Rivera screamed and started pulling the trigger. Bullets thudded into the walls and ceiling. Salt crystals rained down, sparkling in the glow of Sam’s flashlight. Rivera spun wildly, trying to regain his balance as he staggered across the floor, the gun bucking in his hand.
Sam pushed himself to his knees, coiled his legs like a runner in the starting blocks, then pushed off and charged. Rivera heard the crunch of Sam’s footfalls and spun toward the sound, firing. Still running, Sam dropped back to his belly and skidded across the floor, the salt crystals ripping at his chest and chin. He went still. Held his breath.
Rivera whirled again, trying to pinpoint the sound. He lost his balance again, lurched sideways, and stepped squarely into another hole. With a zipperlike crackling sound, Rivera’s legs plunged through. He spread his arms to arrest his fall. The gun dropped from his hand and skittered across the salted floor, coming to a stop beside Sam’s face.
He grabbed the gun and climbed to his feet.
“Fargo!” Rivera screamed.
Sam walked over to the hole. Rivera arms were fully extended. Only the palms of his hands were touching solid ground. Already his arms were trembling; the tendons in his neck strained beneath the skin. Still blinded by the salt, Rivera rotated his head wildly from side to side.
Sam crouched down beside him.
“Fargo!”
“I’m right here. You’re in a bit of a pickle.”
“Get me out of this thing!”
“No.”
Sam shined his flashlight into the hole. Salt-encrusted rock outcroppings jutted from the walls like barbs, leaving only a two-foot-wide gap in the center. Far below, Sam could hear the roar of waves crashing against rock. He grabbed a nearby softball-sized stone, dropped it into the opening, and listened to it ricochet off the rocks until the sound faded.
“What was that?” Rivera asked.
“That’s karma calling,” Sam replied. “About a hundred feet of it, based on Newton’s Second Law.”
“What the hell does that mean? Get me out!”
“You shouldn’t have shot my wife.”
Rivera growled in frustration. He tried to press himself upward but managed only a few inches. He slumped back down. His head dipped below the level of the floor. Beneath Rivera’s shirt, his muscles quivered with the strain.
“I just realized something,” Sam said. “The more your palms sweat, the more the salt dissolves beneath them. I think that’s what financial experts call diminishing returns. It’s not a perfect metaphor, but I think you get my point.”
“I should have killed you.”
“Hang on to that thought. Soon it’s all you’re going to have left.”
Rivera’s left hand slipped off the edge. For a split second he clawed at the ground with his right hand, his nails shredding, before he tipped sideways and started to fall. He landed back first on one of the outcroppings, shattering his spine. He screamed in pain, then slid off and kept tumbling, his head slamming on rock after rock before disappearing from view.
EPILOGUE
TWO WEEKS LATER,
GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
REMI LIMPED INTO THE SOLARIUM AND EASED HERSELF DOWN ON the chaise lounge next to Sam’s. Without looking up from his iPad, Sam said, “You’re supposed to be using your cane for at least another week.”
“I don’t like my cane.”
Sam looked over at her. “And you call me stubborn. How’s the leg feel?”
“Better. The doctor says I’ll be fit for full duty in a few weeks. Given the nasty alternative, I couldn’t be happier.”
“By ‘nastier,’ I assume you mean starving to death inside the crater of a dead volcano?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”