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Authors: Randy Wayne White
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light, his eyes were as black as his Apache hair. “I feel just like you must feel after getting rid of something that needs to be killed. Does that answer your question?”
I said, “You mean how I would probably feel— if I’d ever done something like that.”
Maybe the teen smiled, I couldn’t be certain, but he allowed his intensity to dissipate, then looked away. He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what I meant. I wish it hadn’t happened. It comes into my mind every day. I don’t feel bad about it, but I don’t feel good about it, either. No, wait—” He was reviewing what he’d just said. “Can I tell you something? Confidentially, I mean.”
I said, “Maybe. But maybe not. If you tell me something Barbara should know—for your own good, I’m saying—then don’t risk it. Otherwise, you can trust me.”
“Most people would’ve said sure right off the bat.”
I said, “I’ll keep that in mind the next time you think about sharing a secret. What did you want to tell me?”
“The truth, I guess,” he said slowly. “The truth is, I feel good about what happened. I was lying about that. The man tried to kill me, so I killed him. I’d do it again. My guess is, you know what I mean.”
I straightened my glasses, then put my hands in my pockets, giving it some time, before saying, “Tomorrow morning, have your gear checked and ready to go. Be here at eight sharp—just in case Captain Futch says yes.”
FIVE
IF I DO SOMETHING WRONG, JUST TELL ME, I’LL fix it . . .
Will had meant what he’d said, yet I was the one who had screwed up. I had allowed him to jam his hand into the rocks and topple the delicate scaffolding of underwater limestone.
Will had told me , I count on myself all the time, so I guess you can, too . . .
What did it matter, if I couldn’t count on myself?
When the ledge collapsed, burying Will and Tomlinson, I compounded the mistake by panicking. I bolted from the scene, swimming ahead of the murk, until my intellect finally subdued my instincts. It took only seconds, yet I was already berating myself, as I drew my knees up and thrust out my hands to stop my momentum.
I did an about-face and swam into the cloud of silt, kicking hard toward where I’d last seen Tomlinson and the boy. Because visibility had gone from bad to impossible, I extended my left hand as a bumper.
First, though, I paused long enough to check my watch. I had to mark the precise time of the landslide. If Will and Tomlinson had not already wormed themselves free, they had a finite amount of air remaining in their tanks. If they were trapped, I needed to know how long I had to get them out.
We had been underwater thirty-eight minutes, according to the chronograph on my new dive watch. That wasn’t a large or forgiving window.
Will, the novice, would have consumed more air than we had. That was predictable. He might have as much as twenty-five minutes remaining or as little as ten, depending on how he now handled the shock of being caught under the rocks.
Tomlinson would deal with it more calmly. The man is benignly neurotic, as high-strung as a poodle during the normal course of his abnormal life, but when events turn sour, and the sky begins to fall, the man changes.
I’ve seen it often enough to know.
When the pressure’s on, Tomlinson withdraws into some ancient retreat inside his head. His voice softens, his mannerisms slow. He exudes an unaffected calm—a serene acceptance that is sometimes comforting but occasionally maddening.
What I hoped was that the guys had already dug their way out of the pile. I hoped they were now kicking their way toward the surface with nothing more than a few bruises and cuts to deal with. If true, the landslide was something we could laugh about later.
After a full minute of kicking through the murk, though, I began to have my doubts. With each stroke, I expected to collide with remnants of the fallen ledge.
I did not.
I changed direction, certain I would
I said, “You mean how I would probably feel— if I’d ever done something like that.”
Maybe the teen smiled, I couldn’t be certain, but he allowed his intensity to dissipate, then looked away. He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what I meant. I wish it hadn’t happened. It comes into my mind every day. I don’t feel bad about it, but I don’t feel good about it, either. No, wait—” He was reviewing what he’d just said. “Can I tell you something? Confidentially, I mean.”
I said, “Maybe. But maybe not. If you tell me something Barbara should know—for your own good, I’m saying—then don’t risk it. Otherwise, you can trust me.”
“Most people would’ve said sure right off the bat.”
I said, “I’ll keep that in mind the next time you think about sharing a secret. What did you want to tell me?”
“The truth, I guess,” he said slowly. “The truth is, I feel good about what happened. I was lying about that. The man tried to kill me, so I killed him. I’d do it again. My guess is, you know what I mean.”
I straightened my glasses, then put my hands in my pockets, giving it some time, before saying, “Tomorrow morning, have your gear checked and ready to go. Be here at eight sharp—just in case Captain Futch says yes.”
FIVE
IF I DO SOMETHING WRONG, JUST TELL ME, I’LL fix it . . .
Will had meant what he’d said, yet I was the one who had screwed up. I had allowed him to jam his hand into the rocks and topple the delicate scaffolding of underwater limestone.
Will had told me , I count on myself all the time, so I guess you can, too . . .
What did it matter, if I couldn’t count on myself?
When the ledge collapsed, burying Will and Tomlinson, I compounded the mistake by panicking. I bolted from the scene, swimming ahead of the murk, until my intellect finally subdued my instincts. It took only seconds, yet I was already berating myself, as I drew my knees up and thrust out my hands to stop my momentum.
I did an about-face and swam into the cloud of silt, kicking hard toward where I’d last seen Tomlinson and the boy. Because visibility had gone from bad to impossible, I extended my left hand as a bumper.
First, though, I paused long enough to check my watch. I had to mark the precise time of the landslide. If Will and Tomlinson had not already wormed themselves free, they had a finite amount of air remaining in their tanks. If they were trapped, I needed to know how long I had to get them out.
We had been underwater thirty-eight minutes, according to the chronograph on my new dive watch. That wasn’t a large or forgiving window.
Will, the novice, would have consumed more air than we had. That was predictable. He might have as much as twenty-five minutes remaining or as little as ten, depending on how he now handled the shock of being caught under the rocks.
Tomlinson would deal with it more calmly. The man is benignly neurotic, as high-strung as a poodle during the normal course of his abnormal life, but when events turn sour, and the sky begins to fall, the man changes.
I’ve seen it often enough to know.
When the pressure’s on, Tomlinson withdraws into some ancient retreat inside his head. His voice softens, his mannerisms slow. He exudes an unaffected calm—a serene acceptance that is sometimes comforting but occasionally maddening.
What I hoped was that the guys had already dug their way out of the pile. I hoped they were now kicking their way toward the surface with nothing more than a few bruises and cuts to deal with. If true, the landslide was something we could laugh about later.
After a full minute of kicking through the murk, though, I began to have my doubts. With each stroke, I expected to collide with remnants of the fallen ledge.
I did not.
I changed direction, certain I would
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