indicate they had about 2,000 psi left. Pena gestured, Okay. Wait here.
Then he pointed to me and pointed over his shoulder.
He kicked off into the green murk.
I followed.
Distance was hard to measure, but we sank down to about thirty feet, headed what I judged to be north, along the shore. I had to equalize my ears again. A catfish the size of my forearm flicked by. Giant boulders made a wall to our right. The bottom was furry with tan sediment—nature's shag carpeting.
After about twelve kick cycles, a new shape resolved on the lake bottom—a welded metal sculpture of a diver, canted down at forty five degrees. His limbs and body were sixinch pipes, his mask and fins 2D sheets of steel. Apparently he was a major attraction at Windy Point. He'd been decorated with three different sets of sexy lingerie. A lacy purple bra floated off one of his fins.
It was as good a place as any for a conference with Matthew Pena. Then I looked over and realized I didn't know where Matthew Pena was. He'd disappeared—a ridiculously easy task underwater, where peripheral vision is nil.
I turned my head the other way, then heard a squeaksqueak squeak that seemed to come from inside my skull. It wasn't until my next inhale proved hard to pull that I realized Matthew Pena had come up behind me and turned off my air.
I rotated faceup. Sure enough, Pena was floating above me. His burnt eyes weren't gloating, weren't smiling. They were just
observing, the way a fish observes—impartially looking for something smaller to devour.
My next inhale was a wall—nothing came into my lungs.
Matthew Pena tapped his fingers to his palm in a little byebye wave.
The first rule of diving: Don't panic. I knew that. But rules take on a new dimension when you're thirty feet under with no air. A more experienced diver might've gambled on getting to the valve of his tank without panicking, without getting tangled in his own equipment. I knew I needed a simpler alternative.
I kept exhaling—kept the little trail of bubbles coming out of my mouth, even though I knew there was nothing to replace them with.
Then I reached over, grabbed Matthew Pena's mask and ripped it off his face. The snorkel came with it.
Pena protested with an explosion of white bubbles, grabbed after the mask.
I left him blinking in the green, his vision reduced to smudges. Then I kicked for the surface, holding the BC hose up and keeping my other hand on the weight belt, one finger still hooked on Pena's mask and snorkel.
I tried to avoid kicking up too fast, even though my lungs told me I was dying. The pain was unbearable when the water turned silver and the top shimmered like sun on aluminium foil, but I still wasn't to the surface. A thousand decades later, I broke through and gasped, then found my head underwater again. I used my exhale to manually inflate the BC, kicked to the surface again, got another gasp, went under, repeated the inflation process until I was buoyant.
I floated on the surface, breathing hard.
No problem. Just a little thirtyfootunder chat with a suspect. A little neardeath experience.
Great plan, Navarre.
I put my snorkel in, went down headfirst, and started fumbling around behind me for the Kvalve. I soon realized I'd have to free up both hands to accomplish the task. I pitched Matthew Pena's mask and snorkel out toward the boating channel, then put my face back underwater, found the Kvalve, turned on the air.
I saw Pena below me, making a casual ascent, his eyes dark and open and completely blind. I put my head above water as he surfaced ten feet away.
He used the automatic inflate on his BC, rose a few more inches out of the water.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face crawling with irritation.
The paleness of his skin had not been a trick of the water. Now that the regulator was out of his mouth, I could see cruel thin lips, outlined by neatly trimmed, coarse black whiskers.
He said, "Where's my mask?"
I pointed toward the middle of the
Then he pointed to me and pointed over his shoulder.
He kicked off into the green murk.
I followed.
Distance was hard to measure, but we sank down to about thirty feet, headed what I judged to be north, along the shore. I had to equalize my ears again. A catfish the size of my forearm flicked by. Giant boulders made a wall to our right. The bottom was furry with tan sediment—nature's shag carpeting.
After about twelve kick cycles, a new shape resolved on the lake bottom—a welded metal sculpture of a diver, canted down at forty five degrees. His limbs and body were sixinch pipes, his mask and fins 2D sheets of steel. Apparently he was a major attraction at Windy Point. He'd been decorated with three different sets of sexy lingerie. A lacy purple bra floated off one of his fins.
It was as good a place as any for a conference with Matthew Pena. Then I looked over and realized I didn't know where Matthew Pena was. He'd disappeared—a ridiculously easy task underwater, where peripheral vision is nil.
I turned my head the other way, then heard a squeaksqueak squeak that seemed to come from inside my skull. It wasn't until my next inhale proved hard to pull that I realized Matthew Pena had come up behind me and turned off my air.
I rotated faceup. Sure enough, Pena was floating above me. His burnt eyes weren't gloating, weren't smiling. They were just
observing, the way a fish observes—impartially looking for something smaller to devour.
My next inhale was a wall—nothing came into my lungs.
Matthew Pena tapped his fingers to his palm in a little byebye wave.
The first rule of diving: Don't panic. I knew that. But rules take on a new dimension when you're thirty feet under with no air. A more experienced diver might've gambled on getting to the valve of his tank without panicking, without getting tangled in his own equipment. I knew I needed a simpler alternative.
I kept exhaling—kept the little trail of bubbles coming out of my mouth, even though I knew there was nothing to replace them with.
Then I reached over, grabbed Matthew Pena's mask and ripped it off his face. The snorkel came with it.
Pena protested with an explosion of white bubbles, grabbed after the mask.
I left him blinking in the green, his vision reduced to smudges. Then I kicked for the surface, holding the BC hose up and keeping my other hand on the weight belt, one finger still hooked on Pena's mask and snorkel.
I tried to avoid kicking up too fast, even though my lungs told me I was dying. The pain was unbearable when the water turned silver and the top shimmered like sun on aluminium foil, but I still wasn't to the surface. A thousand decades later, I broke through and gasped, then found my head underwater again. I used my exhale to manually inflate the BC, kicked to the surface again, got another gasp, went under, repeated the inflation process until I was buoyant.
I floated on the surface, breathing hard.
No problem. Just a little thirtyfootunder chat with a suspect. A little neardeath experience.
Great plan, Navarre.
I put my snorkel in, went down headfirst, and started fumbling around behind me for the Kvalve. I soon realized I'd have to free up both hands to accomplish the task. I pitched Matthew Pena's mask and snorkel out toward the boating channel, then put my face back underwater, found the Kvalve, turned on the air.
I saw Pena below me, making a casual ascent, his eyes dark and open and completely blind. I put my head above water as he surfaced ten feet away.
He used the automatic inflate on his BC, rose a few more inches out of the water.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face crawling with irritation.
The paleness of his skin had not been a trick of the water. Now that the regulator was out of his mouth, I could see cruel thin lips, outlined by neatly trimmed, coarse black whiskers.
He said, "Where's my mask?"
I pointed toward the middle of the
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