"Got that right," someone agreed.

'"Sides, he said to capture the bastard alive if possible."

"That's what I mean," Greene said. "It ain't possible. Son of a bitch is good, man. Real good."

Jesus, Eric thought, why couldn't they argue while they kept walking? How long had he been underwater now? One minute? Two? It felt longer.

At first his lungs had just tickled. Now they burned. Like the first time he'd tried to smoke a cigarette, he and Billy One-Nation in the boy's room after geography. Eighth grade. Unfiltered Camel. The raw raking feeling in his throat just before the principal caught them. Three whacks each.

"Look, if he's dumb enough to be hunkering in this ice water, all we gotta do is stand around and wait for him to come to the surface. He can't hold his breath forever."

"Brilliant, Ryan. Fuckin' genius, man. Only what if Greene's wrong and the asshole is already half a mile ahead of us? We sit around here with our thumbs up our asses and he's laughing knowing what Fallows is gonna do to us if we go back empty-handed."

Eric opened his eyes and stared up toward the surface. He saw only the dark, filthy water, backed by dark, moonless sky. He could just as well be staring down into some bottomless cavern. Not at all like when he was a kid lying at the bottom of the community pool, seeing how long he could hold his breath while he watched the girls and their skinny frog legs kicking overhead. Old enough to like watching them, too young to know why. Finding out why didn't come until the next summer.

The heavy boots churned closer to him, maybe three feet away. They were heading straight for him. He reached out his hand, groping through the mud for his Barnett Commando crossbow, already cocked and fitted with a sharp bolt.