Deep Shadow df-17

by Randy Wayne White

  A blue watch face with a silver bezel, Tomlinson had rationalized, would not complement Marion Ford’s no-nonsense approach to life. A Chronofighter Black Seal, orange on black, was a better fit for a man who eschewed bright colors and bravado.

  It was a lie, of course. Only one of many untruths, half-truths and bald-faced inventions to which he had subjected Ford over the years, a fact that Tomlinson now admitted to himself.

  I took my best pal’s watch. I slept with the woman he’s dating.That’s low, man. Dying underwater, like the bottom-feeder I am—it’s exactly what I deserve.

  In Tomlinson’s brain, a refrain echoed: I’m a fraud. A fraud . . . I am a silly, selfish fraud.

  At his very core, Tomlinson believed this was true. So why wait to die? He was afraid of what came next, but the case he was building against himself didn’t leave an honorable option.

  For an instant, Tomlinson came close to exhaling the last breath he would ever take. He told himself he should welcome whatever came next in life’s strange journey by inhaling water, which was the same as inhaling death.

  He thought about it. He thought about it intensely, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Giving up was not the same as giving in, he realized—a last-ditch tenacity that would not have surprised Ford, but it was like a revelation to Tomlinson.

  Truth was, he didn’t fear death. What terrified him was the prospect of not living.

  As his bloodstream exhausted the last of the air in his lungs, Tomlinson thought frantically, Screw the next incarnation! I’m not ready to leave—not yet.

  He had just bought a new watch, for chrissake!

  Instead of inhaling water, Tomlinson decided to continue holding his breath as long as he could and wait for death to take him. He dreaded the panic that was to come. He feared the loss of control, the frenzy. He feared the escalating terror and even the broken fingernails. He was terrified of the whole sad endgame, but that’s the way it would undoubtedly be.

  Jesus Christ, what a miserable way to go—like some bat-blind catfish. I’m a bottom-feeder who’s finally paying for his sins.

  That gave Tomlinson pause. How could the Buddha, the Serene Prince, have his fingers in this ugly business? Universal consciousness had played a role? This was hard for Tomlinson to accept.

  It’s a shitty trick to pull on anyone, I don’t care who’s behind it!

  Yes, it was. At least three times in previous years, Tomlinson believed that he had died only to be reborn to some unfathomable purpose that he had yet to divine. But those deaths had been as swift as a lightning strike. ZAP, and that was all she wrote. None of this having to consciously decide the moment of one’s own departure bullshit.

  There was no avoiding it, though. This was the hand he had been dealt. If he drank down the last of the kid’s air, Tomlinson would enter eternity as he had lived—as a fraud, a selfish fraud. He was determined not to let that happen.

  If I don’t want to die like a fraud, I have to start living like the person I pretend to be . . .

  There was no getting around the truth in that, either. Tomlinson knew now exactly what was required of him.

  All right, then, he decided, I’ll do it.

  He put one hand on the cave wall to steady himself. He tried to ignore a growing, glowing esophageal burn as his blood cells absorbed the last of his body’s oxygen. Experimenting, he exhaled a few bubbles and told himself to relax, but the burning only got worse.

  Tomlinson could hear Will Chaser still using his knife to chop at the ceiling of the snow globe. The rhythm increased until it matched the throbbing in Tomlinson’s ears, yet fragments of thought continued to form slowly, even peacefully, in his brain. They were veiled arguments against death, he realized, presenting themselves for inspection.

  If I die, who’ll look after my boat? Ford? Ford hates sailboats—he’d never admit it, but it’s true.

  An image of No Más floated behind Tomlinson’s eyes, the sailboat riding low in the water because the bilge pumps had burned themselves dry . . . or possibly because the batteries had gone dead from neglect. Next, he saw his boat at some sterile modern marina, all tin and plastic, his beloved home a vandalized wreck awaiting auction.

  It was another rationalization—he knew it even as the images formed and reformed—yet the images were convincing because the prospect of abandoning No Más, of allowing the boat to suffer that degree of humiliation, was too much to bear.

  Before he realized that his hands were moving, Tomlinson had grabbed the backup octopus hose of his regulator and jammed the mouthpiece between his teeth. After two deep breaths, he settled back a little and began to relax. Dark thoughts about his sailboat were replaced by the reality of what the boy was doing. The sound of Will using the knife, hacking at the ceiling, dominated the darkness. Will was fixated on the tangle of tree roots that pierced the chamber’s roof—incontrovertible proof that sweet winter air was only a few feet above them.

  Tomlinson told himself, One more breath. That’s all I’ll take. One more and I’m done. I’ll leave the rest for the kid. He’ll need it soon.

  Three breaths later, Tomlinson had to remind himself that the pony canister Will was using had to be almost empty. The same was true of his own tank. Reluctantly, Tomlinson felt around until he found the gauge panel on his BC and then experienced a perverse sense of relief because the pressure gauge was unreadable without a flashlight to shine on the thing.

  Even so, he knew that the needle had to be close to zero. It was Will’s air, not his, Tomlinson told himself. Just because he had lived his life as a fraud didn’t mean that he must go out that way.

  Enough, he thought. I’m done.

  Done breathing, and this time he meant it.

  Tomlinson removed the regulator from his mouth. He waited for several seconds, testing his own resolve, then allowed himself to smile because now he was sure he was doing the right thing. There was no going back. He had lived a big, wild thunder squall of a life—lots of wind and energy and lightning—but the kid was only sixteen. With a few extra minutes, there was no telling what might happen. The boy could still be saved. Dig through those roots before their main tank ran out and Will Chaser might find a little pocket of air.

  It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. It was also possible that Ford might yet appear, even though many minutes had passed since they’d heard the sound of the jet dredge.

  As the boy continued to chop away, Tomlinson’s attention returned to his watch. How long could he hold his breath? He still didn’t know. He watched the sweep hand closely.

  Only forty-three seconds, it turned out.

  Tomlinson was still smiling as he exhaled the last of his air. He hesitated before turning his face skyward. He opened his mouth . . . and then he inhaled deeply.

  Nearby, in the darkness, as Tomlinson gagged and began to convulse, Will Chaser stopped digging long enough to yell through his mouthpiece, “Eeee atttt? Oook! Iyyyy eeee ’ight!”

  Will was telling Tomlinson, See that? Look! I see daylight!

  When Tomlinson invited the inevitable by inhaling water, his body’s involuntary response systems kicked in and saved him from drowning—temporarily.

  A message in the form of a reflex arc skipped his brain and flowed directly through the spinal cord, sealing his epiglottis tight and causing him to choke. When he choked, though, his lungs spasmed, which caused him to inhale yet more water.

  Tomlinson’s last thought before he blacked out wasn’t serene, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. An old voice came to him as if snaking down a tunnel. It spoke the same words he had used to comfort himself the first time he had eaten peyote and then proceeded to embark on a hellishly bad journey—a ball tester of a trip—that had been gifted to him by the Cactus Flower God.

  I’ve gotta ride this ugly snake ’til she’s winded. This bullshit can’t go on forever . . .

  The message dimmed, then vanished as Tomlinson’s brain went black.

  What seemed like ho
urs later but in fact was only seconds later, Tomlinson regained consciousness. He was aware of a globe of gray light above him. It wasn’t the late-afternoon sky he was seeing. He was looking up into yet another rock chamber.

  Water sloshed at ear level, his mask was gone and his face was pressed tight into what felt like muck. It was a viscous substance that had an odor unlike anything he had ever smelled before.

  Will Chaser was holding him, Tomlinson realized, the boy’s fist wrapped in his ponytail. Will had Tomlinson’s face pressed hard against the ceiling of the snow globe so tight that Tomlinson couldn’t turn his head. He could shift his eyes, though, but when he did he saw nothing.

  Where had his face mask gone? Where was the boy’s pony canister?

  Tomlinson tried to speak but gagged, then he vomited. When he vomited, he thrust his hands out and broke Will’s grip. An instant later, he was underwater and floating, encased in darkness again.

  Where the hell am I?

  Tomlinson felt the boy’s hand pull him up by the collar of his wet suit. Will found Tomlinson’s ponytail once more and thrust his face tight against the ceiling, where, Tomlinson was slow to realize, there was a small hole that exited above water level.

  It was a breathing hole! Will had chopped his way through the roots. The kid had found a way to survive!

  Tomlinson coughed until his lungs were clear enough and finally took a good long breath. The breath filled his lungs but the air tasted horrible.

  Tomlinson spoke without a regulator in his mouth for the first time since they had entered the lake. “Goddamn, man,” he muttered. “It smells like something crawled in here and died. What stinks?”

  He turned his head. Will was beside him, but his head was submerged. Tomlinson could see the boy’s left hand next to his ear. Will’s fingers were wrapped in tree roots, anchoring them close to the roof of the snow globe.

  Every few seconds, air bubbles exploded around Tomlinson’s nose. It took a moment for his brain to translate the data—the emergency canister was empty and now the boy was using the last of the air in Tomlinson’s tank to save them both.

  Tomlinson reached out and used his fingers, digging, to make the hole around his mouth and nose wider, but the ceiling was an amalgam of roots, rock and muck. Bare hands wouldn’t do the job, and the hole was too small for two people to breathe from at the same time.

  He thought, If I ever do another dive, I’m carrying a knife! I’m a dunce!

  Tomlinson felt around until he found a good handhold, then ducked underwater as he pulled Will toward the hole, hoping that the kid understood. It took some pulling and pushing, but Will finally got the message. They would share the breathing space, and the last of the air, so that Will could continue using the knife to widen the hole.

  Over the next few minutes, they developed a workable system. Tomlinson would take several breaths of the foul air, then it was Will’s turn. While Will was at the hole, Tomlinson waited in darkness, eyes closed, body relaxed, listening to the kid’s methodical digging. They rarely used the tank now—only when Will got tired or when Tomlinson felt the need to cleanse the stink from his lungs. He was getting into the challenge of holding his breath, sometimes glancing at the firefly dots of his watch and counting off the seconds as if they were a mantra.

  Think of this as meditation. Only difference is, this is the real deal. I have to breathe through my belly and focus on the hara center. Do it right and I can extract air from the water—it’s there to use! So what if the Serene Prince tried to screw me? The Buddha has been laughing at fools for a thousand years.

  Once into Tomlinson’s mind came the image of Will swinging the knife too hard, the stainless blade ricocheting off a rock, and he felt a welling terror. What would happen if the boy dropped the knife?

  Lose the knife and they were goners. They would never escape from this hellish place with its unholy odor. They would be doomed to share the breathing hole—like two incompetent Arctic seals—until hypothermia or insanity put their reins into God’s hands.

  Negative vibes, man. I gotta stop thinking this vicious crap. Find a positive wavelength, that’s what I have to do. I must allow the good vibes to multiply.

  After half an hour of digging, and sharing the airhole, Tomlinson nudged Will away long enough to shout out several calls for help. It wasn’t the first time that he and the boy had tried, and he didn’t expect results. That’s when a better idea came into Tomlinson’s mind. He thrust two fingers into his mouth and tortured his own eardrums by blowing a rhythmic series of piercing notes.

  Shave-and-a-haircut . . . two bits.

  Three times Tomlinson whistled for help, but then he felt a structural tremor in the limestone beneath them and thought, Oh, no . . . not this bullshit again.

  That was the end of that—for a while, anyway. It was better to dig their way to safety, Tomlinson decided, than to risk another catastrophe.

  As Will continued to dig, Tomlinson made an effort to move his consciousness on to a brighter plane of thought. One of the basic exercises in Vipassana meditation was to perceive air flowing through the body as if the veins and capillaries were a river. Considering the situation, how much more positive could he get?

  When the river moves—watch it! When the river stops—feel it!

  Tomlinson’s focus shifted to an imaginary breathing port in his belly. His eyes monitored the sweep hand on his watch, timing himself. Every ninety seconds or so, he would take a breath or two from the octopus hose and then return to his meditation while Will hacked away.

  Because of the watch, Tomlinson was able to mark to the second when it happened. They had been using the tank sparingly, but this time when he placed the regulator in his mouth and attempted to inhale he got nothing. There wasn’t enough pressure inside the thing to open the demand lever in his mouthpiece.

  Beside him, he felt Will’s body jolt—the boy had attempted to grab a breath from the primary hose and his regulator had gone dead at the same instant.

  It was almost sunset, 5:45 p.m.

  They were out of air.

  EIGHTEEN

  ONE HOUR AFTER SUNSET, AT 7:12 P.M., KING SAID TO me, “Well, Jock-o, the ball’s in your corner now. Come back with a big fat sack of coins and we’ll say adios to you and Grandpa and be on our merry way. But if it turns out you’ve been lying”—King laughed as if he was sure I had been lying—“you can’t blame us for being seriously pissed off. Understand what I’m saying?”

  He hurled a net bag at me. They had cut me loose, and because the truck was running, lights on, I was able to duck before the bag hit me in the face.

  I had resumed the tactic of ignoring King, and was speaking only to Perry. As I Velcroed a spare bottle to a harness, then added a clip-on weight, I said to him, “You can push all you want, but I still need someone in the water to help me with the jet dredge.”

  Perry replied, “That’s something we’ll have to talk about.” Sending a private signal to me, possibly. Since King would be the one going in the water, maybe he didn’t want to discuss it in front of his partner. I took it as a good sign.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Later. But I want some proof this time.”

  I said, “Okay—but keep him away from that dredge until I need him. Keep him away from all my gear, in fact.”

  King claimed he had repaired the hose. He hadn’t, of course, so I had made the dredge marginally workable by screwing a radiator clamp tight at the end of the hose to constrict water flow. It would cut through sand, but it wouldn’t move rock.

  Perry was irritable and tired of making decisions. “You don’t say much, but, when you do, it’s always trouble.”

  I told him, “Blame your partner, not me.”

  King snapped, “I didn’t break that hose and you know it. Stop blaming other people for your own screwups. That’s a sign of immaturity, Jock-o.”

  The man was maddening. I let him see that I wasn’t listening, but he continued to talk, anyway.


  “How about this? How about you do what we tell you to do and keep your mouth shut? What’s so hard about that? I think you’ve been around ol’ Perry long enough to know he’s got quite a temper on him when things don’t go our way. Dredge or no dredge, you’d better come back with more coins, Jock-o. If you don’t, Grandpa will end up with a knife in his ribs—and you’re next on the menu.”

  I was sitting at the edge of the lake doing a final check of my gear. Everything had to be as solid as I could make it for this dive and I didn’t have much to work with. There were only two tanks of air left, counting the bottle I would use, and one extra regulator. An important additional piece of equipment was a fishing reel I had found in the back of Arlis’s truck. It was an old Penn grouper reel, loaded with a couple hundred yards of monofilament that would be useful if I needed to put down a lay line. Old fishing line was a poor substitute for a thousand yards of nylon cord on a Jasper reel, but it would have to do.

  The two cons didn’t know it, of course, but I wasn’t going into the lake to fetch coins. I was going down into that damn drainpipe-sized cave again to search for Tomlinson and Will.

  I hadn’t imagined hearing Tomlinson’s shrill whistle. Maybe the boy was still alive, too. They had somehow managed to find an air bell or a breathing space above the water table. It had to be one of the two, and now they were trapped beneath the limestone awaiting rescue.

  I went over and over it in my mind, arguing the likelihood. In all my reading, I could remember only a few rare mentions of air bells. Those were in caves formed during the Pleistocene before the water table fell and then rose again—but I had never heard of an air bell in Florida. Limestone was too porous to maintain the watertight seal an air pocket requires, but it was possible. More likely, though, they had dug their way close enough to the surface to breathe through a hole or some type of vent yet were unable to break free for some reason.