“Well, one thing’s for sure,” said Art glumly. “We know these aren’t the sheriff’s tracks. At least, not unless he passed through here about eighty pounds ago.”
“So now what? Do we go back down and try to dig our way out to the church, or do we dig for the back door, or just stay here till we get skinny enough to squeeze through?”
“I don’t know anymore, Bill. I’m out of ideas.”
I studied the crevice more closely. The problem wasn’t actually that we were too fat, although it wouldn’t have hurt either of us to lose twenty pounds. But fat could be squeezed through almost any opening, given enough effort, as Sheriff Kitchings and his ample belly had demonstrated the day we recovered the body from the grotto. Our problem wasn’t flesh, it was bone — the unyielding dimensions of our skeletal structures. If there wasn’t room, there wasn’t room.
I studied the geometry of the crevice. Its widest point — located about waist-high — was roughly ten inches across. The slot tapered gradually above and below that point; down by my knees and up by my chest, it narrowed to barely six inches across. Maybe, just maybe, if we went at it sideways, we could worm our way through in the center.
I bent from the waist until my chest was parallel to the floor, then rotated my trunk until my shoulders were aligned vertically, like the slit. Easing forward, slowly and awkwardly, I inserted my head in the slot. It would clear, though by an uncomfortably small margin. I tend toward claustrophobia, so the idea of wedging my body into the narrow crack — which led into unknown darkness — was only slightly more appealing than remaining trapped where we were. Think, man, think, I told myself.
I knew my cranial dimensions — I’d measured my head countless times in undergraduate classes, demonstrating how to use a pair of calipers. From the center of my eyebrow ridge to the back of my skull, my head measured 187 millimeters, or seven and a quarter inches. The width, on the other hand, was only 165 millimeters, or six and a half inches. Either way, there was no risk of getting my head stuck, I knew. The real problem would come lower down, with my chest. I’d have to rotate my shoulders to slide them through the vertical slot, and I wasn’t at all sure the opening was big enough for my rib cage. “I wonder if babies have to problem-solve like this to fit through the birth canal,” I muttered, “or if they’re just squished out by uterine contractions and plenty of slime.”
“I’d feel better about our chances if we had a big jar of Vaseline to grease you up with,” Art said. “But I took that out of the evidence kit last night so I could fry up some chicken. Clean forgot to put it back.”
Claustrophobic or not, I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Bending over, I easily threaded my head through the gap. My shoulders and arms passed through easily enough, too, once I’d twisted my trunk ninety degrees. Now for the chest; if I could manage that, the pelvis and legs should be simple. “Okay, Art, I might need your help in a second here,” I grunted as I wriggled forward. I’d barely squeezed past my collarbones when I ground to a halt. Panic gripped my chest as tightly as the rock did. “I don’t think I can make it,” I said, wriggling back out.
“Try exhaling as much as you can,” Art suggested. “That’ll make your rib cage contract.”
“Make me asphyxiate, too,” I said.
“Not if I can push you on through.”
“What if you can’t?”
“Well, if you’re sure you won’t fit, just click your heels together three times and say ‘There’s no place like home,’ and I’ll yank you back real fast.”
“And what if I won’t budge? I won’t last more than a minute or two if I can’t breathe and you can’t get me loose.”
“I’ll get you loose. Count on it.”
I tried to visualize it, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was a pair of alternating images: one was my head, shoulders, and arms wiggling frantically on the far side of the crevice; the other was my legs kicking desperately on the other side, as Art pushed and pulled in vain. The disjoint halves of me were like images from a cartoon, or an old-fashioned television set whose vertical hold was wrong by half a screen. Finally I forced the images from my mind and made my shaky voice as calm as I could. “You think this is our best chance, Art?”
There was a long silence. “Yeah, Bill, I do.”
“Okay. Once I get my head and shoulders through, count to three while I empty my lungs, then lift my legs and push like hell.”
I took off my jacket and tossed it through the crevice; that took a whopping tenth of an inch off my girth, and I knew the margin between success and failure might well be that narrow. I considered shucking my shirt, too, but knew I’d leave a lot of skin on the rocks if I went through bareback. Taking a long, deep breath, I held it for a few seconds, squeezing my chest and abdominal muscles tight, putting as much pressure on my lungs as I could stand without blacking out. By forcing more oxygen into my blood, like a pearl diver, I could go longer before needing a breath.
Or so I hoped.
After four or five seconds I pursed my lips and blew hard, until my lungs felt completely empty. Then I sealed my lips, worked my cheeks and jaw like a bellows, and managed to draw a bit more air from my chest up into my mouth. I quickly forced that out my lips, then repeated the maneuver twice more. By now I felt on the verge of imploding. I thrust myself into the opening, willed myself to contract within myself, and wriggled as best I could while Art lunged forward, gripping my legs.
I felt myself slide forward an inch, two inches…and then I stopped, wedged tight. My rib cage was pinned in a vise, and the vise’s grip felt deadly. Desperately I struggled to knock my heels together, the signal for Art to pull me back, but something — maybe the rock, maybe Art — had my legs immobilized. Oh God, what a way to die, I thought as I began to suffocate.
Then came a sensation like a locomotive slamming into my knees. I opened my mouth in an involuntary scream, but there was no air to carry it. My chest and spine ground forward, and I thought I heard something crack, and then I found myself lying in a heap on the floor, my shirt hanging open, its buttons smashed and torn off. I felt battered, maybe even partly broken, but I was on the other side. And I could breathe. I closed my eyes, took in a huge, agonizing, delicious breath of air, savored it greedily, and let it out with a loud groan.
When I opened my eyes, I winced. A blinding light was shining directly into them from just inches away. From my side of the crevice, not Art’s. “Hello, Doc,” rumbled a familiar voice. “Looks like I got here just in the nick of time.”
I shielded my eyes and stared up at the big man looming over me. It couldn’t be coincidence that brought him here. I had been far too trusting of Waylon and his homespun routine, I realized; he’d just been stringing me along, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I didn’t know if he was acting on his own, or on Jim O’Conner’s orders, but I knew our luck had run out.
“Hello, Waylon,” I said flatly, too defeated even to plead. “Guess you’re here to take care of us, huh?”
“Well, you might could call it that. Just doing my job, really.”
“Right,” I said. “Nothing personal, just business, is that it?”
“Let’s quit jawin’ about it, Doc, and just get you and Art to a better place as quick as we can.”
“A better place? You talking about heaven? Give me a break, Waylon. If you’re fixing to kill us, at least spare us the Sunday School euphemisms.”
“The whats? Fixin’ to kill you? What the hell are you talkin’ about, Doc? You done hit your head in this cave?”
“You’re not here to kill us? Then what are you doing here? What about the explosions, the cave-ins?”