Shave-and-a-haircut . . . two bits.
I didn’t imagine it. As faint as the call was—and it was very faint—I was now sure. It was Tomlinson calling for help.
Struck numb, I listened to Perry say something to King and then I heard the truck start. There was a brief grinding of gears. Lights came on, illuminating the lake.
As the truck began to creep toward me, carrying the extra scuba gear I would need, I rolled onto my back.
I was thinking, My God, they’re still alive.
SEVENTEEN
WHEN HIS FLASHLIGHT FAILED, TOMLINSON CLOSED his eyes to soften the darkness. He began to concentrate on channeling his core energy—and what he hoped was comforting wisdom—into Will Chaser, who was now breathing from the last emergency air bottle while he stubbornly hacked at the ceiling of the snow globe where he had found tree roots.
There were only a few minutes of air left in Tomlinson’s primary tank—which is why he was now holding his breath—and he knew the end was near.
The boy’s knife made a steady metal-on-rock clinking as Tomlinson focused, feeling energy move through his arm, through his fingers, which were pressed against Will’s back, holding the boy in place as he dug. Channeling energy was something Tomlinson had done many times—often gifting strangers who never suspected that the strange, scarecrow-looking man next to them was their benefactor. But he had never given so wholly as he gave now.
Meditation was such an integral part of his life that he could continue channeling even as his brain processed unimportant details such as the glowing numerals of his watch, which he saw whenever his eyes blinked open. It was the only light in the blackness that engulfed them and so was of peripheral interest at first, but then it became more than that.
It was a new watch, and the glowing face gave him unexpected pleasure. The numerals were large and luminous, a swollen molten green.
As Tomlinson moved the watch closer to his eyes, the numerals blurred like fireflies in flight. The next image that came into his mind was that of an owl, its round eyes ablaze. Envisioning an owl—an ancient symbol of death—was an unexpected interruption and caused him to analyze what was going on in his own brain.
I’m buzzed because I’m holding my breath. Must be the carbon dioxide. CO2 is definitely not a marketable gas.
It was 4:57 p.m. He and Will had been underwater for nearly an hour, and they had been burrowing through karst vents and chambers for at least fifteen minutes.
Tomlinson thought, It’ll be dark soon. The sun goes down in an hour.
Not that it mattered. He was now resigned to the fact that this was one marina sunset he would definitely have to miss. Sunset was always a fun and sociable time at Dinkin’s Bay—there were lots of beach-weary, languid women around, usually—and it pained him to think that he would never enjoy another marina party.
Tomlinson moved his wrist closer to his eyes and focused on the sweep hand of his new watch. As he did, he wondered how long he could hold his breath. Two minutes maybe? Possibly longer—he hadn’t smoked weed in almost a week, after all. His regulator was right there, somewhere in the darkness, if he wanted it, but he was determined not to use the thing. The air belonged to Will Chaser. It would be his parting gift to the boy, a final act of kindness.
Into Tomlinson’s mind came a sentence he had written long ago: The only light visible to us is that which we create for others.
Light. The watch’s sweep hand was hypnotic. It was as thin as a hypodermic yet bright in the cavernous blackness—a sight that produced another surge of pleasure in him—and it shifted his focus from the boy to his friend Doc Ford.
The watch Tomlinson was wearing was a big one with a big name—a Graham Chronofighter Scarab. It was similar to the watch the guys at the marina had given Ford for his birthday.
Well . . . actually, it was the watch the marina had purchased for the biologist. Tomlinson had intercepted the thing and kept it for himself—a fact that was yet another painful reminder that he had lived an imperfect life.
What an ass I am to steal Doc’s new watch after all he’s done for me. My God!
Marion Ford wasn’t a complainer, but he had mentioned more than once that his Rolex Submariner was an undependable timepiece and impossible to read in low light. He had also mentioned what at the time was an esoteric wrist chronograph—the Graham.
Ford liked the watch, that was obvious from the accumulation of catalogs and literature that Tomlinson had found scattered around the lab. But he wasn’t a man to rush into anything.
Because the Graham had a distinctive lever on the left side of the casing, Doc believed that it would be perfect for timing procedures in the lab. British pilots had used the same thumb trigger to time bombing runs during World War II because the human thumb is better than a trigger finger when it comes to starting and stopping a watch.
Doc had said it, so no one at the marina doubted it was true.
Chipping in to buy the Chronofighter for Doc was Tomlinson’s idea. He then proceeded to do his own extensive research, a tangent that had turned into a full-blown binge—an Internet-and-retail frenzy—that had after a week or so caused Ford to become suspicious. Tomlinson had never owned a wristwatch—not that anyone could remember, anyway—so why the sudden interest? The brass chronograph aboard No Más, that was as close as he’d ever come.
When the dust had settled, Tomlinson finally chose the Chronofighter from a short list of also-rans: a Bathys Benthic—which Tomlinson loved because of its surf bum mystique—and a Bell & Ross Phantom, a Luminox, a Blancpain Fifty Fathoms and a Traser.
When asked why he’d chosen the Chronofighter, Tomlinson’s official response was honest. The Graham was a classic timepiece and the easiest to read at night. The face was articulately luminous, blue on yellow, and because of the way the sapphire crown was shaped the numerals and hands were magnified when viewed from the side—a little like watching fish in a rounded aquarium. And the thumb trigger, of course, made it the perfect choice for a man who often had to time lab procedures.
This was all true, but the actual deal maker was more complex. The Chronofighter had an elegant British swagger, which was very unlike Ford. It was understated and cool—which admittedly was a little bit like the biologist but not enough to tip the scales.
The deciding factor, in truth, was that after all the research Tomlinson had done he had fallen in love with the Chronofighter, too. It wasn’t just a watch, it was a serious piece of navigational equipment and ideal for celestial charting.
When the Graham arrived, Tomlinson had opened the box in private and he was hooked. The density of the watch, the weight of the thing on his wrist, its precision tolerances and horological beauty, were too much for him to resist.
So Tomlinson had done a selfish thing. He had kept Ford’s Chronofighter even though it was purchased with the marina’s money. Days later, though, he covered his tracks by ordering a more subdued version of the same watch for Doc. Tomlinson had paid for the thing out of his own checking account so it wasn’t exactly stealing, but it was close enough to require a careful series of rationalizations to make what he’d done palatable.
A blue watch face with a silver bezel, Tomlinson had rationalized, would not complement Marion Ford’s no-nonsense approach to life. A Chronofighter Black Seal, orange on black, was a better fit for a man who eschewed bright colors and bravado.