Deep Shadow df-17

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson inspected the impression until he felt certain it was true. His sensory probing—along with his recollection of Ford jackknifing away from the wall—were additional proof that the man was still out there, swimming free. The confirmation created such a jolt of optimism in Tomlinson that he could have wept, had he allowed himself.

  Instead, he tried to manipulate his brain into making an orderly assessment of the situation, which is precisely what Doc would have done.

  First things first: How much air did he and the boy have left?

  After a moment spent trying to organize the figures, Tomlinson gave up, thinking, Oh . . . shit-oh-dear! because he realized he didn’t have a clue how much air they had left. He had been so focused on the dive, on what he was seeing, sailing over the pristine lake bottom, then finding the beautiful mammoth tusk, that he had lost all track of time.

  His dive-gauge console would have the information, but he couldn’t reach it. The console, which was attached by a hose to his BC, was somewhere pinned beneath him. Without it, all he could do was guess at how long they’d been down.

  No, wait! That wasn’t true. Moments before the wall collapsed, Ford had scribbled something on his dive slate and showed it to Will. Ford had written, Surface in 5.

  The man wouldn’t have written in it unless he’d checked Will’s pressure gauge and knew that the boy was down to half a tank. That had been only a few minutes ago.

  Tomlinson thought, The kid’s got between twenty and twenty-five minutes left . . . if he doesn’t start panicking and suck the bottle dry.

  Twenty-five minutes was a sad excuse for a lifetime. Unless . . . unless one happened to be meditating, or zone-locked, soaring on some horizonless high, a feeling of euphoria that Tomlinson had experienced plenty of times but the kid probably had not. Sex came close . . . But only twenty-five minutes? Tomlinson reminded himself it was unlikely that Will Chaser, age sixteen, had touched that particular base.

  Twenty-five minutes . . . Jesus, what a rotten hand to be dealt!

  Or . . . maybe not. Could be that twenty-five minutes was time enough. Right now, Ford was probably hovering above the rubble, bulling rocks, clawing at the sand, digging like a cadaver dog to free them.

  But what if he wasn’t?

  Tomlinson closed his eyes in the blackness and listened. He could hear the metallic exhalations of Will’s rapid breathing. He could hear the percussive croaking of distant fish and the grandfather-clock ticking of limestone as it settled. But he didn’t hear anything that sounded like digging. Where the hell was Ford?

  Tomlinson gave it some thought, then decided, We can’t wait here, expecting Doc to find us. I’ve got to do something now.

  He took three long drags on his demand regulator. The hiss of compressed gas jetting into his lungs was louder than the percolating bubbles that he exhaled. Next, he pushed the face mask tight to his face, levered an elbow under his ribs, then bucked hard against the weight of rubble that covered him.

  The rubble moved.

  The rocks didn’t budge much, but the weight above him shifted, and he gained enough space to use both hands.

  Tomlinson tried it again and managed to fight his way to his knees. As he rested, he wondered why the limestone continued to move and grind next to him. Will Chaser, he realized, was struggling to create his own space. There was a danger, of course, that by struggling they would damage their tank fittings or crush a regulator hose, but there was no other option. Just lie there and die?

  Nope, we’ve gotta ride, Clyde.

  Tomlinson bucked his hips upward, but this time the rocks didn’t move. Twice more he tried, then attempted to think of a better method as he rested. His fins were making it difficult to find purchase with his toes, that was the problem. He couldn’t reach his feet with his hands, so he used his heels to pry one fin off, then the other.

  When he felt ready, he got his knees under him, dug his toes into the sand and used his back to lift mightily, straining against the suffocating weight as if lifting a piano. The weight shifted as rocks grated overhead, but there was little gain.

  Damn it.

  He tried again. He lifted until his muscles trembled and his ligaments popped . . . and then something very strange happened. The limestone above him didn’t move, but a plate of rock beneath him made a bone-cracking sound, then splintered beneath him like a trapdoor. Tomlinson felt his body fall several feet. It was like falling through a rotten floor.

  He winced, expecting the limestone above to come crashing down, but it didn’t. There was a brief clattering of rock, then silence. He had thrown his arms over his head to protect himself, but now he opened his eyes and stared up into a blackness that was like looking into an abyss.

  The discomfort of crushing weight was gone, and now . . . now he could sense space around him. Not much space, but he could move his arms and legs. Tomlinson got his knees under him and very slowly sat up. When he did, he felt limestone hard against the back of his head, but there was a foot of clearance above his head.

  He realized that they had dropped into a karst chamber or vent—a chamber that had been sealed by one or more large slabs of limestone as they fell.

  Like a blind man, Tomlinson extended his hands, with his fingers wide, to explore the space around him, only to be suddenly blinded when Will Chaser switched on the little rubber-coated flashlight that he was carrying. The kid was pointing the beam directly at Tomlinson’s face.

  Damn . . . the thing was bright!

  It wasn’t as powerful, though, thank God, as the little light that Ford had loaned Tomlinson. Of course not. Ford was a flashlight snob. An aficionado of high-tech LEDs and all instruments that manufactured light—understandable in a man who had spent so much of his life in dark places.

  Fortunately, or maybe not, Will had insisted on carrying what equipment he had, which included the cheap little vulcanized flashlight. The thing was bright enough, though, to be blinding after so many minutes of total darkness.

  Tomlinson made an awwggg-shittt sound through his regulator. He covered his eyes with one hand as he used the other to find the boy’s arm and then he pushed the light away.

  Before the rock slide, he and the boy had gotten pretty good at verbal communication despite clinching regulators between their teeth. In Tomlinson’s experience as a diver, not many people could do it. Communication with a chunk of rubber in one’s mouth required mental skills that bordered on the telepathic. Ford refused to attempt it, but Will Chaser was a natural.

  The boy spoke to Tomlinson now, saying, “Ooh . . . oou . . . UHHAYE?” Will might have been asking, Are you okay?

  Tomlinson responded, “’Ucking . . . linded . . . meee!”

  Will apologized, saying, “Aww-reee,” as the beam of light angled downward into blackness. Then Tomlinson heard the teen reprimand himself. “’Ucking id-ot! ’Uck-meee!”

  The kid was mad at himself, no doubt, but Tomlinson was heartened by this reaffirmation of Will’s ability to translate vocal rhythms into words. The teen obviously possessed heightened powers of perception. From the moment of their first meeting, Tomlinson had sensed that boy was different—very different—plus it was also good to know that a concussion hadn’t damaged the kid’s brain or his abilities.

  Tomlinson found Will’s arm again, then squeezed the boy’s hand, communicating, Don’t worry about it. He sensed that the kid wasn’t panicky. Will was afraid, yes, but the boy hadn’t lost his cool. The information was all right there for Tomlinson to inspect, flowing between their two hands—and still plenty of strength in the kid’s grip, too.

  Tomlinson found his own flashlight and spoke three gurgled words—Cover your eyes—before pointing the light at his fins and turning it on.

  Visibility was zero. All Tomlinson could see was a universe of swirling silt, the granules colliding against his face mask. Plus, his eyeballs were still throbbing from the recent light explosion.

  He closed his eyes, giving himself time to recover, as he tr
aced a hose to his console, then held the console close to his mask. Its two small instruments—a dive computer with depth gauge and a pressure gauge—were luminous green, but he still had trouble seeing the numbers because the silt was so thick.

  Finally, though, he read:

  1520 psi.

  18 ft.

  Now he was sure of what had happened. The limestone floor had collapsed beneath them, but not far. The good news was, he had more than half a bottle of air remaining. For Tomlinson, that meant more than thirty minutes of bottom time. And only eighteen feet beneath the surface! He felt the irrational urge to launch his body upward, through the rock. He yearned for sunlight. The sky was so damn close!

  Stay cool! Pin your damn butterfly brain to the track.

  Visibility seemed to be improving, but too slowly for his mood, so he switched off the light and used his hands to explore the rock chamber. His fingers touched plates of limestone and oversized oyster shells that he knew were fossilized—he’d seen a bunch of prehistoric oyster remnants earlier on the bottom of the lake.

  A massive rock seemed to cover the chamber, which explained why they hadn’t been crushed by rubble. The walls were composed of rock and loose sand, which wasn’t a comforting thing to discover. The whole damn place could come crashing down at any moment. Overall, the space wasn’t much larger than a shipping crate, but it was an improvement over where they’d been.

  Tomlinson squeezed the boy’s shoulder to reassure him, then sat back, resting one shoulder against the rocks. They weren’t free, but they were in a better position to dig themselves out—as long as they didn’t disturb some weight-bearing slab and get themselves killed when the ceiling collapsed.

  Tomlinson calmed himself by reviewing the facts. He and Will both had miniature emergency canisters holstered next to their primary tanks. Redundancy air systems—or “bailout bottles,” as they were called. Tomlinson’s canister, which had SPARE AIR stenciled on the side, was good for only a couple of minutes. But Will’s pony bottle was twice as big—thirteen cubic feet of additional air. That was Ford’s idea, of course, the obsessive safety freak.

  Tomlinson remembered rolling his eyes at the man as he had listened, impatiently, to the predive checklist. Later, if Ford gave him a ration of crap about the way he had behaved, no problem. Well-deserved—if they survived.

  Tomlinson guessed that Will’s spare bottle was probably good for ten minutes of additional bottom time. Question was, how much air did Will have remaining in his primary tank?

  Tomlinson reached until he found the boy’s shoulder. He felt around until he located the hoses, then the dual gauges on Will’s BC. He pulled the gauges close to his face. The numbers were encouraging.

  1380 psi.

  Most novice divers were air gluttons. Not Will. The kid had steel woven into his heart—not surprising, after what he had survived only a few weeks before.

  Tomlinson decided to try his flashlight again, so he turned it on, and shined it toward his feet.

  Visibility had improved. He could see his own toes, long and thin, and he could discern the vague shape of Will’s legs next to him. A slow current was siphoning the silt downward, clearing the water.

  An underground river, Tomlinson guessed, flowed beneath them. It was pulling water toward the sea.

  It was still too murky to use his dive slate to communicate with the boy, but it would soon be an option. He patted Will’s arm, switched off his light and considered a few other reassuring facts as he rested.

  Arlis Futch’s truck was loaded with gear. Some of it was safety backup stuff—Ford again—but Arlis had also packed equipment they would need to begin salvage work, if they actually found Batista’s plane.

  There were three or four extra bottles of air and at least two spare regulators. There was an inflatable lift for muling heavy objects to the surface and there was a generator rigged with a compressor pump and hose, used to jet-wash through sand and rocks. It was a sort of reverse-suction dredge. Arlis had built it in his shop—useful for setting pilings at marinas or blasting sand away to expose gold coins.

  That’s what they needed, the jet dredge. The hose was banded to a length of half-inch PVC pipe. It wouldn’t be easy for one man to use alone, but Ford could manage. Arlis would have to stay onshore to monitor the generator and the pump intake.

  Would Ford think of the dredge?

  Of course he would.

  Tomlinson’s thoughts were interrupted by a distinctive sound.

  Tink . . . tink . . . tink . . . tink.

  Tomlinson held his breath, listening. He heard it again: Tink . . . tink . . . tink . . . tink.

  It was Ford, signaling them. He was using his knife to tap on something—a rock, possibly—Tomlinson could picture it. The sound seemed to come from beneath them.

  Without prompting, Will began banging on his air tank in reply, using something metallic, and Tomlinson joined him, using his flashlight. So Ford would know they were both responding, Tomlinson added a signature rhythm—Shave-and-a-haircut . . . two bits.

  It was the knock he sometimes used before entering the lab.

  Ford responded, sounding closer.

  Tomlinson was grinning. He decided to try some basic Morse code abbreviations before using code to remind Ford about the jet dredge. He also wanted to communicate that they had only about twenty minutes of air left.

  Banging the flashlight against his tank, Tomlinson signaled several times, but Ford’s silence told him he didn’t understand, which was frustrating. He tried again. Same result.

  Tomlinson thought, Concentrate, Ford. It was a rare night when the man didn’t sit in his reading chair, fiddling with the dial of his shortwave radio. But did he spend his time learning ham chatter? No—the guy preferred overseas programming, the traditional news source for American State Department types.

  Damn spooks . . .

  Morse code wasn’t working, and the sound of Will’s breathing was as steady and insistent as a ticking clock. Tomlinson tried once again to communicate that they now had only nineteen minutes of air left and clanged much harder, aluminum flashlight against aluminum tank. He rang the bell notes in a methodical way, hoping Ford would count them.

  As his impatience grew, he clanged the tank harder and harder—a mistake. Sound waves have a potent physical energy. It was something that Tomlinson knew, of course, but he didn’t pause to consider.

  As he banged away at the tank, the corrosive sound loosened the limestone. Tomlinson was thinking, Hurry up, Ford—hurry!, when, for the second time, he heard limestone beneath him splinter and he felt the sickening sensation of falling into darkness.

  Beside him, Will Chaser yelled, “’Ummm assss!,” as the floor beneath them collapsed and the vacuum sucked them deeper.

  Tomlinson wrapped his arms over his head, anticipating the crushing weight, as the world went black again.

  SEVEN

  AS I WADED ASHORE, THE MAN WITH THE PISTOL WAS grinning but sounded jittery as he called, “You need some help, Jock-o? We heard you yelling. Drag your ass up here, tell us all about it. Me and Perry, we’re full of ideas.”

  Perry, an intense man, was leaning toward me, his cheek pressed to the rifle. I felt my abdominal muscles constrict. Any second, his finger could slip . . . or he could pull the trigger intentionally.

  I recognized the weapon. It was a battered Winchester 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.