The lake was close, but it still took them ten minutes to slog their way to the grove of cypress trees. They moved carefully, resting every few yards, but picked up the pace when they heard a rustling noise behind them. Arlis guessed they were being tracked by three monitor lizards and then proved it with a quick blast of his flashlight that showed pairs of orange eyes watching them from the bushes.
Maybe trying to be funny—or maybe not—Tomlinson said, “Jesus Christ, throw a tent over this place and you’d have a circus. Those things look like pit bulls with scales.”
“And they’re on the hunt, too,” Arlis told him. “I don’t think they’ll risk jumping the three of us. But, God Aw’mighty, I wouldn’t want to be a man out here alone. Will?” He looked at the boy. “You got your knife handy, right?”
The teenager said, “Let’s keep moving. I think someone built a fire over there. See the light in the trees?”
When they were close enough to see King and hear him arguing with his partner—“Perry,” Arlis said the man’s name was—Will made his suggestion about letting Arlis rest with his back to a tree while he moved closer to get a better look. But Arlis didn’t like the idea, and Tomlinson wouldn’t allow it.
“With those dragons on our tail? We’re not splitting up, man.” Then to Arlis he whispered, “Any idea where they put our cell phones? That’s what we need. A phone would be better than the keys to the truck.” As he spoke, Tomlinson concentrated on Will, aware of what was in Will’s mind, seeing the way Will’s eyes were focused, watching the way Will held the knife low, the blade pointed at King, who was throwing another limb on the fire.
Will was peripherally aware of how closely Tomlinson was observing him, which was irritating because it was like static the way it interrupted his concentration. Will was gauging the distance to the generator, where he could see the Winchester rifle braced at an angle, as Arlis whispered to Tomlinson, “Just before I took off, I heard what might have been a phone, only it sounded like hippie music to me. See that backpack next to the generator? It came from there.”
The generator was closer to the cypress grove than the truck and the man, King, was farther down the shoreline, where they could see him plainly in the firelight.
Will was on his knees now and beginning to crawl toward the generator only twenty yards away, feeling Tomlinson’s eyes on him as Tomlinson told Arlis, “Jimi Hendrix. ‘Purple Haze,’ man. That was my phone.” And then Tomlinson said, “Will . . . Will, wait!”
Will didn’t look back until Tomlinson raised his voice from a whisper to call, “Will! See the light coming from the lake? That’s Doc’s spotlight from underwater. He must be surfacing.”
Will took a deep breath, feeling a cold reddish odor move through his brain, as he heard Tomlinson add, “Don’t do anything stupid.
What was stupid was to talk so loud that close to the water because it stopped King in his tracks. Will dropped to his belly as King spun toward the sound of Tomlinson’s voice and then began walking toward them. He was tall and skinny-looking—a coyote kind of skinny—and he was holding something in his right hand as he approached.
It was the little pistol Arlis had mentioned.
A moment later, King aimed a flashlight at them, and Will could feel the brightness of the light through his skull as he lay facedown and immobile. He opened one eye long enough to see that the man was pointing the pistol at him, too.
Will thought,
TWENTY-SEVEN
I SWUNG THE SPOTLIGHT FROM THE DROP-OFF TO THE surface several times, not worried about alerting Perry now. In fact, I wanted him to see it. He had been floating up there in the dark for forty minutes, scared and cold, and like a moth he would be attracted to light. The Komodo monitor hadn’t reappeared, but I knew it was somewhere out there in the shadows—just as I also knew that I had only a couple of minutes of air left.
I had decided there were only two workable options: I could sprint for the surface and then try to beat the animal to shore or I could attempt a diversion of some sort and buy myself a little extra time. I chose the second option. I’m a strong swimmer, but even without the drag created by my BC and tank it was unlikely I could outswim a monitor.
I had to jettison my gear. As I stripped off my vest, I reviewed the details of a finesse that I hoped was worth a try. What did I have to lose?
From the pocket of my BC, I took a length of nylon cord that was too long, so I had to double it to make it work. I tied one end to the handle of the spotlight and the other end to my tank harness. Next, I removed enough weight from the vest to hold me fast on the bottom for as long as I needed to stay there. Every few seconds, I interrupted my work to scan the area with the light. Maybe because I was exhausted, or maybe because I was resolute, my hands were as steady as the steady thudding of my own heartbeat. If the monitor caught me before I got to shore, so be it. There was nothing more I could do. Arlis was free at least. The man was hurt, but he was also stubborn, and I knew he would somehow manage to return with help.
When I was ready, I lifted my BC and tank harness and held them out in front of me like a shield, tethered to the rig only by my breathing hose. Using the spotlight, I did one last slow circle, hoping I would see the monitor . . . and I did. It was at the edge of the drop-off, peering over the limestone rim, watching me.
I shined the light directly into the monitor’s eyes, but it didn’t spook this time. It stared back at me with two blazing orange mirrors that soon began to undulate, cobralike, so I knew the animal was swimming toward me.
It approached slowly at first as if hypnotized by the beam, but then its eyes grew incrementally larger as it gained speed. I held my ground, watching as the monitor closed the distance, coming fast now, thrusting hard with its prehistoric tail, creating a trail of silt explosions as it sought maximum speed, vectoring in for the kill.
I was taking deep breaths, hyperventilating to reduce carbon dioxide in my bloodstream, trying to overoxygenate my lungs for what I hoped happened next. I was working the spotlight with my right hand and I had the vest’s emergency inflation cord in my left. Pull the cord and CO2 cartridges would inflate the BC like a balloon.
I waited for another long second—the monitor was less than fifteen yards from impact, its bulk casting a shadow on the sand the size of a Cessna, its weight alone enough to snap my spine if it hit me.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to wait another second. I took a last deep breath. Simultaneously, then, I spit the regulator from my mouth and ripped the emergency cord downward. There was an explosive hiss that snatched the spotlight and the vest from my hands.
When I felt the rig rocket skyward, I fell back among the rocks, knees against my chest, lead weights on my lap, and I held my breath. I didn’t move. I couldn’t even allow myself to brace for a collision that I knew would preface my last cognitive thoughts.
There was a rhythmic, crackling silence that I recognized as the flex of muscle fiber as the animal closed on me. My eyes opened. The world was all blackness and shadow, yet I still perceived a deeper, streaming darkness that was the monitor lizard. It soared past me, rocking my body with a shock wave of displaced water. I didn’t allow my head to move, but my eyes followed the shadow upward as it arched toward the surface, chasing the spotlight, which was now spinning wildly beneath the vest, casting a bizarre propeller blur of white that pierced the darkness like random lightning.
I waited and watched. Methodically, I removed the lead weights from my lap and then activated the night vision monocular, but not the infrared because
Sound was suddenly added to the turmoil I had witnessed underwater. I could hear a wild splashing and Perry’s voice screaming, “King! Pull me in! My God . . . King! There’s something out here. Please!
