Deep Shadow

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson kept his legs together as if they were tied. He kept his arms at his sides. He used only his fingers to propel and guide his body as he floated into the room.

  Will Chaser didn’t hesitate, but he’d spent enough time by now to know that even the smallest movement in an underwater cave destroyed visibility. Kick too hard with a fin, stir the water with a free hand, and a cloud would form instantly and suck the light from his eyes.

  Darkness. It was something else Will Chaser knew about.

  Will mimicked Tomlinson’s spare movements. He used his left hand to hold the air bottle to his mouth and he used the fingers of his right hand to propel himself crablike into a space that was illuminated in corridors of white by Tomlinson’s flashlight.

  Two corpses floating to the surface . . .

  That was the image that came into Tomlinson’s mind as his hand reached upward toward the ceiling of the snow globe. If this was to be their end, this was a fitting place. It was an ancient room where a people had vanished into time and space before them. When he was close enough, Tomlinson touched the rock barrier gently, gently, allowing his fingers to explore the rough surface.

  The limestone felt solid—but that didn’t mean much as Tomlinson knew too well. Using his flashlight, he moved along the top of the chamber hoping to find another opening. The room was small, the ceiling uniform. There was no opening that he could see.

  This isn’t what Tomlinson had expected. Until this instant, Tomlinson had believed, in some deep, private space, that they would find a way out. Not that he knew a lot about the topography of caves—he didn’t. It was more of an intuitive belief that, once again, good luck and good karma would steer him to safety.

  Tomlinson was an enthusiastic skin diver but a reluctant scuba diver. He preferred the simplicity of minimal gear—mask, snorkel and fins only. He disliked the straitjacket constraints of scuba. An aluminum tank whacking him in the back of the head whenever he attempted a bit of spontaneous underwater ballet was irritating.

  However, he had logged many hours diving wrecks—usually with Ford. It was through Ford that Tomlinson had been introduced to the small community of scuba loonies—tech-freak athletes, he thought of them—who lived to explore Florida’s underwater caves. His information on the subject had come from this small, devoted group of people.

  It was from cave divers that Tomlinson had heard rumors of subterranean air bells that sometimes existed below the water table. He knew the story of the female cave diver who had failed to surface, was presumed dead but found alive three hours later, her face pressed tight to a rock ceiling where there was a three-inch layer of air. The woman had supplemented the air supply by emptying her BC into the space.

  Tomlinson knew that such air bells were rare—if they did indeed exist. Especially in Florida, where limestone was too permeable to create the pressure-tight enclosure required. Physics also required that the cavern exist prior to the sea level’s rise. Only then could air pressure, locked in such a rock chamber, exert sufficient force to find equilibrium with the pressure of rising water.

  It was an unlikely combination. When Tomlinson found the snow globe, though, with its artifacts and prehistoric silence, he believed that his secret hope—the hope of finding an air bell—had been realized. It would have been yet another example of his precognitive abilities meshing with his paranormal powers. Once again, good luck and karma were destined to save his ass.

  Not this time. Tomlinson had found his prehistoric cave. But it did not contain a prehistoric air bell.

  When Tomlinson glanced at his depth gauge, though, he felt another spark of hope. According to it, they were now only five feet beneath the surface. Five feet!

  The spark soon faded as he thought it through. What the hell difference did it make if they were within arm’s reach of the surface or a hundred feet beneath it when they ran out of air?

  The answer was zero difference. They would still drown.

  Tomlinson’s attention shifted from the room’s construction to Will. The boy was ascending from below. Once again, Tomlinson was impressed. The teen remained almost motionless as he entered the globe. There were isolated explosions of silt around Will’s finger as he maneuvered his body, but the eruptions were small and brief. The water in the little room remained clear.

  With the flashlight, Tomlinson got the kid’s attention, then pointed out the artifacts one by one. He thought Will would find them interesting while also encouraging him to continue his slow ascent. The artifacts might even comfort the boy during his last breathing minutes on earth. Tomlinson was now convinced that that was the case.

  This is a good spot to wait for the Big Guy to finally pull the plug. Karmic, even. Sort of peaceful.

  It was as if they had reached a chosen terminus. The pre-Columbian artifacts were reminders that Will was the progeny of an ancient race, and so the symmetry was plain enough. Will Chaser was a mix of Indian descent: Sioux, Seminole and Apache. He was a full-blooded “Skin,” in the vernacular of western reservations, as Tomlinson knew through his association with members of AIM, the American Indian Movement.

  Something else Tomlinson knew, however, was that Will didn’t like discussing his own Indianness. Maybe that’s why destiny had brought them here to die. One night, at the marina, Tomlinson had brought up the subject of Pan-Indianism. When he had suggested that Will consider embarking on a vision quest, the kid had actually flipped him the bird. It was a spunky response that Tomlinson admired, but it was also telling.

  No need to discuss the boy’s reaction. Tomlinson understood. Will had grown up living in reservation slums, attending Oklahoma boarding schools—a euphemism for “reform school.” He had seen too much fakery in the made-in-China tourist shops and in the nearby towns where blue-eyed shamans dressed themselves in feathers and vinyl, then charged for sweat-lodge revelations.

  Tomlinson had visited similar places. He had watched eager Buckeyes and moon-eyed intellectuals wait patiently in line for a nine-minute mystical experience that was followed by a post-sweat lodge buffet, cash bar only.

  “That Indian stuff’s all bullshit and you know it,” the boy had told Tomlinson that same night at the marina. Ford, who happened to be close enough to hear, had nodded in agreement.

  Ironic now, considering where they were. It had been impossible to argue about the power of spiritual synergy—until this moment—and neither he nor the boy had enough air to argue.

  Tomlinson used the flashlight and let the contents of the snow globe make his point. He took his time, spotlighting one artifact after another. The snow globe became a life-sized diorama of pre-Columbian life. There was the spear point. It was six inches long, waxen silver like crystal. The fishhooks might have been made of bone, not flint. The vase looked as if it had been abandoned only days ago instead of several thousand years ago. The turtle carapace, wide as a suitcase, was pocked with barnacle scars from an ancient ocean.

  As Tomlinson lighted the artifacts, he became aware of something else: His flashlight was getting dim. It reminded him of yet another error in judgment that he had recently made. Ford had loaned him the light and was looking for fresh batteries when Tomlinson had waved him away impatiently, as if Ford’s prissy concern for details would mar yet another gorgeous Florida day. Yes, the beam of the light was dimming. Not good—even worse because the boy’s cheap little flashlight was already out of juice.

  Which would give out first? Their batteries or their air?

  Air first, Tomlinson decided. That was better. Their end would be easier to deal with in light rather than darkness, so he left the light on as Will moved close beside him, then found his shoulder for stability.

  Tomlinson gave the boy a moment to collect himself, then shined the light on the ceiling so they could decipher each other’s facial expressions. Eyes only inches apart, Tomlinson attempted communication.

  “Ah oohh ohhh-ayyy?”

  Tomlinson had asked, Are you okay?

  Will replied, “Eee-
utt! Ellll oooh! ’Uttt-ooh—eeenk?”

  Idiot! Hell no! What do you—think?

  Tomlinson held a palm up, telling the kid to calm himself. They had come to a juncture so painful that he felt like bawling. How do you tell a sixteen-year-old boy that this is the end? Tomlinson considered writing something comforting and profound on his dive slate, but what? There was no way a few words could convince Will Chaser that the best thing to do now was relax, let his consciousness float into God’s own flow, that he should accept what was coming.

  Tomlinson decided to try. On his dive slate he wrote, Sorry, brother! We’re fucked.

  The boy studied the slate for a second before staring into Tomlinson’s eyes, then the teenager flipped him yet another bird.

  “’Uuuuck oohhhh!”

  Will was still spunky, no doubt about it. It was a heartening response—and there was no mistaking the kid’s fiery reaction. Will was also impatient, and he grabbed Tomlinson by the shoulder, then shook him hard, saying, “Auhh-uhh ’ut ayyyy. ’Eh oh!”

  Almost out of air. Let’s go!

  Go where? Tomlinson didn’t waste gas by replying because the answer was all around them. There was no escape. The room was round and solid. There were no shadowed vents, no rock creases to dig away at in the hope of continuing onward.

  As the kid moved away, exploring the ceiling on his own, Tomlinson followed him with the flashlight. As he did, he felt an overwhelming flood of remorse.

  Don’t worry about Will, Tomlinson had told Ford. I assume all responsibility.

  Now here they were. Another day, yet another dumb-ass decision on his part. Marion Ford, as an accessory to the boy’s death, would no doubt process a variety of emotions, but surprise that Tomlinson had screwed up once again would not be among them.

  Tomlinson thought, I’m a menace to myself and to everyone who’s ever known me.

  It wasn’t the first time he had thought those words. In his lowest moments, alone aboard his sailboat, he sometimes punished himself with what he alone knew was the truth about himself. Truth was, he was a fraud. He was a self-constructed caricature. He was an elaborate spider-web of pretense who, at day’s end, counted success only by his own selfish excesses.

  Even in his lowest moments, though, Tomlinson knew that he was also a devoted admirer of his fellow human beings. He valued people. He admired them for their failings as well as their strengths. But Tomlinson sometimes also believed that he had perverted his own kindness into an effective trap. His affection for others had earned him many free drinks and forgiving friends, and it had won him an eager bedroom willingness from women who believed in his goodness—despite their own good sense, and their own moral obligations.

  Tomlinson had many female friends. For him, women were neither a quest nor an obsession. Loving and adoring and pleasing women was more a way of life—a fact that he seldom discussed, even with Ford, and never, ever bragged about.

  Tomlinson delighted in the perfumed tribe. It was his nature. He lusted for their confidences and their whispered secrets and their trust even more eagerly than he lusted after their bodies. It didn’t matter if the women were engaged or even married. He loved the ceremony of undressing a lady as much as a kid enjoyed unwrapping presents on Christmas Day. Snapping a woman’s bra free, then leaning to behold her breasts—those sacred, weighty icons of earthen femininity—ranked right up there with the very best God had to offer.

  For Tomlinson, the actual sex act wasn’t as important as sharing the profound intimacy that women offered, although getting a woman into bed was one of the consistent perks, as he now had to admit to himself.

  I’m a good-for-nothing dog, Tomlinson thought as he watched the teenager explore the chamber. I don’t deserve the air I’m breathing.

  Convinced it was true, he began to move along the ceiling in slow pursuit of Will. As he did, he pulled open the Velcro straps of his BC and began to remove his vest and tank. He would give the boy the last of his air.

  I’m not going to die wearing a damn straitjacket!

  It was something Tomlinson had vowed long ago under circumstances that in fact were more stressful than being trapped underwater in a cave.

  He thought, I’m dying a whole man. Free. Not stoned, unfortunately—but who could ask for more?

  Tomlinson felt himself smile. In that instant, he perceived an unexpected truth. A final act of kindness was an invitation to absolution—and absolution was available in no other form.

  When Will sensed Tomlinson behind him, he turned. The beam of the flashlight was flickering now. He watched Tomlinson take a long, slow breath—the man was smiling for some reason—before he removed his regulator and offered it to Will.

  Will spoke through the Spare Air mouthpiece, saying, “Eeer-duho ’ippie. Auuk eet uff!”

  Weirdo hippie. Knock it off!

  Will refused the regulator. Instead, he took the light from Tomlinson’s hand and used it to point to something embedded in the ceiling of the cave. Tomlinson had been so lost in introspection that it took a moment to swivel his attention from death to what he was seeing only inches from his eyes.

  What the hell had the kid found now?

  Holding his breath, Tomlinson pressed his faceplate close to the ceiling in the failing light. Will had discovered tree roots, he realized. A network of roots. Cypress trees probably were growing overhead only a few feet above them.

  Tomlinson reached for his dive slate intending to write, Use your knife!

  Before he finished, though, the flashlight flickered, then went out.

  FIFTEEN

  PERRY FIRED THREE SHOTS AT ARLIS, EACH SLUG banging through the truck as loud as a sledgehammer, then he swung the rifle toward me. I was several strides away. It was too late for me to duck beneath the barrel, so I threw up my hands—in protest, not surrender—and yelled, “Stop shooting! Use your brain!”

  My attention was on the truck as I continued running. I juked past Perry, seeing the black Dodge still accelerating as it lurched sharply, then appeared to buck when its right fender clipped a cypress tree. The impact levered the vehicle up on two wheels for an instant and stalled the engine. Arlis was attempting to restart the truck as it coasted into the swamp, losing speed, then banged to a stop.

  “Get your goddamn hand off that ignition!” Perry yelled at Arlis, shucking another shell.

  I tried to throw off his aim by jumping into the line of fire but too late. The truck’s rear window exploded. In the shock wave of silence that followed, birds spooked from the trees, dropping a detritus of leaves onto the Dodge, the vehicle’s sudden stillness exaggerated by wind and shadows.

  I called, “Arlis? Are you okay? Arlis?”

  Silence.

  I began walking, then running, toward the cypress grove. I looked back at Perry, who was now pointing the gun at me. “If you killed him, the deal’s off. Understand me? You might as well shoot us both.”

  King called, “Love to!,” and started after me.

  I heard Perry tell him, “Stay here! Don’t go after him, you idiot!”

  “But if they get that truck started—”

  “Dude, stop arguing and do what I tell you!”

  I was hoping Perry would lose his temper and pull the trigger. Shoot King once, end of King. Shoot King twice, end of Perry, because the Winchester held only six rounds.

  Instead, I heard King say, “So you’re the boss man now, huh? Okay, boss man, just remember something. I warned you about that old fool. I told you not to let him in the truck, but you didn’t listen. See what happens when you don’t listen?”

  “Shut up,” Perry hollered. He waved the rifle at King before starting after me, walking fast toward the trees.

  “I’m not going to shut up, Per, because my nuts are in the wringer just like yours. Hear what I’m saying? One more time, I’m gonna warn you about Professor Jock-a-mo. He’s conning us, partner. I’m not sure how he’s doing it, but he’s setting us up. Let’s take the coins we got, grab the truck an
d get the hell out of here. Keep kissing his ass and we’re screwed!”

  Behind me, I heard Perry say to me, not King, “Is he right? He better not be right, dude, ’cause I’ll use your own knife on you. Not a bullet.”

  Perry had been carrying my Randall knife in his belt ever since I’d dropped the thing. I ignored him as I approached the truck, seeing the driver’s door open and Arlis slouched over the steering wheel.

  The fourth shot had pierced the rear window, then exited through the windshield. Fragments of glass were on the old fisherman’s arms and stuck in his hair. To the west, the sun was low. It projected shafts of light beneath tree limbs and through the broken windows of the Dodge, causing the glass to glitter like jewels. There was blood everywhere.

  I touched Arlis’s arm as I said his name, then my fingers moved to his neck feeling for a pulse. I was surprised. The man’s heart was still beating, his pulse fast but strong. The right side of his face had been peppered by glass—that was the source of the blood, I realized. He didn’t appear to be seriously wounded.

  “Arlis, can you hear me?”

  Futch’s head moved only slightly, but he opened his good eye wide, focused on me for a moment, then replied with an exaggerated wink.

  He whispered, “Those assholes can’t shoot. Take the keys.”

  I whispered, “Did you get hit?”

  “Glass, that’s all.” He said it again. “Them dumb-asses can’t shoot.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “Quiet. They’re here.”

  I turned toward Perry, who was approaching cautiously, his rifle pointed at me from the waist. “Did I get him? Is he dead?”

  I said, “It looks bad, I’m not sure.” I pretended to check Arlis’s pulse again. “No . . . he’s still alive. But just barely.”

  To Arlis I said loud enough for Perry to hear, “Where are you hit? I need to get you out of the truck and onto the ground. Think you can stand?”

  Arlis moaned and cussed, feigning a concussion or worse.