Ben could feel the other
diver’s nonchalance, confidence born no doubt from days
of preparation. His enemy would be agile and skilled, younger
than Ben, waiting for him to tire, watching from behind him while
he drowned.
The man dropped to Ben’s
leg, wrapping him in kelp. They would blame Glaucus, the octopus
that lived in the pen, or the kelp, or both for the drowning.
It had all been choreographed. By Frick.
It had to be Frick.
The anger Ben felt couldn’t
compete with his growing fear. Ugly thoughts passed through his
oxygen-starved head as the air in his blood dissipated.
Without thought he gave
a mighty tug with his right arm and curled and hunched as far
as he could. Miraculously either the line gave a little or he
hunched farther this time, because he was able to get his lips
over the emergency mouthpiece. Sweet air bled into his mouth.
Through the saltwater murk Ben thought
he saw the other diver now, still working below him and not looking
up. The killer had made a mistake. Ben sucked deeply. The air
gave him strength and hope. Ben forced himself to breathe regularly.
And think. Deep breaths, relax, relax, relax.
Frick’s face flashed again in
his mind. With it came the solution: Frick wants it to look like
a fatal accident. To survive, play dead.
Ben let his head dip as if he were
losing consciousness. To add to the ploy he released the emergency
mouthpiece. After an appropriate time he relaxed his body and
listened to the vigorous bubbling from his equipment. Ben remained
slack even as his lungs screamed once again for air. He felt the
diver move up behind him, apparently satisfied that he had fouled
his legs with enough kelp, so that he could unfasten the body
from the mesh netting. He was probably watching him, waiting for
the last exhalation of breath and bubbles.
