Deep Shadow

TWENTY-SEVEN

I SWUNG THE SPOTLIGHT FROM THE DROP-OFF TO THE surface several times, not worried about alerting Perry now. In fact, I wanted him to see it. He had been floating up there in the dark for forty minutes, scared and cold, and like a moth he would be attracted to light. The Komodo monitor hadn’t reappeared, but I knew it was somewhere out there in the shadows—just as I also knew that I had only a couple of minutes of air left.

I had decided there were only two workable options: I could sprint for the surface and then try to beat the animal to shore or I could attempt a diversion of some sort and buy myself a little extra time. I chose the second option. I’m a strong swimmer, but even without the drag created by my BC and tank it was unlikely I could outswim a monitor.

I had to jettison my gear. As I stripped off my vest, I reviewed the details of a finesse that I hoped was worth a try. What did I have to lose?

From the pocket of my BC, I took a length of nylon cord that was too long, so I had to double it to make it work. I tied one end to the handle of the spotlight and the other end to my tank harness. Next, I removed enough weight from the vest to hold me fast on the bottom for as long as I needed to stay there. Every few seconds, I interrupted my work to scan the area with the light. Maybe because I was exhausted, or maybe because I was resolute, my hands were as steady as the steady thudding of my own heartbeat. If the monitor caught me before I got to shore, so be it. There was nothing more I could do. Arlis was free at least. The man was hurt, but he was also stubborn, and I knew he would somehow manage to return with help.

When I was ready, I lifted my BC and tank harness and held them out in front of me like a shield, tethered to the rig only by my breathing hose. Using the spotlight, I did one last slow circle, hoping I would see the monitor . . . and I did. It was at the edge of the drop-off, peering over the limestone rim, watching me.

I shined the light directly into the monitor’s eyes, but it didn’t spook this time. It stared back at me with two blazing orange mirrors that soon began to undulate, cobralike, so I knew the animal was swimming toward me.

It approached slowly at first as if hypnotized by the beam, but then its eyes grew incrementally larger as it gained speed. I held my ground, watching as the monitor closed the distance, coming fast now, thrusting hard with its prehistoric tail, creating a trail of silt explosions as it sought maximum speed, vectoring in for the kill.

I was taking deep breaths, hyperventilating to reduce carbon dioxide in my bloodstream, trying to overoxygenate my lungs for what I hoped happened next. I was working the spotlight with my right hand and I had the vest’s emergency inflation cord in my left. Pull the cord and CO₂ cartridges would inflate the BC like a balloon.

I waited for another long second—the monitor was less than fifteen yards from impact, its bulk casting a shadow on the sand the size of a Cessna, its weight alone enough to snap my spine if it hit me.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to wait another second. I took a last deep breath. Simultaneously, then, I spit the regulator from my mouth and ripped the emergency cord downward. There was an explosive hiss that snatched the spotlight and the vest from my hands.

When I felt the rig rocket skyward, I fell back among the rocks, knees against my chest, lead weights on my lap, and I held my breath. I didn’t move. I couldn’t even allow myself to brace for a collision that I knew would preface my last cognitive thoughts.

There was a rhythmic, crackling silence that I recognized as the flex of muscle fiber as the animal closed on me. My eyes opened. The world was all blackness and shadow, yet I still perceived a deeper, streaming darkness that was the monitor lizard. It soared past me, rocking my body with a shock wave of displaced water. I didn’t allow my head to move, but my eyes followed the shadow upward as it arched toward the surface, chasing the spotlight, which was now spinning wildly beneath the vest, casting a bizarre propeller blur of white that pierced the darkness like random lightning.

I waited and watched. Methodically, I removed the lead weights from my lap and then activated the night vision monocular, but not the infrared because using the infrared was to invite death. On the surface, I could see a collective, frenzied thrashing that was suggestive of a shark feeding. I didn’t pause to observe. I pushed away from the rocks and swam close to the bottom, following the contour of sand and rock for more than a minute, until I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, and then I surfaced—less than thirty yards from shore, I guessed.

Sound was suddenly added to the turmoil I had witnessed underwater. I could hear a wild splashing and Perry’s voice screaming, “King! Pull me in! My God . . . King! There’s something out here. Please! King!”

I didn’t look back. I put my head down and sprinted for shore, taking long, strong strokes and kicking hard with my fins. I could either deal with King on land or risk the monitor coming after me when it was done with Perry.

It wasn’t a difficult choice to make.