“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 waisthigh—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.