The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(102)

MAIA LEE

Maia wasn't sure her napkin bandage would stay on in the water, but she didn't have time to redress the wound. She didn't want to think about the diagonal groove Dwight Hayes' bullet had carved across the sole of her foot, straight through her shoe, making it look as if she'd stepped awkwardly onto a redhot metal bar.

She fumbled with the air tank—dragged it onto a table, backed up to it, tried to wrestle on the BC vest. The damn thing was not meant to go over a silk blouse. It was a man's extra large, kept slipping around her shoulders.

Calm down, she thought. You've done worse. Remember Hawaii. You've done twenty feet.

The small voice responded—the voice that always scolded her, always spoke Mandarin, the language in which she could not lie to herself. Never in the dark. Never alone.

She tugged at straps, Velcro that wouldn't go through the rings. It was an eternity before she had her equipment in place, and still she heard no sirens—only the wounded cursing of Armand in the corner. Matthew Pena had stopped making noise a long time ago.

She stood, feeling as if she'd just offered a piggyback ride to a tengallon jug of Evian.

Lake water from the BC trickled out the purge valve, leaking into her clothes. She limped toward the railing, trying to keep the weight off the wad of napkins that passed for her left foot.

She heard a gunshot far up the hill toward the dam, and she thought, Tres. Was Dwight armed? Shit.

Momentarily she thought about trying to get to the truck, maybe finding a road up there, but she knew that was just her cowardice talking.

You never get away once you back down. The fear is always there, waiting for a rematch.

She managed to get her bad foot over the railing, then the other.

Only then did she remember to check the air gauge.

The tank registered just above the red—perhaps six minutes of air, perhaps less.

Thank you, Dwight Hayes.

She found the regulator, slipped it in her mouth. The mask was too tight, but she didn't take time to loosen it. She breathed in that cold oxygen mixture, like dry ice vapour, scooted as close as she could to the exact location Vic Lopez had jumped, and she went over the side.

The cold stopped her breath. She'd never thought she would miss wearing a wet suit.

Her wounded foot was the only part of her that felt warm, and that hurt like hell.

She kicked uselessly. Her head was still above water, and she realized she had no weights to compensate for the BC. She'd have to let all the air out of her vest, hope the steel of the tank was enough to sink her.

She groped for the inflator hose, pushed the button, let the air hiss out. The BC got looser, impossibly big on her. As she tugged at the straps, trying to correct the problem, she started to sink.

Underwater, there was a brief layer of dark brown light, like beef bouillon, and then complete black.

She felt herself starting to hyperventilate, her breathing turning to gasps. She tried to remember what to do. Exhale fully—get the air out, let the carbon dioxide kick in, make her body realize she needed a deeper inhale.

She counted, tried to do chi kung breathing. She told herself this was no different than abovewater meditation, an idea that had almost worked for her in Hawaii. Almost. It was like standing up on a galloping horse—telling yourself it was no different than on steady ground.

She couldn't tell if she was still sinking.

She used her arms, swept them up. Finally, her right leg crumpled against something hard, pain flared, and her knee stopped her

descent on what must've been a shelf of rock. She felt it with her hands—a mossy surface, furry and cold.

All right, she thought. I'm at the bottom. Now what?

She felt along the rock, completely blind. Nothing.

She moved down, toward a lower place—mud. She put her hands into the stuff and felt a soda can, a slimy branch, rocks.

What the hell was she doing? Which way was the shore?

She half crawled, half swam along the bottom.

Something brushed against her face? she flinched. Something nipped the top of her ear.

Fish, she told herself. Just fish.

She swept one hand in front of her in an arc, used the other to pull herself along.

And then she brushed neoprene—a gloved human hand. She lurched backward, almost lost the regulator out of her mouth. She clamped down hard with her teeth, forced herself back toward Lopez.

She felt his fingers again, his wrist, and pulled herself toward him.

She felt along his face for the regulator manifold, panicked for a moment until she felt the weak trickle of bubbles that marked his exhale. How could anyone breathe that slowly?

Now what? The weights. She'd never get him to the surface unless those came off.

She started groping around his chest—feeling the cold squares of lead, looking for a catch. There seemed to be a million damn weights, and none of them seemed connected. Just when she'd found the first buckle, Lopez began to put his hands on her, feeling her as if she were a rock or a sculpture for the blind.

Men, Maia thought. You'd better be drugged out of your mind, Detective.

She loosened the first belt, got it off his chest, heard the underwater plink plink as it hit rock at the bottom. She started looking for the second catch when Lopez's hands groped up her shoulders and found her neck. He started to squeeze.

Maia pushed herself away, fought to control her panic.

She breathed several times very slowly, listening to the exhales explode around her.