The Deep

Sanders didn’t know what was happening; all he saw was the beam of the other light, lying in the sand. He swung his light upward and found motion, fixed on it, and pushed off the bottom. Treece’s hands surrounded Gail’s head. Weak streams of bubbles-from the mask, from Gail’s regulator, and from Treece’s mouth-shepherded them to the surface.

Treece reached the diving platform, exhaled the last of his breath, and let his mask fall from Gail’s face. He pushed her onto the platform, face down, and, while he hauled himself after her, began to press rhythmically on her back.

Sanders’ head broke water. He saw Treece kneeling, heard him saying, “Come on… give me a hearty one… come on… there we go… there we go… whups!” There was a gagging sound, a splash, then Treece’s voice again, “There we go… one more time… there we go… okay… there’s the girl… one more time… that’s a good one.” Treece sat back on his heels.

“Sonofabitch! That was frightful close.”

Through a fog of semiconsciousness, Gail felt a scratchy pain in her throat and tasted acid, watery vomit.

She was nauseous; a heavy, throbbing ache filled her skull. She groaned feebly and heard Sanders say, “What happened?” Then she felt herself being lifted, and Treece’s voice saying, “Know in a minute.”

Treece lay her on the deck, on her side. He bent over and opened one of her eyes with his thumb. “Okay?”

The other eye felt heavy, but she forced it open and whispered, “Yes.”

Treece picked up her regulator hose and held the mouthpiece under his nose. He pushed the purge valve, and air from the tank squirted up his nostrils. “Lordy.” He grimaced. “By rights, you should be having tea with the Angel Gabriel.”

“What is it?”

“Carbon monoxide.”

“Exhaust?” Sanders said. “From the compressor?”

“Not from the compressor. I told you, it’s vented right.”

“From what then?”

“Someone knew what he was doing, probably backed a car up to the air intake.”

“Tried to kill her?”

“Her or you or me. I don’t imagine they cared which.”

Sanders looked down at Gail. She had propped herself on one elbow and her head hung limply, as if she expected to vomit.

He turned to Treece and snapped, “That is it!”

“That’s what?”

“The end! It’s finished! We’ve lost, and that’s too damn

bad! You turn this goddamn thing around and get us out of here!”

“We can’t,” Gail said weakly. “There’s no…”

“Oh yes, we can! Let him have it all. The gold too. Who gives a shit? It’s better than…”

Treece said, “Calm down.”

“I won’t calm down! Suppose they had killed her. What then? Calm down? Too bad?”

Sanders felt his hands shaking, and he clenched his fists. “No thanks. Not again. He’s not gonna get another shot at her. We’re getting out of here!”

Sanders walked forward to the wheel and searched the instrument panel for the starter button. He had seen Treece start the boat a dozen times but had never paid attention to the mechanics. He pushed one button after another, and nothing happened.

“You have to turn the key,” said Treece. His voice was toneless, matter-of-fact.

Sanders reached for the key, but he did not turn it.

He looked at Treece standing placidly in the stern.

“There really is no way out, is there?”

“No.”

The two men faced each other for a few seconds.

Then Treece bent down and touched Gail’s shoulder and said, “How you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Stay topside; breathe deep. The shotgun’s by the wheel. Let me show you something.” He helped her to her feet, led her to the compressor, and pointed to a wing nut on the side of the machine. “See that? If you see a boat coming or you hear something—if anything happens you don’t like-turn that nut half a turn to the right. It’ll shut off the compressor. We’ll be on the surface in a fine hurry, I promise you.”

“Okay.” Gail hesitated. “I meant to ask you…”

“What?”

“What will you do with Adam?”

“Leave him where he lays. Nothing we can do for him; he’s gone where he’s going.”

“What about the police?”

“Look, girl…” There was a hint of testiness in Treece’s voice. “Forget all the

law-and-order nonsense. There’s no one going to help us. We survive, it’s thanks to us; we don’t, it’s our own fault. Tomorrow morning, somebody’ll find Adam and call the police, and they’ll come, all efficiency, and cart him away and write in their little pads that Adam went wandering out to the cliffs at night-drunk, they’ll say-and fell overboard. We go to the police, they’ll come to the same damn conclusion, only comfor appearances-they’ll make us spend days answering dumb-ass questions from the paper-pushers. Police are a waste of time.”

Treece motioned Sanders aft to the diving platform.

When the two men had assembled their gear, Sanders said to Gail, “You’ll feel better if you lie down.”

“I’m okay. You be careful.” She smiled.

Treece made the thumbs-up sign, Sanders responded, and they jumped backward into the water.