held it in his fingertips, as if trying to decipher a message from its vibrations. "That nor'easter last week . . . forty knots of breeze for a day and a half will kick up hell with the bottom. Sand'll shift. It could be anything: a rock, a car somebody deep-sixed."
"It could be a shipwreck," Max said.
Chase shook his head. "Not around here. We've charted every wreck in the area." To Tall Man he said, "We got any tanks aboard?"
"Nope. I didn't plan on diving."
Chase went forward, into the cabin, and adjusted the scale on the Fathometer to its most sensitive reading. When he returned, he was holding a face mask and snorkel.
"Thirty meters," he said. "Ninety-five feet, give or take."
"You gonna dive for that sensor?" Tall Man asked, his voice rising. "Free-dive! Are you nuts?"
"It's worth a try. I've dived ninety feet before."
"Not without a tank, you haven't. Not since you were eighteen. Hell, Simon, you'll black out if you try forty feet."
"You want to try?"
"Not a chance. This country's already got enough dead redskins."
"Then we got a problem, 'cause I'm damned if I'm gonna lose three thousand bucks' worth of wire and three thousand more of transmitter."
"Buoy it," Tall Man said. "We'll get some tanks and come back for it later."
"By then we'll have lost the shark for good."
"Maybe . . . but we won't have lost you."
Chase hesitated, still tempted to try to free-dive for the sensor, or at least to go far enough down to be able to see what had snagged it. He was curious to know if he could still dive that deep. As youngsters, he and Tall had free-dived to bottoms invisible from the surface, had swum around the hulks of old fishing boats, had stolen lobsters from traps nestled in crevices in deep reefs. But Tall was right; he was no longer a teenager, an athlete who could party all night and swim all day. He might make it to the bottom, but he'd never make it back. Starved for oxygen, his brain would shut down and he would pass out—near the surface if he was lucky, far below if he was not.
"Talk to the man, son," Tall Man said to Max. "Tell him you didn't come all this way just to take your daddy home in a box."
Max started at Tall Man's bluntness, then put a hand on his father's arm and said, "C'mon, Dad. . . ."
Chase smiled. "Okay, we'll buoy it," he said.
"Can we get some tanks and come back and dive on it?" Max asked. "That'd be cool."
"You know how to dive?" Chase felt a pang, almost of pain, as if the fact that Max had learned to dive without him, somewhere else, from someone else, was a reprimand for his failures as a parent. "Where'd you learn?"
"At home, in the pool. Gramps got me some lessons."
"Oh," Chase said, feeling better. At least the boy hadn't really been diving; he'd been preparing for his visit. "We'll put you in the water, sure, but I think we'll start a little shallower."
Tall Man went to the cabin to disconnect the wire and waterproof the plug with O-ring grease and rubber tape. Chase lifted a hatch in the stern and found a yellow rubber buoy, eighteen inches in diameter, on which the initials "O.I." were emblazoned in red Day-Glo tape.
Walking aft, Tall Man coiled the wire around his shoulder and elbow. He had removed his sweat-soaked shirt, and the muscles in his enormous torso glistened as they moved beneath his cinnabar skin as if he had been oiled. He stood six feet six, weighed about two-twenty, and if he carried any fat, as his mother used to say as she pressed more food on him, it had to be between his ears.
"Whoa!" Max said as he looked at Tall Man. "Rambo meets the Terminator! You work out every day?"
"Work out?" Chase said, laughing. "His two exercises are eating and drinking; his diet's a hundred percent salt-fried grease. He's a cosmic injustice."
"I'm the Great Spirit's revenge," Tall Man said to Max. "He's gotta do something to make up for five hundred years of white man's oppression."
"Believe that," Chase said to Max, "and you might as well believe in the
"It could be a shipwreck," Max said.
Chase shook his head. "Not around here. We've charted every wreck in the area." To Tall Man he said, "We got any tanks aboard?"
"Nope. I didn't plan on diving."
Chase went forward, into the cabin, and adjusted the scale on the Fathometer to its most sensitive reading. When he returned, he was holding a face mask and snorkel.
"Thirty meters," he said. "Ninety-five feet, give or take."
"You gonna dive for that sensor?" Tall Man asked, his voice rising. "Free-dive! Are you nuts?"
"It's worth a try. I've dived ninety feet before."
"Not without a tank, you haven't. Not since you were eighteen. Hell, Simon, you'll black out if you try forty feet."
"You want to try?"
"Not a chance. This country's already got enough dead redskins."
"Then we got a problem, 'cause I'm damned if I'm gonna lose three thousand bucks' worth of wire and three thousand more of transmitter."
"Buoy it," Tall Man said. "We'll get some tanks and come back for it later."
"By then we'll have lost the shark for good."
"Maybe . . . but we won't have lost you."
Chase hesitated, still tempted to try to free-dive for the sensor, or at least to go far enough down to be able to see what had snagged it. He was curious to know if he could still dive that deep. As youngsters, he and Tall had free-dived to bottoms invisible from the surface, had swum around the hulks of old fishing boats, had stolen lobsters from traps nestled in crevices in deep reefs. But Tall was right; he was no longer a teenager, an athlete who could party all night and swim all day. He might make it to the bottom, but he'd never make it back. Starved for oxygen, his brain would shut down and he would pass out—near the surface if he was lucky, far below if he was not.
"Talk to the man, son," Tall Man said to Max. "Tell him you didn't come all this way just to take your daddy home in a box."
Max started at Tall Man's bluntness, then put a hand on his father's arm and said, "C'mon, Dad. . . ."
Chase smiled. "Okay, we'll buoy it," he said.
"Can we get some tanks and come back and dive on it?" Max asked. "That'd be cool."
"You know how to dive?" Chase felt a pang, almost of pain, as if the fact that Max had learned to dive without him, somewhere else, from someone else, was a reprimand for his failures as a parent. "Where'd you learn?"
"At home, in the pool. Gramps got me some lessons."
"Oh," Chase said, feeling better. At least the boy hadn't really been diving; he'd been preparing for his visit. "We'll put you in the water, sure, but I think we'll start a little shallower."
Tall Man went to the cabin to disconnect the wire and waterproof the plug with O-ring grease and rubber tape. Chase lifted a hatch in the stern and found a yellow rubber buoy, eighteen inches in diameter, on which the initials "O.I." were emblazoned in red Day-Glo tape.
Walking aft, Tall Man coiled the wire around his shoulder and elbow. He had removed his sweat-soaked shirt, and the muscles in his enormous torso glistened as they moved beneath his cinnabar skin as if he had been oiled. He stood six feet six, weighed about two-twenty, and if he carried any fat, as his mother used to say as she pressed more food on him, it had to be between his ears.
"Whoa!" Max said as he looked at Tall Man. "Rambo meets the Terminator! You work out every day?"
"Work out?" Chase said, laughing. "His two exercises are eating and drinking; his diet's a hundred percent salt-fried grease. He's a cosmic injustice."
"I'm the Great Spirit's revenge," Tall Man said to Max. "He's gotta do something to make up for five hundred years of white man's oppression."
"Believe that," Chase said to Max, "and you might as well believe in the
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