That was Kat. Little did he know how crazy she was.
“Would you go out with me?” he’d asked.
“Of course.”
“Great. I know this fantastic seafood restaurant—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
And she’d taken him on his first dive. Down in the cold, dark Atlantic, through schools of sailfish, next to a giant humpback. He could still remember the cold compression of water, the sinuous mermaid body beside him, the cold compression of water, the indigo eyes dancing with life, and the cold compression of water.
It was so much an echo of their life. Kat drew him in with the sheer ecstasy she felt for everything, then scared the hell out of him.
Medical school: ho hum, humdrum.
Kat: adventure and sex—she was like a drug.
Internship: the odd cardiac arrest, but nothing that really prodded his own heart.
Kat: Has anyone ever gotten married in shark-infested water? Well, they’d been in a shark-proof cage, at least.
It had been crazy, he had to admit. He’d never been an adventurous soul, yet perhaps it was because of his neuroses that he’d been drawn to her fearlessness. It was like therapy. Gradually he’d overcome his timidity—he’d had no choice—and followed her everywhere, except into the caves. How he hated the caves.
Throughout the first five years of their marriage, she was his spark, his ignition, his drive. It wasn’t until he realized that she knew exactly what she wanted and he didn’t have a clue that things began to change. She discovered the organisms under the ground, she enticed NASA just like she’d enticed him, and she was drawn where he refused to go. Whenever she was caving, which was six months out of twelve, he was alone, empty.
So he looked, and found his niche. A friend who worked in the expanding field of microrobotics explained to him his vision for surgery. Mark regained the energy he’d lost. The engine that was sputtering and failing roared to life again.
But what about Kat? Did she even miss him while she foraged underground for microbes? Did she think of him when nestled next to that robust Frenchman in the dark chambers below? Why had they been driven apart?
He knew. Ever since he’d refused to share her love affair with caves, she’d refused to share his vision of the future of medicine. There was a wedge between them that seemed impossible to extricate. Maybe if she understood. Maybe if he could bring himself to talk about that night in the crushing blackness. But he couldn’t get it past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t trust her with his darkest hour, so neither had she trusted him. How he’d begged her to let him help as she lay on the gurney speeding toward the OR. As she vomited her guts out and left her hair in clumps on the pillow. He’d begged her, and she’d turned away from him.
He sank to the bed, pain searing his head and tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “Kat!” he called. “Why couldn’t you trust me?”
“Mark?” A quiet, questioning voice spoke from the doorway to his bedroom.
He looked up, momentarily confused. Was she back? But of course it wasn’t Kat.
Angela stood framed in the doorway, her gorgeous body taking up most of the frame. “Are you all right?”
How had she gotten in? He must have left the door open. “What are you doing here, Angie? It’s over, you know. It was over a long time ago.”
Angela shook her head violently, waves of jet black hair flying up and around her shoulders, casting ribbons across her face. She flung them back just as violently. “I don’t understand you. She just ruined your career. She’s always gallivanting about in some deep, dark cave on the other side of the world, and you’ll still drop everything and go riding off to her rescue.”
“She’s my wife,” he said simply, although he couldn’t keep his voice from catching on the last word. How could anyone understand how he felt about Kat?
“Why is she still your wife?” she pressed.
“Because . . . ” He cast around helplessly. “Because I lo—” But he couldn’t say that. It was way more complicated than those three simple words.
“No! You don’t,” snarled Angela, her pale Madonna face suddenly pinched into a devil mask. “You don’t love her. You can’t. You gave up two years of your life for her. You offered to save her and she turned you down. What kind of a woman is she? How could anyone love that?”
Mark closed his eyes and shook his head. He turned away from Angela and slipped some cotton T-shirts into the oversized backpack. “Go home, Angie.”
“Mark, your career,” she begged. “Don’t flush it down the toilet.”
“It’s already over,” he mumbled.
“No, it’s not too late. I overheard Dr. Cary speaking to Dr. Thomas. He’s willing to give you another chance in a few months if you return to the hospital and speak to him. I think he left some messages on your phone.”
Mark frowned and faced her again. A feeble hope bloomed in his chest. “A few months?”
“Yes.” He saw the flame inside her eyes, too.
“I don’t believe it. Ames will veto any second attempt.”
“Mark, listen to me.” Angela stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her soft breath on his cheek and smell the irresistible scent of jasmine on her skin. “Ames won’t be in on it. Dr. Cary said he’d give you an exclusive opportunity without Ames present. That is, if you come back now and talk to him. Explain what went wrong and your position.”
Mark felt the crushing weight of despair lift from his chest. He could see the miraculous cure of thousands—from cardiac cripples to cancer victims. He could feel the adulation and the prospect of the Nobel prize. Then the weight came crashing down again. He couldn’t leave her to die.
“No.” He shook his head.
“Mark.” She came closer, brushing against his arm. “Don’t be a fool.”
“No!” he snapped. “I was the fool! But not any longer. No goddamn prize on earth is worth it. I’m going to Mexico.” He grasped her shoulders and moved her forcefully away from him. “Get out now,” he said quietly, with just enough menace. “I’ve been tempted enough, and I’ve been weak enough, but not today.”
Angela scowled. “Weak? Weak is running after her like a dog and throwing your life away.”
He didn’t say anything. He just glared at her, driving her to the door.
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed, then slammed out.
“You have no idea,” he said. “I regret nearly every decision I’ve made. But I’m finally turning in the right direction.”
He zipped the pack closed after throwing in a last pair of socks, then paused, reconsidered, and unzipped it again. Five strides took him across the room to the case on his dresser. He picked it up gingerly and carried it over to the bed. After another moment’s hesitation, he snapped the latches and opened it. A simple syringe and a few vials of medication were neatly packed in foam, along with a miniature computer and a VR glove. It was probably too late. He knew it. Yet he still snapped the case closed and tucked it into the backpack.
He was ready. As ready as Sisyphus was to enter Hades.
Chapter Five
To anyone else, the view beneath the plane would have been awe-inspiring, breathtaking, exquisite. To Mark, it was macabre. In the teeth-rattling flight from Mexico City to Villahermosa in Tabasco State, the landscape had varied from emerald fields of cacao and corn and orderly orchards on the Mexican plateau, to fern-choked jungle and silver rivers that looked surprisingly like the snakes that no doubt festooned their banks. Rugged mountains were to the west, bordering the swampy lowlands of Tabasco. Chiapas was highland country in the north, where smoky volcanoes and rolling hills gave way to the high peaks of the Sierra Madre. In the south were lowlands, rainforest that was gradually being swallowed up by hydroelectric projects and slash-and-burn farmers. Beyond that lay Guatamala.
But Mark wasn’t traveling that far south. He’d been told to disembark at Villahermosa in Tabasco, near the
Chiapas border. From there he would have to find transportation and a guide to take him to the site of the cave.
Mark was amazed at the size of the crowd traveling to what seemed like the middle of nowhere. He asked the flight attendant at the top of the stairway, and she hurriedly explained that they were bound for Palenque, one of the most awe-inspiring architectural masterpieces of the ancient Mayan world.
And I’m headed to a cave—a natural nightmare.
Mark passed through the gate into the swarming mass of humanity, past cheap vinyl seats and vendors serving coffee and cold drinks. He couldn’t imagine squeezing any more life into this congested space, but incredibly, there was more. Amidst the sweltering heat and enough humidity to make it feel like his face was going to melt off, a new irritation descended. Bloodthirsty mosquitoes aimed their miniature spears at the travelers, making no distinction between wealthy doctors and impoverished Mexicans. Mark flinched and slapped at his neck, then headed to a desk stacked with maps and tourist pamphlets. A slack-jawed Mexican in a rumpled sweat-stained shirt gave him a glance before flicking the page of his magazine.
“I wonder if you could help me,” said Mark.
“Sí,” the Mexican responded in a lazy drawl.
“I need to get to this cave in Chiapas.” Mark pointed to the map Harding had provided for him. “I also need a guide and equipment in order to explore the cave.”
The Mexican regarded the map with a slight smirk. “Chiapas? In the forest? Here?” He fingered the location on the map. “No, Señor. You will not find anyone to take you there.”
“Why not?” asked Mark, although he wasn’t surprised. If Harding couldn’t find anyone to assist him, what made Mark think he could?
“Too deep in the forest,” said the Mexican. “Too difficult a trek. And in Chiapas?” He shook his head. “I can find you a nice cave to explore in Tapijulapa. Not so far. Many guides would be happy to take you.”
“No,” said Mark. “I need to get to this cave. My wife was exploring there and she hasn’t returned.”
“Ah,” said the Mexican. “You need to rescue her. Good luck with that.” He flipped another page of his magazine.
“Isn’t there anyone who’d be willing to go there? I can pay handsomely.”
The Mexican shrugged. “If you travel to Tapijulapa, it’s on the border of Chiapas. There is a new store in the village, L’Explorador. It carries supplies for these cave trips. You may find someone to help you.”
“Thanks,” said Mark. “For nothing,” he muttered as he walked away.
He threaded through the milling crowd until he finally squeezed out the front doors of the airport. Sleek taxis and a series of smart tour buses were purring at the side of the road, amidst a few of the dented and rusted variety, but he wondered if any would convey him to this Tapijulapa. Mark began questioning the first driver in the line.
“Tapijulapa?” he asked with a hopeful smile. The cabbie shook his head.
He continued down the row, but received the same response from every driver of a well-kept shiny cab. When he came to the first of the different variety—headlights smashed, deep scratches in the paint, and a concave door on the driver’s side—the response was also different.
“Sí, Señor. I go to Tapijulapa. Not cheap, though. Will cost mucho dinero.” His smile exposed blackened teeth. Sour cerveza breath drifted toward Mark’s nostrils.
Mark sighed. He’d known from the beginning that this wasn’t going to be a luxury enterprise, but did he have to be confronted with that reality at his first port of call? The cabbie directed him to the opposite side of the vehicle, where the passenger door hadn’t seen the same impact and, therefore, could be opened. The seat was ripped and tattered. Foam fragments spilled across the sun-hardened vinyl. Mark threw his bag into the taxi and settled in.
The driver raced around to his own door with an eager grin. He leaped in and floored the gas pedal, dodging pedestrians and nearly ramming a tour bus in a frantic bid to merge into the snarl of traffic departing the airport. Furious honks flooded the air, like a flock of Canada geese passing overhead, but the cabbie returned the honks with similar intensity. Mark closed his eyes and prayed he’d make it out of the city alive, let alone to Tapijulapa.
Once they’d left the airport madness, though, the ride became less suicidal. He even had to admit that Villahermosa had a certain charm. Along its narrow cobbled streets, small shops nestled beside the grand facades of cathedrals and the gigantic sculptured heads of the Olmec. The taxi passed a museum that was adorned with cherubs and dazzling cobalt tiles—a showcase of some of the city’s oil wealth, the driver explained.
Villahermosa also had a not-so-quaint side, however, of crowded, crumbling housing units and narrow potholed lanes. The people also varied from singing musicians in sombreros and pristine caballero costumes to painfully thin children in ragged—though clean—cotton clothes. Despite the seedier side of the city, Mark was not overjoyed to leave it behind. It was like leaving the last vestiges of civilization, even though the road was still paved and there were still scattered pueblos and banana groves along the way.
But the land soon became lusher, with palms and ferns, taller trees, and thicker vegetation. The murky swampland harbored spider monkeys, multicolored birds, and the occasional ridged snout of a crocodile. Mark shuddered. This wasn’t the country he’d seen on all the tourist brochures. No cerulean oceans, pure white-sand beaches, and opulent hotels decorated the landscape. This was Kat’s country—as wild as it came.
“Tapijulapa is a highland town in a mixed pine and tropical forest,” said the cabbie. “Waterfalls. Springs and natural pools. And caves. You will never see such beautiful land—yax, vibrant unbelievable color as green as the most perfect emeralds and jade, and water sparkling like the purest diamonds.”
“Yax?” asked Mark. He knew a smattering of Spanish, but this didn’t sound like that at all. “If you mean green, wouldn’t you say verde?”
“Yax is Mayan,” said the driver.
“Ah,” said Mark. “So you know some Mayan. I imagine, with all the ruins around here, the people would know a little of the ancient language.”
“Sí,” the driver said, but he looked at Mark in the cracked rearview mirror with a sneer, as if Mark was an idiot.
Mark pondered the man’s words, trying to ignore the look. “You mentioned jade as well. Didn’t the Maya prize jade?”
“Sí. They did,” said the cabbie abruptly.
Mark decided he’d better drop the subject. For some reason the Mexican didn’t want to discuss the region’s historical people. “When will we reach Tapijulapa?” he asked.
“Half an hour,” said the cabbie.
“Good,” he said. I hope the people there are friendlier than you.
He gave up trying to hold a conversation with the driver and stared out the window, watching the landscape alter from flat floodplain to rolling hills of varied vegetation. He took the time to admire the winding rivers and silvery falls, which were just as the man had described. The ride was fairly pleasant too, despite the springs that poked through the seat and jarred Mark’s tailbone. But when they turned off the smooth federal highway, the road became a potholed, rutted nightmare. He was thoroughly relieved, as they crested the next hill, to finally catch sight of their destination.
Like a haven in the jungle, Tapijulapa appeared: white stucco houses with canted brown tiled roofs nestled against yax hills. Children were playing in the village square, which was dominated by an ancient stone cathedral. Dogs and chickens wandered around the cobblestone streets dodging pedestrians—men in creamy white or brightly colored cotton shirts and jeans, women in dresses and skirts embroidered in indigo, cinnabar, and emerald, some sporting intricately woven ponchos.
“Where do I take you, Señor?” asked the cabbie.
“I was told to find a store called L’Explorador,” said Mark. “Do you know where it is?”
“Sí, Señor. Just up ahead.”
&nb
sp; The cab jounced past a number of wicker workshops where artisans displayed furniture, baskets, and hats. It came to halt in front of a shop with white plastered walls and a quaint thatch roof. A wooden sign with the word L’Explorador carved in intricate lettering hung over the door.
“New store,” said the cabbie. “For going in la cueva. You like to do that?” he asked, eyeing Mark’s thickened waistline.
“I do now,” said Mark, although his spine was tingling.
He handed the man some cash, more than he’d asked for, and the cabbie’s eyes lit up. “Muchas gracias,” he said as Mark exited the vehicle. Mark thought the man might wait to see if he would still be required, but the cabbie immediately drove off.
Well, this was it. Hopefully he’d have more luck than Harding in procuring a guide to this seemingly unreachable cave. Mark opened the door and entered, his heart hammering in his ears.
His first glimpse was of a long counter, and behind the counter, shelves of ropes, links, carabiners, anchors, helmets, kneepads, elbowpads, space-age foil blankets. There were even a few of Kat’s elaborate rebreathers hooked on the far wall. Kat had explained at tedious length all about them, not that Mark had ever wanted to try them out. Specially designed for extended dives in caves, the rebreather recycled exhaled air. Carbon dioxide was removed in a chemical reaction with alkaline hydroxide, and since divers can’t breathe pure oxygen—it becomes toxic at twenty-five feet—helium and the diver’s residual oxygen were combined in precise quantities to treat the exhaled air. Three onboard computers with built-in backup systems regulated the whole process. This could extend diving time up to sixteen hours. The rebreathers were large, extremely heavy, and no doubt expensive.
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