Deep Shadow

There was no getting around the truth in that, either. Tomlinson knew now exactly what was required of him.

All right, then, he decided, I’ll do it.

He put one hand on the cave wall to steady himself. He tried to ignore a growing, glowing esophageal burn as his blood cells absorbed the last of his body’s oxygen. Experimenting, he exhaled a few bubbles and told himself to relax, but the burning only got worse.

Tomlinson could hear Will Chaser still using his knife to chop at the ceiling of the snow globe. The rhythm increased until it matched the throbbing in Tomlinson’s ears, yet fragments of thought continued to form slowly, even peacefully, in his brain. They were veiled arguments against death, he realized, presenting themselves for inspection.

If I die, who’ll look after my boat? Ford? Ford hates sailboats—he’d never admit it, but it’s true.

An image of No Mas floated behind Tomlinson’s eyes, the sailboat riding low in the water because the bilge pumps had burned themselves dry . . . or possibly because the batteries had gone dead from neglect. Next, he saw his boat at some sterile modern marina, all tin and plastic, his beloved home a vandalized wreck awaiting auction.

It was another rationalization—he knew it even as the images formed and reformed—yet the images were convincing because the prospect of abandoning No Mas, of allowing the boat to suffer that degree of humiliation, was too much to bear.

Before he realized that his hands were moving, Tomlinson had grabbed the backup octopus hose of his regulator and jammed the mouthpiece between his teeth. After two deep breaths, he settled back a little and began to relax. Dark thoughts about his sailboat were replaced by the reality of what the boy was doing. The sound of Will using the knife, hacking at the ceiling, dominated the darkness. Will was fixated on the tangle of tree roots that pierced the chamber’s roof—incontrovertible proof that sweet winter air was only a few feet above them.

Tomlinson told himself, One more breath. That’s all I’ll take. One more and I’m done. I’ll leave the rest for the kid. He’ll need it soon.

Three breaths later, Tomlinson had to remind himself that the pony canister Will was using had to be almost empty. The same was true of his own tank. Reluctantly, Tomlinson felt around until he found the gauge panel on his BC and then experienced a perverse sense of relief because the pressure gauge was unreadable without a flashlight to shine on the thing.

Even so, he knew that the needle had to be close to zero. It was Will’s air, not his, Tomlinson told himself. Just because he had lived his life as a fraud didn’t mean that he must go out that way.

Enough, he thought. I’m done.

Done breathing, and this time he meant it.

Tomlinson removed the regulator from his mouth. He waited for several seconds, testing his own resolve, then allowed himself to smile because now he was sure he was doing the right thing. There was no going back. He had lived a big, wild thunder squall of a life—lots of wind and energy and lightning—but the kid was only sixteen. With a few extra minutes, there was no telling what might happen. The boy could still be saved. Dig through those roots before their main tank ran out and Will Chaser might find a little pocket of air.

It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. It was also possible that Ford might yet appear, even though many minutes had passed since they’d heard the sound of the jet dredge.

As the boy continued to chop away, Tomlinson’s attention returned to his watch. How long could he hold his breath? He still didn’t know. He watched the sweep hand closely.

Only forty-three seconds, it turned out.

Tomlinson was still smiling as he exhaled the last of his air. He hesitated before turning his face skyward. He opened his mouth . . . and then he inhaled deeply.

Nearby, in the darkness, as Tomlinson gagged and began to convulse, Will Chaser stopped digging long enough to yell through his mouthpiece, “Eeee atttt? Oook! Iyyyy eeee ’ight!”

Will was telling Tomlinson, See that? Look! I see daylight!

When Tomlinson invited the inevitable by inhaling water, his body’s involuntary response systems kicked in and saved him from drowning—temporarily.

A message in the form of a reflex arc skipped his brain and flowed directly through the spinal cord, sealing his epiglottis tight and causing him to choke. When he choked, though, his lungs spasmed, which caused him to inhale yet more water.

Tomlinson’s last thought before he blacked out wasn’t serene, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. An old voice came to him as if snaking down a tunnel. It spoke the same words he had used to comfort himself the first time he had eaten peyote and then proceeded to embark on a hellishly bad journey—a ball tester of a trip—that had been gifted to him by the Cactus Flower God.

I’ve gotta ride this ugly snake ’til she’s winded. This bullshit can’t go on forever . . .

The message dimmed, then vanished as Tomlinson’s brain went black.

What seemed like hours later but in fact was only seconds later, Tomlinson regained consciousness. He was aware of a globe of gray light above him. It wasn’t the late-afternoon sky he was seeing. He was looking up into yet another rock chamber.

Water sloshed at ear level, his mask was gone and his face was pressed tight into what felt like muck. It was a viscous substance that had an odor unlike anything he had ever smelled before.

Will Chaser was holding him, Tomlinson realized, the boy’s fist wrapped in his ponytail. Will had Tomlinson’s face pressed hard against the ceiling of the snow globe so tight that Tomlinson couldn’t turn his head. He could shift his eyes, though, but when he did he saw nothing.

Where had his face mask gone? Where was the boy’s pony canister?

Tomlinson tried to speak but gagged, then he vomited. When he vomited, he thrust his hands out and broke Will’s grip. An instant later, he was underwater and floating, encased in darkness again.

Where the hell am I?

Tomlinson felt the boy’s hand pull him up by the collar of his wet suit. Will found Tomlinson’s ponytail once more and thrust his face tight against the ceiling, where, Tomlinson was slow to realize, there was a small hole that exited above water level.

It was a breathing hole! Will had chopped his way through the roots. The kid had found a way to survive!

Tomlinson coughed until his lungs were clear enough and finally took a good long breath. The breath filled his lungs but the air tasted horrible.

Tomlinson spoke without a regulator in his mouth for the first time since they had entered the lake. “Goddamn, man,” he muttered. “It smells like something crawled in here and died. What stinks?”

He turned his head. Will was beside him, but his head was submerged. Tomlinson could see the boy’s left hand next to his ear. Will’s fingers were wrapped in tree roots, anchoring them close to the roof of the snow globe.

Every few seconds, air bubbles exploded around Tomlinson’s nose. It took a moment for his brain to translate the data—the emergency canister was empty and now the boy was using the last of the air in Tomlinson’s tank to save them both.

Tomlinson reached out and used his fingers, digging, to make the hole around his mouth and nose wider, but the ceiling was an amalgam of roots, rock and muck. Bare hands wouldn’t do the job, and the hole was too small for two people to breathe from at the same time.

He thought, If I ever do another dive, I’m carrying a knife! I’m a dunce!

Tomlinson felt around until he found a good handhold, then ducked underwater as he pulled Will toward the hole, hoping that the kid understood. It took some pulling and pushing, but Will finally got the message. They would share the breathing space, and the last of the air, so that Will could continue using the knife to widen the hole.

Over the next few minutes, they developed a workable system. Tomlinson would take several breaths of the foul air, then it was Will’s turn. While Will was at the hole, Tomlinson waited in darkness, eyes closed, body relaxed,