FOURTEEN

WHEN THE TEENAGER, WILL CHASER, DROPPED HIS emergency air bottle, it was several seconds before Tomlinson noticed that the boy was in trouble.

Tomlinson was at the top of the chamber, using his flashlight to peer through a hole into a small room that reminded him of a snow globe—one of those little glass balls with a snowman inside or a Christmas tree next to a cake-icing chalet.

Instead of a miniature Swiss house, though, the room contained what even from a distance Tomlinson could see were man-made artifacts. There was pottery. Lots of broken shards, but a whole bowl, too. The pottery possessed an ancient Mayan curvature.

Was that a flint spear point?

Yes. There were several Indian points, plus what looked like carved fishhooks. And . . . he saw splinters of bone. There were bones scattered everywhere, and what might have been the carapace from a long-dead turtle.

That’s how clear the water was above them.

Into Tomlinson’s mind came an image. Shake the rock room and snow—or silt, in this case—would swirl in an enclosed universe that was as round and rough as a geode, forever insulated from the outside world. Added to the image were the flint artifacts. People had lived in this room, but then time had stopped when the earth had changed, causing the sea level to rise.

Tomlinson liked the thought of that. It redirected his attention from the horror of their predicament. The hole he was looking through was small, no wider than his own thigh. By wedging the flashlight close to his ear, though, he could fit his faceplate into the opening and see the far side of the room, where flint and bones and pottery were scattered and where small stalactites dripped from the ceiling.

Strange. Otherworldly. The room suggested a safe haven, even though it refused Tomlinson entrance. Thousands of years ago, people—a small tribe, perhaps—had flourished in this space, only to vanish into a refuge of time and silence and darkness.

That darkness would soon claim him, Tomlinson suspected. Probably within a very few minutes unless Ford pulled off a miracle. The man was capable of doing just that, although Ford would have been the last to believe it. But even if the darkness didn’t claim Tomlinson now, it soon would . . . So why did the timing matter?

As Tomlinson exhaled, he noted the sound and shape of his own exhaust bubbles. The bubbles expanded into silver oblong vessels, then burst into a star scape of smaller bubbles that scattered along the rock ceiling seeking corridors of ascent.

Watching the bubbles, Tomlinson felt a welling, peaceful euphoria. Transition . . . transformation . . . reformation. It was all right there, the whole human enchilada, inches from his own eyes.

It was kinda nice. Yeah, nice. No . . . it was perfect.

The feeling wasn’t anything like some of the more familiar sensations that Tomlinson treasured. For instance, the warming kick of a rum shooter after sex on a rainy summer night. Yet what he was now experiencing, this strange sense of perfection, was in its way more comforting. His end was near—this portion of the journey, anyway. Indeed, what did the timing matter?

Tomlinson reminded himself, Because of the boy, butterfly brain.That’s why the timing matters.

Which is when Tomlinson turned and shined the flashlight to check on Will and saw the kid fighting like a madman trying to swim toward the bottom of the chamber. Tomlinson noted that the kid was also trying to free the little Spare Air bottle from the D ring on his vest. Will’s regulator was flailing behind him as he battled toward the bottom, and Tomlinson thought, Christ, the kid’s out of air!

Tomlinson pivoted to swim after the boy as Will finally got the Spare Air bottle loose. But the thing somehow went tumbling from his hand and spiraled toward the sand below, where, Tomlinson could see, the larger reserve canister lying eight feet beneath them.

How the hell had Will managed to drop them both? It was a pointless question, and Tomlinson swam harder to intercept the boy. As he did, he understood why Will was having to fight so hard to get to the bottom. He and the boy had not only abandoned their fins, they had dumped all of their lead weight. Even with their BCs deflated, their bodies were ultrabuoyant now.

Tomlinson screamed through his regulator as he waved the flashlight to get the kid’s attention. Then he pointed the beam at his own body, hoping Will would swim toward him instead of the air bottles. At that same time, Tomlinson ascended briefly to get a better start, then somersaulted downward.

He got both feet against the ceiling, the buoyancy of his body pressing him solidly against the rocks. He pushed off hard toward the boy only to feel the ceiling crumble as he thrust away. It killed his momentum, and Tomlinson began drifting upward again no matter how hard he stroked and kicked, and he soon banged hard against what was left of the limestone ceiling.

By God! He wasn’t going to let it end like this!

Tomlinson jammed the flashlight into his vest, pushed off harder and tried to swim downward in the sudden gloom, but he couldn’t fight his own buoyancy. He soared upward, and his tank, then his head, banged off the ceiling. An instant later, something kicked Tomlinson hard in the jaw, knocking off his mask.

It was Will’s foot!

Without clearing his mask, Tomlinson felt around until he got a grip on the top of the kid’s air bottle. He pulled Will toward him while simultaneously thrusting his own regulator toward what he hoped was Will’s face. Hands found Tomlinson’s hands, yanking the regulator away, as the two of them floated along the ceiling like zeppelins, then thudded hard against the rocks.

Holding his breath, Tomlinson cleared his mask, then found his flashlight. He pressed the button and was relieved to see Will’s face inches from his own. The kid was sucking air, his eyes wide but not wild. Will was still in control, his attention focused inward until he’d taken enough breaths for his brain to function.

As Will passed the regulator back to Tomlinson, the kid’s expression read Man, that was close!

Buddy-breathing, Will handled the exchange as if he had been doing it all his life. Talk about grace under fire! Tomlinson wanted to hug the kid. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he would in a few minutes, as a final gesture of respect and farewell, because, after passing the regulator back to Will, Tomlinson checked his own gauges.

200 psi.

His tank was redlining, almost no air left. They might have five minutes tops, but probably far less with the way the boy was now drinking down the gas.

When Will pushed the regulator toward Tomlinson. Tomlinson refused it by holding up a hand. He steered the mouthpiece back toward the boy, as he allowed his body to relax, feeling his heart decelerate as his brain nibbled at the air within him.

Very slowly, Tomlinson shined the light toward the bottom. Because of the rocks he had kicked free, the water was murky, but he could see the two miniature tanks. He could also see that they were now partially covered by rocks that had fallen from the ceiling.

Tomlinson reached for his dive slate and wrote: Spares empty?

As the boy shook his head no, Tomlinson realized that it was a stupid question. Both Spare Air bottles had to be full or they wouldn’t have sunk.

Tomlinson swung the light toward the roof of the chamber. What he saw gave him hope. The hole into the snow globe, where he had seen bones and artifacts, was now as wide as a drainpipe. When he’d pushed off from the ceiling, he had kicked some of the limestone free.

Tomlinson took another look at his gauges. The depth gauge was inexact at this depth, but it read 9 ft.

My God, the sky was so damn close! Their own familiar world, rich with air, was only a few feet away.

Tomlinson accepted the regulator from Will. He took two long, slow breaths, thinking about what they should do next. Obviously, they should follow the passage upward—but should he go after the extra air bottles first?

Yes. He had to.

After Tomlinson had passed the regulator back to Will, he held up an index finger, then used the flashlight to illuminate the opening above them. It was close, only a few yards away. He let the kid see him smile, wanting to communicate We still have a chance, then handed the flashlight to Will before he ripped open the Velcro straps and slipped out of his BC.

Man, it felt good to be free of that damn cumbersome vest!

Taking his time, Tomlinson put the flashlight in his teeth and breast-stroked to the bottom. In slow motion, he anchored one hand to a slab of limestone, gathered both bottles, then allowed his body to drift upward. As he ascended, he twisted open a valve on one of the bottles and took an experimental breath.

Air!

The spare bottles didn’t contain much. A couple minutes of breathing time in the small bottle and maybe five or ten minutes in the larger bottle. They were for emergencies only—like now, for instance.

When Tomlinson was beside Will again, he exchanged the bottle for his own regulator. Tomlinson waited to be sure the kid was comfortable breathing from the miniature tank, then motioned for him to follow.

Using his hands to pull himself along the top of the chamber, Tomlinson returned to the opening into the snow globe. Once again, he peered up into the geode-round room, where the water wasn’t so clear now but still clear enough. He could see the broken chunks of pottery, the turtle carapace, the elegant vase that had been resting on its side half buried in white coral sand for who knew how many thousands of years.

The hole into the chamber was wide enough to wiggle through, yet he hesitated. Tomlinson understood why he was reluctant without having to explore his own irrational response.

Or . . . maybe it wasn’t so irrational. If the karst vent they were following dead-ended here, then they, too, were dead. Tomlinson much preferred the inexplicable to the inexorable. The unknown offered hope at least.

There was no avoiding the reality of what lay beyond, though. It was their only option, so he pushed himself through into the room, using a minimum of movement not only to conserve what little air he had remaining but also because he hated the idea of corrupting this idyllic pure space with silt—the murk of his own presence.

Tomlinson kept his legs together as if they were tied. He kept his arms at his sides. He used only his fingers to propel and guide his body as he floated into the room.

Will Chaser didn’t hesitate, but he’d spent enough time by now to know that even the smallest movement in an underwater cave destroyed visibility. Kick too hard with a fin, stir the water with a free hand, and a cloud would form instantly and suck the light from his eyes.

Darkness. It was something else Will Chaser knew about.


Will mimicked Tomlinson’s spare movements. He used his left hand to hold the air bottle to his mouth and he used the fingers of his right hand to propel himself crablike into a space that was illuminated in corridors of white by Tomlinson’s flashlight.

Two corpses floating to the surface . . .

That was the image that came into Tomlinson’s mind as his hand reached upward toward the ceiling of the snow globe. If this was to be their end, this was a fitting place. It was an ancient room where a people had vanished into time and space before them. When he was close enough, Tomlinson touched the rock barrier gently, gently, allowing his fingers to explore the rough surface.

The limestone felt solid—but that didn’t mean much as Tomlinson knew too well. Using his flashlight, he moved along the top of the chamber hoping to find another opening. The room was small, the ceiling uniform. There was no opening that he could see.

This isn’t what Tomlinson had expected. Until this instant, Tomlinson had believed, in some deep, private space, that they would find a way out. Not that he knew a lot about the topography of caves—he didn’t. It was more of an intuitive belief that, once again, good luck and good karma would steer him to safety.

Tomlinson was an enthusiastic skin diver but a reluctant scuba diver. He preferred the simplicity of minimal gear—mask, snorkel and fins only. He disliked the straitjacket constraints of scuba. An aluminum tank whacking him in the back of the head whenever he attempted a bit of spontaneous underwater ballet was irritating.

However, he had logged many hours diving wrecks—usually with Ford. It was through Ford that Tomlinson had been introduced to the small community of scuba loonies—tech-freak athletes, he thought of them—who lived to explore Florida’s underwater caves. His information on the subject had come from this small, devoted group of people.

It was from cave divers that Tomlinson had heard rumors of subterranean air bells that sometimes existed below the water table. He knew the story of the female cave diver who had failed to surface, was presumed dead but found alive three hours later, her face pressed tight to a rock ceiling where there was a three-inch layer of air. The woman had supplemented the air supply by emptying her BC into the space.

Tomlinson knew that such air bells were rare—if they did indeed exist. Especially in Florida, where limestone was too permeable to create the pressure-tight enclosure required. Physics also required that the cavern exist prior to the sea level’s rise. Only then could air pressure, locked in such a rock chamber, exert sufficient force to find equilibrium with the pressure of rising water.

It was an unlikely combination. When Tomlinson found the snow globe, though, with its artifacts and prehistoric silence, he believed that his secret hope—the hope of finding an air bell—had been realized. It would have been yet another example of his precognitive abilities meshing with his paranormal powers. Once again, good luck and karma were destined to save his ass.

Not this time. Tomlinson had found his prehistoric cave. But it did not contain a prehistoric air bell.

When Tomlinson glanced at his depth gauge, though, he felt another spark of hope. According to it, they were now only five feet beneath the surface. Five feet!

The spark soon faded as he thought it through. What the hell difference did it make if they were within arm’s reach of the surface or a hundred feet beneath it when they ran out of air?

The answer was zero difference. They would still drown.

Tomlinson’s attention shifted from the room’s construction to Will. The boy was ascending from below. Once again, Tomlinson was impressed. The teen remained almost motionless as he entered the globe. There were isolated explosions of silt around Will’s finger as he maneuvered his body, but the eruptions were small and brief. The water in the little room remained clear.

With the flashlight, Tomlinson got the kid’s attention, then pointed out the artifacts one by one. He thought Will would find them interesting while also encouraging him to continue his slow ascent. The artifacts might even comfort the boy during his last breathing minutes on earth. Tomlinson was now convinced that that was the case.

This is a good spot to wait for the Big Guy to finally pull the plug. Karmic, even. Sort of peaceful.

It was as if they had reached a chosen terminus. The pre-Columbian artifacts were reminders that Will was the progeny of an ancient race, and so the symmetry was plain enough. Will Chaser was a mix of Indian descent: Sioux, Seminole and Apache. He was a full-blooded “Skin,” in the vernacular of western reservations, as Tomlinson knew through his association with members of AIM, the American Indian Movement.

Something else Tomlinson knew, however, was that Will didn’t like discussing his own Indianness. Maybe that’s why destiny had brought them here to die. One night, at the marina, Tomlinson had brought up the subject of Pan-Indianism. When he had suggested that Will consider embarking on a vision quest, the kid had actually flipped him the bird. It was a spunky response that Tomlinson admired, but it was also telling.

No need to discuss the boy’s reaction. Tomlinson understood. Will had grown up living in reservation slums, attending Oklahoma boarding schools—a euphemism for “reform school.” He had seen too much fakery in the made-in-China tourist shops and in the nearby towns where blue-eyed shamans dressed themselves in feathers and vinyl, then charged for sweat-lodge revelations.

Tomlinson had visited similar places. He had watched eager Buckeyes and moon-eyed intellectuals wait patiently in line for a nine-minute mystical experience that was followed by a post-sweat lodge buffet, cash bar only.

“That Indian stuff’s all bullshit and you know it,” the boy had told Tomlinson that same night at the marina. Ford, who happened to be close enough to hear, had nodded in agreement.

Ironic now, considering where they were. It had been impossible to argue about the power of spiritual synergy—until this moment—and neither he nor the boy had enough air to argue.

Tomlinson used the flashlight and let the contents of the snow globe make his point. He took his time, spotlighting one artifact after another. The snow globe became a life-sized diorama of pre-Columbian life. There was the spear point. It was six inches long, waxen silver like crystal. The fishhooks might have been made of bone, not flint. The vase looked as if it had been abandoned only days ago instead of several thousand years ago. The turtle carapace, wide as a suitcase, was pocked with barnacle scars from an ancient ocean.

As Tomlinson lighted the artifacts, he became aware of something else: His flashlight was getting dim. It reminded him of yet another error in judgment that he had recently made. Ford had loaned him the light and was looking for fresh batteries when Tomlinson had waved him away impatiently, as if Ford’s prissy concern for details would mar yet another gorgeous Florida day. Yes, the beam of the light was dimming. Not good—even worse because the boy’s cheap little flashlight was already out of juice.

Which would give out first? Their batteries or their air?

Air first, Tomlinson decided. That was better. Their end would be easier to deal with in light rather than darkness, so he left the light on as Will moved close beside him, then found his shoulder for stability.

Tomlinson gave the boy a moment to collect himself, then shined the light on the ceiling so they could decipher each other’s facial expressions. Eyes only inches apart, Tomlinson attempted communication.

“Ah oohh ohhh-ayyy?”

Tomlinson had asked, Are you okay?

Will replied, “Eee-utt! Ellll oooh! ’Uttt-ooh—eeenk?”

Idiot! Hell no! What do you—think?

Tomlinson held a palm up, telling the kid to calm himself. They had come to a juncture so painful that he felt like bawling. How do you tell a sixteen-year-old boy that this is the end? Tomlinson considered writing something comforting and profound on his dive slate, but what? There was no way a few words could convince Will Chaser that the best thing to do now was relax, let his consciousness float into God’s own flow, that he should accept what was coming.

Tomlinson decided to try. On his dive slate he wrote, Sorry, brother! We’re fucked.

The boy studied the slate for a second before staring into Tomlinson’s eyes, then the teenager flipped him yet another bird.

“’Uuuuck oohhhh!”

Will was still spunky, no doubt about it. It was a heartening response—and there was no mistaking the kid’s fiery reaction. Will was also impatient, and he grabbed Tomlinson by the shoulder, then shook him hard, saying, “Auhh-uhh ’ut ayyyy. ’Eh oh!”

Almost out of air. Let’s go!

Go where? Tomlinson didn’t waste gas by replying because the answer was all around them. There was no escape. The room was round and solid. There were no shadowed vents, no rock creases to dig away at in the hope of continuing onward.

As the kid moved away, exploring the ceiling on his own, Tomlinson followed him with the flashlight. As he did, he felt an overwhelming flood of remorse.

Don’t worry about Will, Tomlinson had told Ford. I assume all responsibility.

Now here they were. Another day, yet another dumb-ass decision on his part. Marion Ford, as an accessory to the boy’s death, would no doubt process a variety of emotions, but surprise that Tomlinson had screwed up once again would not be among them.

Tomlinson thought, I’m a menace to myself and to everyone who’s ever known me.

It wasn’t the first time he had thought those words. In his lowest moments, alone aboard his sailboat, he sometimes punished himself with what he alone knew was the truth about himself. Truth was, he was a fraud. He was a self-constructed caricature. He was an elaborate spider-web of pretense who, at day’s end, counted success only by his own selfish excesses.

Even in his lowest moments, though, Tomlinson knew that he was also a devoted admirer of his fellow human beings. He valued people. He admired them for their failings as well as their strengths. But Tomlinson sometimes also believed that he had perverted his own kindness into an effective trap. His affection for others had earned him many free drinks and forgiving friends, and it had won him an eager bedroom willingness from women who believed in his goodness—despite their own good sense, and their own moral obligations.

Tomlinson had many female friends. For him, women were neither a quest nor an obsession. Loving and adoring and pleasing women was more a way of life—a fact that he seldom discussed, even with Ford, and never, ever bragged about.

Tomlinson delighted in the perfumed tribe. It was his nature. He lusted for their confidences and their whispered secrets and their trust even more eagerly than he lusted after their bodies. It didn’t matter if the women were engaged or even married. He loved the ceremony of undressing a lady as much as a kid enjoyed unwrapping presents on Christmas Day. Snapping a woman’s bra free, then leaning to behold her breasts—those sacred, weighty icons of earthen femininity—ranked right up there with the very best God had to offer.

For Tomlinson, the actual sex act wasn’t as important as sharing the profound intimacy that women offered, although getting a woman into bed was one of the consistent perks, as he now had to admit to himself.

I’m a good-for-nothing dog, Tomlinson thought as he watched the teenager explore the chamber. I don’t deserve the air I’m breathing.

Convinced it was true, he began to move along the ceiling in slow pursuit of Will. As he did, he pulled open the Velcro straps of his BC and began to remove his vest and tank. He would give the boy the last of his air.

I’m not going to die wearing a damn straitjacket!

It was something Tomlinson had vowed long ago under circumstances that in fact were more stressful than being trapped underwater in a cave.

He thought, I’m dying a whole man. Free. Not stoned, unfortunately—but who could ask for more?

Tomlinson felt himself smile. In that instant, he perceived an unexpected truth. A final act of kindness was an invitation to absolution—and absolution was available in no other form.

When Will sensed Tomlinson behind him, he turned. The beam of the flashlight was flickering now. He watched Tomlinson take a long, slow breath—the man was smiling for some reason—before he removed his regulator and offered it to Will.

Will spoke through the Spare Air mouthpiece, saying, “Eeer-duho ’ippie. Auuk eet uff!”

Weirdo hippie. Knock it off!

Will refused the regulator. Instead, he took the light from Tomlinson’s hand and used it to point to something embedded in the ceiling of the cave. Tomlinson had been so lost in introspection that it took a moment to swivel his attention from death to what he was seeing only inches from his eyes.

What the hell had the kid found now?

Holding his breath, Tomlinson pressed his faceplate close to the ceiling in the failing light. Will had discovered tree roots, he realized. A network of roots. Cypress trees probably were growing overhead only a few feet above them.

Tomlinson reached for his dive slate intending to write, Use your knife!

Before he finished, though, the flashlight flickered, then went out.

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