The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [109]
I shove in my own mouthpiece, lift my hose, and jam my thumb against the button. The vest loosens around my ribs. The water’s already up to my chin.
“You won’t regret it, Oliver,” she calls out, removing the mouthpiece for one last breath. As she’s about to go under, she adds, “You’ll thank me later.”
I shake my head, pretending to ignore the sudden enthusiasm. But as I sink down—as the black water licks my cheeks and fills my ears—it suddenly hits me that I never told her my real name was Oliver.
47
At three in the morning, her car now blocking the fire hydrant in front of Maggie Caruso’s building, Joey promised herself she wouldn’t fall asleep. At three-thirty, she rolled down her window, so the cold would keep her awake. By four, her head sagged. By four-thirty, it flopped back into the headrest. Then, at exactly ten minutes to five, a sharp, shrill beep jolted her awake.
Blinking herself back to the waking world, she chased the sound down to the lit-up screen of her global positioning system. The bright blue triangle was once again moving across the digital map, straight down the West Side Highway. Pulling the screen onto her lap, she watched as Gallo’s car weaved its way toward the tip of the city. It was like a primitive videogame she had no control of. At first, she thought they were headed back to Brooklyn, but when they blew past the entrance to the bridge and instead shot up the FDR Drive, she felt a flame blaze at the back of her neck. There were only a few things open this late. Or this early. Aw, don’t tell me they’re…
The tiny triangle turned onto the 59th Street Bridge, and when Joey saw it make its way toward the Grand Central Parkway, she cranked the ignition and took off. At the top of the digital map, the blue triangle veered straight toward it. The most popular five A.M. destination in Queens: La Guardia Airport.
48
Sinking under the waves, I float like an astronaut and plummet into darkness. Bubbles rise all around me, bouncing against the front of my mask. I crane my neck up at the only source of light, but the deeper I fall, the faster it fades. Sea green becomes dark blue becomes a cloud of pitch black. Just breathe, I tell myself as I force a raspy puff of air through the mouthpiece. I suck in again and it sounds like a respirator. No waves, no wind, no background noise. Just the gurgling echo of my own breath. And Gillian saying my name.
Don’t even think about it—not now. But some things can’t be ignored. She probably heard it from Charlie. He said my name at least a dozen times in the garage. Struggling to remain calm, I search around for reassurance, but everything—in every direction—it’s all dark. I grab my nose to pop my ears and a wave of tiny fluorescent fish zip by my face. I duck to the left and they’re gone. Back to black. It’s like swimming through ink. And then—a white lightsaber slices through the dark. Gillian’s flashlight. She shines it at me, then back on herself. She was right next to me the entire time.
C’mon, she motions, trying to get me to follow. I hesitate, but quickly realize she has the only light. Besides, after what she said about Charlie—there’s no way I’m proving her right.
She kicks her legs, and her flippers whip through the water. The way she moves—the graceful stretch of her arms—it’s like she’s flying. Behind her, I fight to keep up, thrashing my arms in a violent breaststroke. It’s harder than I thought. For every few inches I swim forward, the underwater current seems to push me back. She looks over her shoulder to see if I’m following, then quickly picks up speed. Whatever she wanted me to see, we’re getting close.
Swimming forward, she shines the light outward and it hits a beige wall. Then I notice the way her air bubbles slide down her back. That’s not a wall. It’s the floor. We’re at the bottom.