Deep Shadow

bad influences in his life.

Ford didn’t particularly like the teenager, that was obvious. But the man still felt some responsibility because Will was traveling with Ford’s on-again, off-again squeeze, the high-powered Iron Maiden, Barbara Hayes.

Barbara was not always iron, as Tomlinson had discovered only three nights before, and she was certainly no unschooled maiden.

I’m a sinner, God knows it, so let the games begin!

More than a tad ripped on rum, Tomlinson had said exactly that to Barbara an hour after she’d left Doc Ford’s lab, where they’d eaten dinner. Really excellent snapper, with peanut gravy, but the lady was pissed off about something, no telling what. Tomlinson had said the words just before unsnapping the Iron Maiden’s bra free, the first ceremonial, no-going-back gesture in the betrayal of his best friend.

Later that evening, the betrayal had caused Tomlinson much angst. He was a sensitive man with morals— although Tomlinson seldom allowed morality to interfere with his personal life. But the betrayal had at least one positive result. It had steeled his determination to honor his promise to Ford that he wouldn’t smoke the entire week, for the sake of the kid.

Tobacco was never mentioned in the agreement, however, so at midnight on Sunday Tomlinson had ridden his bike to the 7-Eleven, where he’d bought a pack of Spirits, organic cigarettes in a yellow pack. He hoped the smokes would mitigate the withdrawal symptoms he had suffered during the previous few days. He had been having weird dreams, he couldn’t eat and a restless gray depression had descended upon him with a weight that—although more subtle—was no less distressing than the weight of the mound of limestone and sand that now covered him.

That night, pedaling home to Dinkin’s Bay, Tomlinson had lit the first cigarette he had smoked in . . . how long?

Ninth grade? No . . . the last cigarette he had smoked was in tenth. He’d had a brief fling with tobacco during that period, smoking Camels, in an effort to add to his James Dean mystique. Another reason he’d chosen Camels was that unfiltered cigarettes made his hands look bigger, and Tomlinson’s primary obsession had from earliest memory been women, and women were perceptive and impressed by such things.

Tomlinson had been weaned by a wet nurse—his family was wealthy. She was a Scandinavian dream with translucent melon breasts, so alluringly traced with veins that even as a child Tomlinson had loved maps, with their blue rivers that tracked true to the sea.

The Spirit cigarette, though, tasted like crap and had left his breath smelling worse than bong water. Adding to his displeasure was the awareness that smoking an organic cigarette was the way trendy tobacco slaves rationalized their addiction while also feeding it.

Tomlinson had an aversion to endorsing trendy behavior via his own behavior. He felt he was above such silliness. It struck him as common.

As he lay beneath the rocks, he thought, One last joint. If I’d smoked a number last night, this bullshit would be easier to deal with now.

He’d almost done it. After leaving Barbara’s beach rental for the second time in three nights, he’d come this close to breaking his promise about getting high on weed. Tomlinson had hidden aboard No Mas a baggie full of jays, beautifully rolled, all sprinkled with resin crystals from his kef box. The jays had glittered like eclairs when he held them near the candle he had lighted before sitting in meditation, as he did every day twice a day.

Meditation stilled the chaos of stars inside Tomlinson’s head. That’s why he did it. Smoking, though, sometimes added colors to the stillness. After a few ghost hits from really good shit, meditating also brightened the swirling stars and warmed the black chill of inner space.

Tomlinson hadn’t broken his promise, though. There was a reason. Just as he was about to light up, the kid had paddled past No Mas in a canoe.

Damn kid. I should’ve ignored him. I could’ve pretended like I’d passed out or something, how would he know?

Talk about divine intervention! God had a wicked sense of humor for someone who had carved out so many prissy rules about behavior, but a reminder of the promise to stop smoking weed was exactly what he deserved after two-timing a close pal.

Tomlinson thought, I’ve got to deepen up here. I’ve got to take stock.

Yes, he did.

The regulator had been knocked from Tomlinson’s mouth when the first rocks fell, but he had managed to fit it in place before the second wave of limestone covered him. It was a pounding weight that had compressed him, in a fetal position, in darkness against the lake’s rocky bottom.

That was the way he lay now, as he tested the weight of the rocks that covered him. He moved his elbows, his feet, his fingers, relieved that his nervous system seemed to be okay and also that the rock and sand that covered him seemed to be malleable.

Will Chaser was beside him, still alive and conscious. Tomlinson knew because the boy’s fins were in his face. Every time the kid tried to struggle free, he came close to knocking off Tomlinson’s mask or kicking the regulator from his mouth.

But where was Ford? Had he been caught in the landslide, too?

Tomlinson let his mind settle, and then he pinged the area around him for information. As he did, his memory reviewed the moments prior to the wall’s collapse. He recalled Ford turning away from the mammoth tusk and then looking downward. In his peripheral vision, Tomlinson had seen Ford jettison air from his BC, before jackknifing toward the bottom. The man had one arm extended as if to pluck something from the sand.

And then . . . what had happened? Rocks had begun raining down, and Tomlinson couldn’t remember anything else but trying to fend off the crushing weight.

Now, beside him, Will Chaser rallied and tried to battle his way free once again. One of his fins knocked Tomlinson’s mask askew before the boy stopped struggling.

Tomlinson thought, First time in my life I’ve been kicked in the face, and I’m happy about it.

He felt good, but only for a moment. The feeling was soon replaced by the memory of what he had said to Ford: “I’ll assume full responsibility for the kid’s safety.”

Gad! What a ridiculous thing to say.

Why did he make such stupid promises? There was no controlling destiny—few people knew that better than Tomlinson. Guaranteeing some future reality was as futile as attempting to change the past. But he had done exactly that—flipped God and destiny the finger, in effect—and now here they were.

Ford’s gonna kill me for this one! I don’t blame him, either.

That was almost funny, thinking about how pissed off Ford would be, but not for long, because the shock of what had happened was beginning to solidify in Tomlinson’s brain. His was a big brain, with banks of active synapses few other people possessed, but it was not an orderly brain. The cerebral segments were complexly wired, but they were also interrupted by filaments of scar tissue—not unlike the trunk rings of a tree that had been struck by lightning many times.

Tomlinson had, in fact, suffered several electrical shocks in his life, most as medical therapy, but some not. Plus there were also scars related to his experimentation with drugs, which, as Tomlinson viewed it, was part of his job description.

As a social scientist, it was one’s duty to explore the inner universe.

Ford had once told him, “The way your brain works, the shortest distance between two points is a circle.” The man had been frustrated by some debate they were having, something to do with philosophy or possibly baseball, which were pretty much the same thing in Tomlinson’s estimation.

Baseball? Why the hell had his brain leaped to that?

Maybe he had suffered a concussion when the rocks fell. It was possible, so Tomlinson’s focus turned inward. He inspected the inner workings of his skull, but there was no pain, and his memory was definitely in the pink.

You don’t have time for this, dumb-ass. Hunker down and concentrate—or the boy’s going to die.

Tomlinson knew it was true.

The fact that he, too, would die was a secondary consideration. Tomlinson believed—believed to the core—