Deep Shadow

such as sleeping with a light on. Leaving a light on at night was tempting, but Will refused to indulge in that sort of weakness. Make even a small concession to what had happened and there was no telling where it might lead to. He could end up a drunk, passed out in a ditch like too many other Skins he’d seen on the Rez.

Besides, being scared was his business, nobody else’s.

As Will studied the hole, he realized that he was breathing faster, burning up air. He waited until he had flipped his BC and tank over his head and pushed them halfway down into the hole before checking his pressure gauge one final time.

The needle pointed close to 700 psi, although it was hard to be sure because the needle wasn’t as exact as a digital gauge.

Christ, I’ve been sucking air like a drunk guzzling whiskey.

How did 700 psi translate timewise? He might have ten minutes of air left, fifteen at most, plus he had the reserve bottle. Will didn’t own a dive watch and now he was almost glad. It was better not to know how long they’d been down.

What Will was sure of, though, was this: He wasn’t going to die, boxed in by rocks, without doing whatever he could to escape—not alone in darkness, no goddamn way!

Will switched off his light and secured it under the sleeve of his wet suit, aware that his entire body was shaking. Goddamn, it’s dark! After thinking about it for a moment, Will looped the flashlight’s lanyard over his wrist so it would be right there when he needed it. Just the thought of losing the little flashlight gave him a sick feeling in his abdomen.

I’ll never go near the freaking water again without carrying an extra light. A swimming pool, to take a piss, doesn’t matter. Lose this, I’ve had it. Why the hell didn’t I take those flashlights that Doc offered me?

Tomlinson had removed his fins to get better footing, and now Will did the same. It was easier without the fins. Tomlinson’s fins were sinkers, but Will’s were floaters, and they had made it difficult to neutralize buoyancy. When he took the fins off, they floated past his ears and attached themselves like magnets to the limestone overhead.

Once again, Will shined his light down into the hole and flashed it three times. Tomlinson responded by swinging his flashlight back and forth, an invitation.

Come on!

Will forced his head, then his shoulders, down into blackness, pushing his tank ahead of him. He dug his toes into the limestone and used the tank to bulldoze a path.

He thought, I’m in a cave. I knew this was going to happen. A week ago, I knew it. Now here I am, goddamn it!

Sometimes, Will knew things. He didn’t know how and he’d never really wondered why, but now here he was. It was happening just as he’d known it would.

A week before, on his way to Sanibel, riding in the rear seat of a Lincoln Town Car, Will hadn’t paid much attention to the woman beside him until she got on the subject of Florida’s underwater caves.

“We might be driving over a cave system right now,” Barbara Hayes had told Will, then nodded, studying a map as a road sign blurred past.

ORLANDO/DISNEY WORLD 146 MILES.

“There are miles of caves in this area, according to this,” the woman continued. “Natural tunnels with chambers big enough to drive a truck. This is the right area”—she had glanced at the map for confirmation—“caves with branches that run beneath shopping malls, highways, even this interstate. There could be scuba divers under our car right now. Seriously. It doesn’t matter that the sun’s setting. What does sunlight matter to a cave diver? They dress like astronauts—you know what I mean, they wear helmets with built-in lights and breathing hoses. They use battery-powered scooters so they can travel faster. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

A moment later, Hayes didn’t appear too sure but sounded hopeful as she had added, “I thought you’d find that interesting.”

Will did. He had leaned his face near the window, picturing a semi they were passing, its lights on, far beneath the road in an underwater cave that was more like a city in outer space, scuba divers soaring through the darkness, their helmets shooting laser beams, milky white.

It was weird to hear the woman talking about caves because the countryside along the interstate was so flat. But she was right. There was a cave beneath them—no scuba divers, but the cave was there. Will could feel it. He had a sense for such things. Images came into his head less like pictures than as overlapping impressions that communicated colors, spatial volume, odors. He wasn’t always right, but he was right often enough.

“Synesthesia,” the shrinks back in Oklahoma called it. Synesthesia was a special gift, according to his government-appointed counselor. She had told him it was a complex neurological condition that caused a heightened sensitivity to all sorts of things.

The boy had touched his nose to the car window and allowed his mind to fill with the scent of algae, salted rock, empty space, and he also sensed a conduit of flowing water beneath them. It was down there, a cave, far below the six lanes of asphalt where billboards were frozen, solitary and bright, among palm trees that caught the windy sunset light.

Beside him, Hayes had interrupted, saying, “It’s hard to picture, I know.”

Will had replied, “Yeah.”

“Wait . . . I just realized maybe the idea of cave diving doesn’t appeal to you. Or does it?” Her tone asked Did I say something wrong?

Will said, “Naw, it does. I’d like to try it if I ever get the chance. I think it would be fun.”

Barbara said, “I forget sometimes. Not about what happened to you. God knows, I could never forget that. But that you might be sensitive . . . that it might make you uncomfortable, the thought of being in a cave. Good Lord!—now I don’t even know why I brought it up.”

The sophisticated woman wasn’t sounding so sophisticated now, which was typical of childless women who tried too hard to relate to him. Will had experienced it often enough to know.

Because he liked her, though, Will had made eye contact and let her see him smile, but only for a second. “What happened doesn’t bother me a bit,” he said. “I don’t know why people keep asking. It really doesn’t.”

Will was sick of talking about what everyone in the world had seen on TV and in newspapers, all those stories about him being buried in a box by extortionists who had intended to bury the woman instead. It had happened more than a month ago, but the woman still felt indebted. It was the reason he was in a limo with her now, driving south to Disney World—Will already knew he would hate the place—then on to Key Largo and, finally, Sanibel Island.

Mrs. Barbara Hayes, a widow—also a United States senator—had the hots for a man who lived there, a marine biologist named Marion Ford, but everyone called him “Doc.” He was a big, nerdy, friendly-looking guy who didn’t say much and who Will sensed wasn’t as nerdy or as friendly as he appeared.

Will had wondered how he and Doc would get along, not that it mattered much.

Well . . . we’ll see.

Sounding relieved, the senator had said to Will, “I’m so glad to hear you feel like you’re recovering. I wonder sometimes—at night when I’m alone, you know?—how I would have reacted. If they’d done to me what they did to you.”

Will wanted to get back to the images in his head, the scent and feel of rock tunnels below. He said, “Don’t worry about it,” and leaned his face closer to the window. End of conversation—he hoped.

No such luck.

The woman began laughing, sounding girlish, as she told him, “I stayed up past midnight, trying to find information about Florida I thought you’d like. That’s how I know about the caves. I even marked it on a map. Here, look—I have a whole folder of things. Scuba diving, horses—there are a lot of ranches down here, cattle and horses. People don’t realize.”

As Barbara leaned to open her briefcase, Will had sat straighter, suddenly paying attention, but not because of the articles. The lady was old—in her forties—but she was still good looking, with a body that she liked to show off but not in any obvious way, which was usually the way with classy, good-looking women.