There were probably dozens just like it in the lake. Northern Florida was shot through with limestone caves like the holes in a wheel of Swiss cheese. Nevertheless, Kismet knew that this was the one; this was the entrance to the cavern described in Fortune’s letter, the place where Hernando Fontaneda had discovered the Fountain of Youth.
Leeds seemed to recognize it as well. He ordered his man to keep the boat directly above the opening. As they circled the site, Russell took off his uniform, unselfconsciously stripping down to his underwear, and then pulled on a “shorty” wetsuit. Meanwhile, Leeds addressed Kismet.
“Do you know why I didn’t just let Mr. Higgins kill you?” Kismet got the sense that it was a rhetorical question, and before he could even begin to formulate an answer, Leeds continued. “I probably should have. Ian said I should kill you—”
“The big guy with the silver tooth?” Kismet replied innocently. “I noticed that he didn’t seem to like me very much. What did I ever do to him?”
“Ah, under different circumstances, your ignorance would be amusing. Whatever happened to Ian anyway?”
“Search me. Maybe he was jealous of the magician’s new assistant and decided to hit the pavement.”
Leeds’ eyes narrowed a little. “You’re alive because you have the devil’s own luck. No, strike that. Luck has nothing to do with it. You have a touch of the divine in you.”
The comment hit Kismet like a slap.
“They never told you, of course,” Leeds continued. “You are their grand experiment. If you knew what you are truly capable of, it would skew the data, so to speak.”
Kismet felt like screaming at him. Who? Who is running this experiment? How do you know all this? Who in the hell is Prometheus? He shrugged, saying nothing.
“Ah, and that’s what I’m doing right now, isn’t it?” The occultist chuckled. “It’s fitting really. They have used you to locate the ancient mysteries so they could hide them, and in so doing, hid your own true nature from you. It’s appropriate, don’t you think, that I should reveal their secret in order to use you for my own ends.”
Russell finished pulling on the SCUBA gear and promptly stepped out over the side of the boat, dropping flippered feet first into the lake. He bobbed there for a few seconds, making final adjustments to his mask and regulator, then swam close to the boat. There was a reel of heavy nylon line attached to his belt and Russell secured the loose end to a grommet on the deck of the boat using a small carabiner.
“’I’m ready,” he announced.
Leeds was still looking at Kismet. He shook his head. “Listen to me, prattling on about irrelevant things. I was talking about why I haven’t killed you. You are still alive because you have a…a talent…yes, that’s the word. You have a talent for delivering the goods.
“We both know it’s down there, so by all rights, I should kill you now just so you don’t queer my plans with that devilish luck of yours. But no, I think it’s better to use your gift to my own advantage.” Leeds clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Kismet. If you really are what they think you are, then you’ll probably be the first one to see the Fountain of Youth.”
“What does that mean?”
Leeds nodded to his nearest hireling, and the man stepped forward, brandishing a cheap- looking switchblade which he used to slice through the tape holding Kismet’s hands together. Kismet flexed his arms for a moment, trying to restore the circulation to stiff muscles, but also stalling for time — time in which to figure out how to transform Leeds’ reprieve into an opportunity to turn the tables.
“So, you want me to dive down and find the entrance?”
Leeds’ man put away the switchblade and then bent over the pile of diving equipment. A moment later, he produced a weight belt which he buckled in place around Kismet’s waist.
“Something like that.” Leeds smiled his death’s head grin. “Once you are inside the cavern, should you succeed in reaching it, you will be on your own for a few moments. My man will follow behind you, and if he does not signal back promptly, I shall feed Miss Crane to the alligators. Understood?”
Annie seemed confused by the exchange and glanced at Kismet. He was trying to think of something to say, some words of assurance, but before anything came to him, a shove from Leeds’ goon pitched him over the edge of the boat and into the water beside Russell. Unlike Russell, who wore a bib-like buoyancy compensator, Kismet’s only equipment was a twenty-two pound weight belt. He sank like a stone. The last thing he heard was Annie's scream of outrage, before water filled his ears.
The ballast pulled him into the cenote faster than he would have believed. The pressure built in his ears rapidly; his head felt as if it were about to burst. The unexpected shove had caught him completely unprepared. He’d gasped in the instant that he hit the water, but had inhaled almost as much water as air. He flailed uselessly to get control, coughing up great clouds of bubbles from his saturated lungs, as his involuntary descent continued unchecked.
He struggled for the clasp of the weight belt; it was fastened at the small of his back, and try as he might, he could not seem to loosen it.
He saw a blur of illumination floating nearby — Russell, just a few feet away, inverted and kicking with his flippers to match Kismet’s rate of descent into the dark hole. He couldn’t believe that the officer would just let him drown, but Russell made no move toward him. His attention seemed to be fixed on the shadowy recesses of the cenote.
Kismet felt his chest start to convulse, both from the water he had ingested and the need to inhale. His ears popped, briefly relieving the agony of pressure against his skull, and in that moment, he crashed into something.
The sides of the cenote were dark and ominous, and just barely out of reach, but jutting out from the submerged face was an outcropping of slimy limestone. He had slammed into the protrusion, but was now beginning to drift away from it. He stretched out his fingers, touching the stone, but was unable to grip the slippery surface. His fingernails scraped through a layer of algae, then slipped free.
He dropped rapidly again, the pressure building in his ears. His outstretched fingertips scraped against the vertical surface of the sheer rock face, but there was nothing to grab onto, nothing to halt or reverse his descent. He tried paddling with his hands and kicking with his bound feet, to get closer to wall and find some sort of handhold.
The pressure in his head became unbearable. He gave up trying to swim. A primal, instinctive response forced him to grip his ears with either hand. He snorted through his nose, but the air pocket inside his head resisted. Suddenly he had no more breath with which to combat the increasing pressure. His lungs were empty; his diaphragm was quivering in his abdomen with the need to draw breath.
The pressure barrier broke of its own accord. Kismet opened his mouth to cry out as water rushed painfully into his ear canal, but there was nothing with which to form a scream. His head felt as if it had been ripped apart by the sudden release, and his ears were filled with an agonized ringing.
Then, miraculously, his hand caught on another ledge. A horizontal fissure split the rock face directly before him. The lip to which he was clinging was the bottom of that fissure, but he could make out no details as to what lay inside the impenetrable shadows of the recess.