The old man stopped pouring water over his head and looked at Perry long enough for his expression to be read Anytime. Of course, the man didn’t make a move to do anything about it. All talk, just like King.
Perry said, “That’s what I thought,” and returned his attention to the orange buoy, which marked the site of the plane wreck. It was too late to re-create the details about Sunday afternoon, the big creature surfacing, but he could see what was happening now.
He watched Ford say something to King, a pissed-off expression on his face, then pull the mask down and disappear underwater, hauling two extra tanks and the PVC nozzle with him. He watched King handling the coiled hose, feeding it out but not too fast.
That was to be expected. King had whispered to Perry before wading into the lake, “There’s no reason for us to be in a hurry, is there? Watch how I deal with that tight-assed prick.”
Nope, there was no reason to hurry, but Perry had added, “Unless the cops come looking in their helicopters again. If that happens, I’m outta here, dude. So don’t waste too much time, that wouldn’t be smart.”
No shit, Sherlock. That was King’s know-it-all response.
The orange buoy and the inner tube were less than halfway across the lake but only about forty yards away, which was close enough for King to know he had an audience now that Ford was underwater. King was a show-off, and Perry wasn’t surprised when his partner suddenly pretended to be fighting a fish, pulling on the hose as if it were a fishing line. Perry wondered how Ford was dealing with that, the man now swimming somewhere beneath the water’s surface. The hose went taut at first, but then it went slack. Perry guessed that King had pulled the damn thing right out of Ford’s hands.
Funny.
The old man didn’t think so.
“What is that useless son of a bitch doing out there now? Jesus Christ! Doesn’t he know men’s lives are on the line?”
Perry told him, “Shut your damn mouth or I’ll hit you with this rifle again. I’d rather listen to you spitting teeth than your goddamn yammering.”
That quieted the old fool. Perry stopped giving him his hard-ass stare long enough to check the sky. It had been calm, but now wind was starting to move through the trees. The wind was pushing vultures high overhead, in a whirlpool circle, but there was no sign of helicopters searching the horizon. All he saw was blue sky and sunlight, black birds and wind. But it was getting late now, the sun hanging low in the sky.
Good. Maybe the cops had given up.
Perry hoped it wouldn’t get cold again. For the first time since Saturday night, it felt like he was in Florida, the way the air felt grassy warm like summer, and he didn’t want it to change.
The old man interrupted his thoughts again, saying, “I’ll be damned. I didn’t notice these before.”
Now what was the old bastard doing? Futch was wading around in the shallows, looking at the bottom. He had a towel—the thing was black with blood—draped over his head as if to keep the sun out.
Perry stepped away from the truck toward the water. “What are you looking for? You old son-bitch, if you tossed those truck keys in the water, I’ll—”
“The keys to the truck are with our friends, just like we told you,” the old man shot back. “You wouldn’t understand what it is I’m looking at—since you’re nothing but Yankee white trash.”
Perry’s hands went to his pockets, feeling for cigarettes but finding the switchblade instead.
Walking toward Futch, Perry listened to the old man say, “Gator tracks, that’s what I’m looking at. A damn big gator, too. And the tracks are fresh. First time I noticed them. You ever seen a big bull gator? Not in some zoo—a real live predator, out here in the wild.”
That caused Perry to stop. “How big? Are you serious?”
“Boy,” the old man said to him, “you’re talking to one of Florida’s foremost leading experts on alligators. It’s what I do for a living. What you think brought me out here to this lake to begin with? I was hired to catch a big-ass gator that was killing cows on this property. But, damn, if this isn’t the first sign I’ve seen of the thing.”
Perry said, “Show me,” and walked to the edge of the lake as the old man reached down into the water, picked up a rock or something, while pointing with his free hand.
“Right there,” Futch said. “You got to be blind not to know what made that track.”
Perry stayed a safe distance away from the man and leaned to look, saying, “Sunday afternoon, I was standing over there by the trees and I saw something big come close to the surface. But then it disappeared. I’ve been wondering what it was.”
The old man straightened as if surprised. “Sunday?” he said.
“It looked black. Are alligators black?”
The old man asked, “Are you sure?,” suddenly sounding concerned for some reason.
Perry was trying to see down into the water, waiting for the murk to clear. Every time the old man moved his feet, a cloud of silt exploded around them.
Perry replied, “I just said it, didn’t I? Of course I’m sure.” Then he said, “Where? I don’t see any tracks. Wait—is this what you’re talking about? This isn’t an animal track . . . you made this with your hand.”
It was true, Arlis had made the track, wanting to scare the skinny Yankee idiot and also to divert his attention, but he didn’t reply. He was looking at the lake now, studying the surface, his expression worried.
Perry said, “Tell the truth, you lying old bastard. These aren’t claw marks. You used your fingers to make some bullshit fake track, trying to scare me. I got eyes, dumb-ass. I can see.”
Something Perry didn’t see was Arlis slipping the keys to the truck, dripping wet, into his pocket.
TEN
I WAS UNDERWATER NEAR THE EDGE OF THE DROP- off when I felt the hose go taut, as if King, his fins still visible above me, were a fisherman setting the hook and I was a fish.
The strike was so unexpected that it yanked the PVC nozzle out of my hand. It also caused me to drop the air bottles I was carrying, two aluminum tanks plus regulators, all roped together. Because the tanks were full, they sank as if they were made of solid steel.
I had been looking for the crevice where earlier I’d wedged the yellow air bottle. I wanted to plant another tank in its place. Instead, I watched the tanks clank against the lip of the drop-off, tumble briefly down the side, then accelerate, stems first, toward the lake bottom, regulator hoses flailing, where they hit another ledge, plowing up twin clouds of silt, then continued rolling downward into an unseen crevice.
What appeared to be the lake’s bottom, fifty feet below, was not the deepest part of the lake. I guessed there would be a maze of vents and crevices down there, inclining gradually toward a water vein that si-phoned into a river two or three hundred feet below the earth’s crust.
King had intentionally yanked the hose from my hand, and I thought, That’s one more reason the man won’t leave here alive.
If I hadn’t been so desperate for time, I would have been tempted to surface, snatch King from behind and drag him down, down, down into the mouth of that underground river. In my imagination, I could picture a man-sized fissure, a perfect spot to wedge King’s body.
Maybe later.
Yes, later . . . And later I would have to decide what to do with King—and Perry, too. For now, though, I had to play by their rules while I focused on rescuing Tomlinson and the boy.
“If you try anything stupid,” King had told me as I got ready for the dive, “Perry will start carving up Grandpa.”
Arlis, too far away to hear, hadn’t seen Perry grinning as he pulled my Randall knife from his belt and flashed it around like a movie swordsman.
I knew that failing to return with a sack full of gold would catalyze the same reaction. I would have to deal with that, too. But later.
For a moment, I considered leaving the bottles where they lay. A scattered blossoming of bubbles, leaking from the limestone, told me t
hat Will and Tomlinson were somewhere beneath me still breathing. They couldn’t have much air remaining.
No way of knowing exactly how much time they had left.
Objectively, though, I understood that it would take me several minutes at the very least to carve enough sand and rock away with the jet dredge to free them. Excavating required too much time, and there was too little air unless I recovered the tanks.
In my mind, I inspected a rapid-fire chain of scenarios. By spending a minute or two now retrieving the tanks, I might well provide Will and Tomlinson with an hour or more of air later when I found them. It could mean the difference between life and death. Maybe one or both of the guys were injured. Maybe their legs had been pinned beneath boulders. What good would it do to find them only to have them die after sharing the last of my air?
I checked the time. Tomlinson and Will had been underwater for fifty-six minutes. Nine or ten minutes left, counting their spare air bottles. That gave me all the more reason to go after the tanks.
I purged air from my BC and angled downward, swallowing to clear my ears as I descended. Visibility was good now. I could see largemouth bass nesting in shallow sand craters, a school of bream butterflying among the branches of a waterlogged tree limb. I also saw a big alligator gar fish hanging in the depths as dark and motionless as a barracuda—the biggest
I had seen so far, maybe five feet long.
Maybe that’s what Perry had seen. Magnified by the lake’s surface, the fish would have looked man-sized to someone like him.
As I descended beyond the ledge, the lake basin bulged wider like the bowl of a brandy snifter. It was the typical geology of a sinkhole, or what is sometimes called a “karst window”: a small, watery mouth atop a globular basin that then narrowed beneath a protruding ledge. The ledges were probably remnants of a karst bridge that had once crossed the subterranean river.
As I traveled deeper, though, I realized that I was wrong about the shape of the lake. If the basin had been surveyed and plotted on graph paper, a vertical slice would have resembled an irregular hourglass more than a brandy snifter. Because the karst bridge had collapsed at the center, it projected twin limestone wings toward the middle of the lake and created an hourglass-like stricture.
The bottles had tumbled down a ravine, their resting place screened from my vision by depth and also because the protruding limestone shielded the bottom from sunlight. The twin wings, or overhangs, were fifteen to twenty feet thick. They were jagged at the ends and similar in most ways, although the northernmost wing where Tomlinson and Will were trapped was the thicker of the two. I found that reassuring because the overhang was sufficiently thick to contain karst chambers—possibly even a vent—that the two could have followed to an air bell.
An air bell—I still wanted to believe that such things existed.
I checked my depth gauge as I kicked downward.
68 ft.
Under the northernmost overhang, the lake bottom narrowed and then bellied wider—wider than the actual circumference of the lake. It was like an opening into a gymnasium-sized hollow that extended beneath the cypress trees where we’d first parked the truck and possibly under the swamp beyond. There, the bottom of the lake appeared to flatten—I had to guess—at a hundred and fifty feet.
I still couldn’t spot the damn bottles, so once again I considered returning to where we’d found the mammoth tusk and getting to work.
No . . . I had read too many accounts of cave divers, trapped or lost, who had died because their rescuers had panicked and made fatal miscalculations. The rescuers had rushed to help instead of methodically hurrying to help. There was a difference.
I knew that decompression wasn’t a concern for me because recovering the bottles amounted to a fast bounce dive—although there were inherent dangers with any bounce dive that exceeded a hundred feet. I would risk narcosis if I descended too fast, and, in the resulting confusion, there was also a chance of overbreathing my regulator. I had to pay attention. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a foolhardy thing to attempt. But I had to do it. I needed those tanks. My dive computer would automatically compute the short amount of decompression time required—close to zero, I guessed—and I would spend that time using the dredge, cutting my friends out of the rocks.
At one hundred and thirty feet, I saw the tanks. Both had come to rest among a pile of rubble created by falling rock and surface debris—roots of a long-dead cypress tree, silt detritus . . . and two cow skulls, too, amid scattered rib bones . . . and what looked at first like the crushed remains of an automobile.
Someone had dumped a car here? That struck me as unlikely. It had taken us two hours to hack a trail wide enough for Arlis’s four-wheel-drive truck. Why would someone come clear out here to ditch a clunker?
Descending toward the tanks, I didn’t slow as I pulled out a palm-sized LED flashlight and painted the bottom with light.
It wasn’t a car, I realized. It was the fuselage of an airplane. And I thought, My God—Arlis was right.
As I drew closer, details revealed themselves, frozen in white wafers of visibility. I saw twin twisted propellers . . . then twin windowless sockets that opened into the plane’s cockpit. Soon, I could make out the shape of a broken wing that was mud coated and angular. In the gray depths, the wing appeared as symmetrical as a gigantic bird feather.
I was looking at a cargo plane. An old DC-3 possibly.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been cause to celebrate—even if it wasn’t Batista’s gold plane, it was an extraordinary find.
But not now.
I looked at my watch, feeling the weight of water on me. As my chest worked harder to suck air, I could hear the muted pinging of my own air exhaust, the sound compressed by five atmospheres of pressure.
143 ft.
It was no place to linger—and not only because of the depth. Tomlinson and Will had been underwater for fifty-seven minutes now. Logic and experience told me that soon—very soon—Will would attempt to draw a breath, but his regulator would not respond. If the teen was in a place where he could move his arms, he would have his emergency bottle ready. The same was true of Tomlinson—he, too, was almost out of air. When trapped underwater, the demarcation between a lifetime and a spent life is one long, terrifying minute. Because of King’s antics, I was cutting it way too damn fine.
When I got to the bottles, I grabbed the line hitched to the valve stems and kicked toward the surface, forcing myself to ascend no faster than my own chromium-bright bubbles.
I couldn’t hurry. It was suicide to hurry. To pass the time, I allowed my eyes to assess the unexpected geology of the sinkhole, as viewed from below. Unexpected because, for the first time, I could see that the plane, when it crashed, had compromised the integrity of the limestone hourglass. It had cleaved a massive wedge from the overhang above me. As a result, the stone stricture into which Tomlinson and Will Chaser had disappeared, although thick at both ends, was perilously thin at midpoint.
If I made a mistake with the jet dredge, if I cut too deep or in the wrong place, the lake basin’s entire limestone scaffolding could collapse.
Tink . . . tinka . . . tink-tink.
I had returned to the place where we’d found the mammoth tusk, and Tomlinson was signaling me again.
Shave-and-a-haircut . . . two bits.
It had become his audio signature. He was still alive, but his tapping sounded more urgent now. It wasn’t my imagination.
Ninety seconds—that’s how long it had taken me to retrieve the tanks and return to the rubble that marked where the limestone ledge had once been.
I didn’t waste time responding.
He was signaling, I knew, because he’d heard me as I wedged one of the bottles into the crevice below the rubble and then opened the air valve a half turn. There was no need for me to answer the man. Soon enough, he would hear the jet dredge cutting through the sand above him. He would know that I was doing everything I could
to get him and Will back to the surface.
The decision I now had to make was an important one: Where should I start digging?
After anchoring the second spare tank nearby, I located the hose to the dredge. It hung in a limp coil beneath the inner tube, where I could see King’s legs dangling. I swam to the PVC tube, checked the brass nozzle to make sure it was clear, then touched my finger to the makeshift trigger and tested the thing.
The sudden pressure caused the handle to kick in my hand as water jetted out the nozzle, an expanding swirl of bubbles that had the velocity of a dentist’s drill.
I removed my finger from the trigger and began to search for the best area to begin excavating. I wanted to locate the exact spot where Will and Tomlinson’s bubbles sparkled up through the limestone base . . . But there was no single exit point that I could find. The air ascended from several areas of rock.
That was okay. I told myself it didn’t matter. Even if I had found a precise exhaust point, it was no guarantee that it marked the location of my friends. Like water through a leaky roof, air bubbles traveled the path of least resistance, following angles and curves, until they found an opening. The guys might have been directly beneath their bubbles, but just as likely their bubbles had traveled many yards before finding a porous area through which to ascend.
It was also possible that Will and Tomlinson had moved from the spot where the ledge had collapsed. They could have burrowed into some unseen crevice or followed a karst vent, seeking an exit, leaving a trail of trapped air bubbles behind them.
I swam to the drop-off to get one last overview of the limestone overhang. If I excavated too close to the fragile midpoint, the whole slab might shear away. I chose an area slightly inland from where the ledge had collapsed and decided that it was safer to dig from the side of the overhang instead of directly downward.
I bled every bit of air from my BC to ensure negative buoyancy, then pulled on the hose, telling King that I needed slack. I dreaded the man’s response, but I was prepared when he attempted to yank the thing from my hands again.
Deep Shadow Page 12