopped his hands were still empty. “I don’t understand it either, but they say he impaled himself with an atlatl dart.”
“Christ almighty. That just... that just doesn’t make any sense.”
“God — what happened to him? Eustace was a good friend. Not as close as I could’ve wished, not for a long time, but... I just didn’t see that coming.”
Vernon watched Mackenzie put a wide hand over his eyes for a moment and then saw glistening trails of tears work their way down the creased pink cheeks. Vernon tugged at the decorative handkerchief in his breast pocket. He’d always assumed it was just a decoy, stitched into place, but to his relief the fabric pulled free. He offered it to Mackenzie, who took it with a nod. Vernon looked away while Mackenzie wiped his eyes and resettled his glasses on his nose.
“My apologies,” Mackenzie said. “Now.” He shuffled the papers on his desk again. “Let’s try to get back on track.”
“I mean this respectfully, Dr. Mackenzie, but I don’t think now’s the right time for this conversation. You’re very upset.” Vernon tried to keep his voice upbeat and confident.
Mackenzie shook his head. “He’s gone. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do.”