Deep Shadow df-17

by Randy Wayne White

  I turned and kicked hard toward the bottom. Would the monitor pursue? I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and confirmed that the lizard was coming fast now, closing the distance at a terrifying rate.

  I had been carrying the extra air bottle and the fishing reel. I dropped both and then struggled to unclip the spotlight from a D ring on my vest as I swam toward the ivory tusk ten feet below. It marked the opening into the karst vent—my only hope of escaping the creature. It wouldn’t provide me much protection, though, and I couldn’t hide there for long because I was almost out of air.

  Kicking as hard as I could, I flew past the tusk and threw one hand out in time to snag the lip of the tunnel from above. My momentum swung me around as I struggled with the spotlight. As I turned, I saw through the green lens that the animal was only twenty yards away. Its head was streamlined, extended flat, as it knifed through the water, coming at me with the weight and speed of a torpedo.

  My fins were too wide to slip cleanly into the vent. With my left hand, I yanked off one, then the other, as I finally freed the spotlight. I jammed my feet into the hole and used the light to pole myself backward until my body was encased by limestone like some oversized lobster hiding from an attacker. Then I waited . . . waited in a green and eerie darkness . . . with the spotlight in my right hand ready to fend off the monitor if it tried to follow me into the cave.

  I didn’t have to wait long. My clumsy entrance had stirred up a cloud of silt and, seconds later, the monitor’s head appeared as a gray, elongated shape at the tunnel’s entrance, only a few feet from my face mask. I heard its claws scrabbling for purchase on the rocks, and then it pushed its head deeper into the hole. Just as I was about to turn on the spotlight, though, it suddenly retreated. The bulk of its body covered the entrance for a few moments and then it disappeared.

  I lay motionless on my belly, trying to slow my breathing. Several seconds later, the monitor was back again, the silhouette of its head a sullen black wedge at the edge of visibility. It seemed to be waiting for me to come out.

  The animal appeared to be in no hurry now. It knew where I was, that was obvious. But how? The spotlight was off, so there was no way for it to see me. A reptile’s eyesight isn’t good at night, even on land. How had the thing tracked me so exactingly underwater? I wondered if it had somehow followed my bubble trail, but rejected the possibility. If it was tracking my bubbles, the animal would now be searching around on the surface. It made no sense.

  It was when I reached to readjust the monocular’s focus that I finally made the connection. The infrared light was still on. It gave me pause and I began to search for linkage. Had I been using infrared when the animal buzzed me earlier?

  I couldn’t remember for certain . . . But now I did recall that some animals can see infrared light. Infrared light is heat. It can be read through a variety of sensory organs. Bees can see infrared, some fish can process both infrared and ultraviolet light—and certain reptiles not only see infrared, they can sense it through their tongues, as well.

  Immediately, I switched off the infrared. Fearing that the monocular was producing some kind of electronic signature, I switched it off, too, then lay there in a blackness so absolute that ocular connectors to my brain created sparks and swirls behind my eyes that were uncomfortably bright. I blinked, trying to mitigate the reaction, as I calculated the chances that shutting down the night vision system actually would make a difference.

  It did make a difference—but the monitor didn’t respond as I had hoped. Within seconds of switching off the infrared, I heard a frenzied digging—claws on limestone—and then I heard the clatter of falling rocks only a few feet from my face mask. Maybe the animal feared it had lost me because it was now clawing its way into the hole.

  I retreated a few feet deeper, throwing my left hand over my head for protection from rocks as I extended my right arm so I could use the spotlight as a shield. The spotlight was my only weapon now and I knew I had to time it right. Hit the switch too soon and the monitor’s eyes would have time to adjust. If I waited, though, waited until the animal was only a few feet away, its dilated pupils would allow a thousand lumens of blinding light to pierce its optic nerve. If I blinded the thing, maybe it would retreat to the surface and decide that Perry was an easier target.

  The clawing sounds grew louder and more frenzied, and I realized that the vent wasn’t wide enough for the monitor to wedge its body through. Like a hyena in pursuit of a rodent, it was trying to dig me out of my hole. I decided to risk activating my night vision—but not the infrared. I was now convinced infrared was an invitation to be attacked.

  When the monocular was on, I saw the monitor’s head through a veil of silt. Its viper tongue probed the darkness, flicking at limestone only inches from my right hand, as its front claws continued to tractor its body closer.

  Startled that the animal was only a yard away, I lurched backward, which caused it to lift its head, alerted by my sudden movement. Through a green haze, I could see the monitor’s opaque eyes—they were the color of lead, like two indifferent ball bearings—and I could also see that its vertical pupils were dilated wide in the darkness as it attempted to decipher details.

  I jabbed the spotlight forward, closed my eyes and hit the switch. The explosion of light was so bright that it pierced my own eyelids. I felt a suctioning void of water pressure as the monitor lunged backward, and then rocks and sand began to rain down on me as it bucked its body free of the hole.

  I waited for several seconds, eyes closed, waving the spotlight like a flamethrower. Carefully, then, I switch off my night vision and opened my eyes.

  Even in the searing brightness of the light, all I could see was silt. Visibility might have been better had I switched off the spotlight, but I wasn’t going to risk that. Instead, I allowed several seconds to pass and then crawled to the opening, thrusting the spotlight ahead of me like a spear.

  At the mouth of the tunnel, I stopped. I found my fins and put them on as I swiveled my head, expecting the monitor to attack at any moment. Visibility in the lake basin was fair, and I used the light to search the area as far away as the drop-off. Just because I couldn’t see the monitor, though, didn’t mean that it had abandoned its pursuit.

  I switched off the spotlight and activated my night vision. Instantly, visibility improved. Perry was still above me on the inner tube less than thirty feet away. It seemed incredible that he was unaware of what had just taken place, but water is the relentless keeper of its own secrets.

  I continued to search, rechecking the lip of the drop-off, then scanning the lake’s surface. Stars were bright. I could still see the bouncing lucency of the beach fire. If the monitor hadn’t surfaced, it was somewhere nearby—perhaps behind me, or below me in deeper water, waiting for me, its prey, to reappear.

  I checked the orange numerals of my watch. It was 8:07 p.m. I had been underwater for forty-three minutes and my tank was nearly empty. Alligators can stay under for up to two hours and perhaps the same was true of monitor lizards. I couldn’t sit there and wait for the thing to surface. I had only a few minutes of air left, so I had to do something and I had to do it fast.

  Die on the bottom of an ancient lake or risk dying on the surface in the jaws of a prehistoric lizard?

  I forced myself to settle back against the rocks and think about it. There had to be a better option.

  TWENTY-SIX

  IT WAS 7:58 P.M., ACCORDING TO TOMLINSON’S NEW watch, when he and Will and Arlis stopped at the rim of the cypress head, still hidden by trees but close enough to the lake to see King. They watched the man toss a limb onto the fire and then yell toward the water, “Quit your complaining! You stay right there until your new boyfriend surfaces. This was all your idea, so just shut up and do what you’re told.”

  The little Honda generator was running, but not loud, and from the darkness they heard a man reply, “Shit, he’s been down there for almost an hour! I’m damn near frozen to death, King! King? God
damn it, pull me in, dude—I’m serious!”

  The men continued bickering as Arlis whispered, “Those are the two killers—sounds like I was wrong about those gunshots. They haven’t killed Doc yet. By God, that’s good news!”

  Will spoke, saying, “Yeah, but they will—we’ve got to do something,” his voice soft compared to the sapwood fire crackling and the cicada roar that echoed through the darkness of cypress trees and starlight. Then he said, “You think you’ll be okay if we sit you down against a tree? How’s your leg?”

  Arlis’s leg had been bleeding since he was bitten—not fast but steady—even though Tomlinson had done something smart right away, which might have saved the man’s life. He had stripped off his wet suit and cut off one of the sleeves. Then he’d helped Arlis slip his foot through the neoprene tube and slide it tight over his calf, which had slowed the bleeding. But the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

  When Tomlinson guessed it was because there was something in the reptile’s saliva that prevented coagulation, Arlis had said, “Maybe that’s what’s causing me to feel so sick, too. A by God giant lizard! A Florida boy like me, I would’ve never guessed this would happen in a million years.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Tomlinson had replied. “Blame me. I’ve been dodging dragons for years—those bastards. You just happened to get in the way.”

  That had struck Will as funny and he’d laughed for the first time since they’d arrived at the lake. And his opinion of Tomlinson climbed another notch. The man had an easy, gentle way of dealing with people, always making himself the butt of his own jokes, pretending to be weirder than he really was—something Will understood but, he guessed, not many other people did.

  Arlis was badly hurt—not just from the lizard—and he was sick, but that didn’t cause the old fisherman to be any less stubborn or full of fight. He had used the tire iron to chop away at the roots, making the hole wider, until he got too dizzy and then finally sat down in the mud and the stink of old bones. It had taken Will and Tomlinson twenty minutes to finish the job.

  When Will had finally muscled himself through the hole and was safely above water for the first time in hours, Tomlinson had shouted, “We did it!,” sounding surprised and happy even though they were all thinking the same thing: Hurry up and get out of there before that damn giant reptile returns.

  Every step of the way, their mood improved, until they were safely down the mound, and Arlis decided it was time to tell them about the killers and about the gunshots that might have killed Doc Ford. Tomlinson and Will had Arlis slung between them, acting as crutches, so the man could move along on his one good leg, but they stopped when they heard that, and Tomlinson said to Will, “That can’t be. I would know it if Doc was dead. I think Arlis is wrong.”

  Whispering, Arlis had replied, “How would you know? You’ve been underwater the whole time.”

  “It’s a feeling I’ve got,” Tomlinson said. “We’ve got to find him.”

  “By God, I hope you’re right. But I’m not wrong about those killers. Unless they skedaddled while we were down in that snake pit, they’re still at the lake. I would have seen truck lights. Or maybe you’ve got a feeling about that, too?”

  Lowering his voice, Tomlinson asked, “The lake’s just through those trees, right? I’m all turned around. It seemed like we came a hell of a lot farther than we did.”

  “It’s close,” Arlis said. “Why do you think I keep telling you to keep your voices down? Those fools got my Winchester and a little bitty pistol and they’d just as soon shoot us as look at us. So this is where we part ways. You and the boy head west, cut straight through the swamp to the road. You’re a sailor, you’ve spent your life following stars, so I reckon you can find your way out. I’m gonna rest here for a few minutes, then I’m going back for Doc. I just wish I didn’t feel so sick and dopey. I think that lizard by God poisoned me. It’s like there’s acid in my veins.”

  Will had felt free and full of energy until then, happy to be alive. It was good to be outside, with plenty of air to breathe, walking on his own two feet instead of treading water. But the quality of the old man’s voice was upsetting. Arlis’s whole body was shaking and his skin felt fragile like wet paper. He was talking brave, but his voice couldn’t hide how sick he felt. Arlis was scared and weak, and sometimes his voice cracked, like he might be close to collapsing.

  Will had whispered to Tomlinson, “We’re not going to let Captain Futch go after those sons of bitches by himself. You go on and head to the road if you want. I’m staying here.”

  Tomlinson had spent enough time with Ford to recognize rage in a certain type of man’s voice—the words assumed a cold, flat rhythm as if they were speaking through the barrel of a gun focused on their target. Will and Ford were the same in many ways—which was probably why they didn’t like each other—and he knew now that it was dangerous to let the boy go anywhere near the men who had beaten Arlis and who now threatened Ford. The fact was, though, they needed to get to their cell phones or the truck. Arlis wouldn’t last another hour without medical attention.

  Tomlinson said, “Maybe if I talk to them, I can win them over.”

  That struck Will as a contemptible thing to suggest—make peace with men who had beaten a friend so badly—but Arlis settled it, saying, “If you try and talk to them, you’ll kill us all. So we’re sticking together, if that’s what you’re thinking. Tomlinson? You stay out of sight when we get there and don’t open your mouth.”

  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. Please.”

  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, He’s getting ready to pull the trigger.

  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.