Deep Shadow

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