Will was tempted to say,
“That’s an ancient space you’re looking at,” Tomlinson told him.
Will replied, “It’s not the only thing getting old,” and concentrated on what he was seeing.
The cavern above them was about the size of a horse stall, but it had a low ceiling that angled downward, narrowing just as the band of sunlight narrowed. Joining the ceiling to the floor were more tree roots that at first Will thought were stalactites or stalagmites. The roots were clustered as tightly in some spots as the bars on a jailhouse door. At the center of the chamber, roots had been ripped away by something, though, to form a clearing where there were bones and the scattered remains of animals.
Will was at eye level with what looked like a chunk of cow skull. It was some variety of Brahma, judging from the lone remaining horn—the other horn had been chewed to the nub—and the skull wasn’t very old because there was still a flap of hide attached to the forehead.
Will thought,
He wondered about that for a moment, then let his eyes move around the room. He saw more cattle bones, a couple of pig jaws—those pointed tusks were familiar—and what might have been a primitive nest hollowed out in the muck. Will guessed it was a nest because of the rubbery-looking egg casings that lay scattered around the thing. The eggs were big, about half the size of an ostrich’s.
He lowered himself enough to turn his mouth close to Tomlinson’s ear. “You see those egg casings? Something just hatched in here. Not recent, but not so long ago, either.”
“Yeah,” Tomlinson said, “that’s why I thought a gator at first, but—”
“Coyotes don’t lay eggs,” Will interrupted. “Not back in Oklahoma, anyway. Not in Minnesota, either, but maybe they’re different in Florida.”
Seeing the ray of sunlight had affected Will, too. The light moved through his eyes, through his body, replacing the desperation and the fear he had felt with fresh energy. Even Tomlinson’s constant talking wasn’t so irritating now. The sunlight had refired his sense of humor, too, and Will was struck by the oddness of being so close to death one moment and, the next moment, cracking a smart-ass remark about coyotes laying eggs.
It was like there were two people inside him, one who focused on nothing but survival when it was required but otherwise lay dormant, while the second person—William Joseph Chaser—talked and laughed, living life as if danger and darkness didn’t exist, so it was sort of like living behind a mask.
Will lowered himself from the hole and checked the knife scabbard on his BC, which had become a habit. They weren’t out yet but soon would be—as long as he still had the knife and the blade didn’t break.
Tomlinson sounded cheerful when he replied, “Minnesota, huh?”
Will didn’t respond, but it caused him to think about a nice lady named Ruth Gutterson and her pisser of a husband, Otto, who had been on the pro wrestling circuit when he was younger, so almost everyone called him by his ring name, which was “Bull Gutter.” The Guttersons had a house in Minneapolis, and Will had lived with the couple for a year. They were nice people who would’ve adopted him by now if it weren’t for the damn court system. But they would—even though he turned eighteen in only a couple of years.
“I sometimes forget you lived up north,” Tomlinson said to him, which caused Will to realize that the man was being conversational for a reason. For the first time in hours, it was safe for them to take a little rest. Maybe it was a smart thing to do. His hands were blistered and his right bicep had begun to cramp.
Will dropped back, letting the water support his weight, and listened to Tomlinson add, “It’s because you’re such a western sort of kid. All rodeo and attitude. Did you miss it—rodeo—when you were living in Minnesota?”
Will didn’t like being called a kid, but he ignored it. “Sometimes,” he said.
“The Land of a Thousand Lakes. Or is it Ten Thousand? You say there are coyotes in Minnesota? I knew there were wolves.”
Will allowed himself to smile as he replied, “Everything that grows fur—or can buy fur—lives up there. That includes a ton of Lutherans. A lot of pretty blondes, though, too.”
“Lutherans,” Tomlinson replied, chuckling.
Will said, “You wouldn’t believe how good-looking the girls are.”
The hippie seemed to get the joke because he laughed, but then Will wasn’t so sure when Tomlinson said, “
Will said, “Garrison who?,” becoming impatient again, and so he let his attention return to the cave overhead. He pulled himself up, took another look, then lay back and let his BC float him as his brain sorted out impressions.
The space, he now realized, gave him a bad feeling. It wasn’t just because of the bones or the petroglyphs or the stench. Truth was, the place smelled bad but not that bad. It was sort of musty, like old roadkill, but it didn’t strike Will as being foul like Tomlinson kept saying. Maybe Tomlinson was confusing atmosphere with odor. In Will’s experience, people often perceived such things differently than he.
The boy reached his hand through the airhole, touched his fingers to the sandy muck above, then sniffed his fingers.
Darkness, that’s what the muck communicated. Darkness was what Tomlinson was smelling, not the stench of bones, although that odor was there, too. The space had the scent of blackness, like peering over a cliff into an abyss.
Will allowed his mind to probe the area and soon the gloom that he sensed was replaced by a brighter odor. The odor was waxy green, like jungle suspended in a cloud of gray. It reminded him of a leaf flickering on the screen of an old black-and-white TV.
Gradually, the sensation changed, but the odors of the changing colors didn’t flood into Will’s mind. They flowed through a crevice of his brain like a creature with scales—something hunting.
“People with synesthesia sometimes experience exaggerated impressions of the world around them,” an Oklahoma shrink had once told him. “It can be exhausting dealing with so much outside stimuli. It can cause panic attacks—even paranoia.”
He hoped he was wrong about what he was feeling and decided to bounce it off Tomlinson. The man was a flake, no doubt about that, but he was also smart, and he possessed the ability to perceive things normal people could not. Tomlinson had been right when he’d guessed that Will had sensed his abilities. He’d known about Tomlinson since the first time they had been alone together, talking.
Will said, “There’s something about those egg casings that gives me the creeps.”
Tomlinson said, “There’s no reason why they should,” then spent a minute talking about the nesting habits of gators and crocs, still sounding cheerful, but then he became suddenly quiet. After several seconds, he said, “Sorry, I missed the implications. The whole heavy vibe went sailing right over my head. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Will said, “It’s a feeling I have.”
“A
“Just a feeling. A bad feeling.”
Tomlinson gave it some thought—maybe with his eyes closed, Will couldn’t be sure, there wasn’t enough light to see detail. The man seemed to understand because after several seconds he said, “A predator lives up there. A killer. That’s what you’re feeling. And you’re right—that’s what I’ve been smelling. It’s not an actual scent. It’s death that I smell.”
Will said, “That cow skull’s pretty fresh. Whatever it is, I think she’ll find her way back here. Soon, I think.” In Will’s mind, the animal that lived here was female—definitely female—and she lived alone.
Tomlinson asked him, “Because this is where she hatched her eggs?”
“Not exactly.”
“It makes sense that whatever lives in the cave is bound to return to the nest—tonight, tomorrow or next week—is that what you mean?” There was enough room for Tomlinson to twist a strand of his ponytail, then begin to chew on it, his long fingers showing that he was nervous.
Will decided to come right out and say it. “No. I mean I think she’s coming back today. Sometime after dark, maybe, but soon. It could be that she knows we’re here. It could be that she’s on her way now.”
Tomlinson went silent, and into Will’s mind came the image of a snake—a huge snake—its belly wider than a
