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another hatch on the aft deck； covered with the tendrils of cables； and he couldn't work them away alone。 But on the fore deck； near the gun's snout； there was a third hatch； the seam line marking a large rectangular opening。 It was covered over by a broken planked lid。
Turk bent down； his eyes following the circle of the light； and lifted the hatch cover to examine the iron again。 How thick would this bitch be？ he wondered。 He banged a hand against the iron and knew it was going to be a hell of a job。 He sat back on his haunches and swung the light toward the spear…point of the bow far ahead。 Hell of a big mothafucker； he thought。 His impulse to burn through was stronger than ever； though he was oddly unnerved by the sheer size of the boat。 There was probably no gold inside； but what about souvenirs？ he wondered。 The dealers in Kingston and Port…au…Prince could move anything。 And there was a collector for everything under the sun。 He might be able to get a good price for some of the equipment inside； maybe find himself the skeleton of a pistol or intact instrument gauges。 And what about bodies？ Maybe they in here； may they ain't。 e on； e on； you got a job to do。
Something made a noise on the other side of the shelter； Turk swung his light around； swearing softly。 The rattle of a can。 The flashlight beam shone through thick clumps of brown weed that hung down from the tower bulwark； and he could smell the sea in them。 Another rat； Turk told himself。 The shelter was filled with the things； big bloated wharf rats that ate the dockside roaches。 He'd best get on with it。
Hidden back in the carpentry shop； covered by an oily tarpaulin； was a cylinder truck…an apparatus like a pushcart…with a cylinder of acetylene gas and a larger cylinder filled with oxygen。 From the two cylinders there were hoses that connected to the welding…torch unit； providing a flammable mix of the gas； in this case； for the cutting process。 Turk had wheeled the unit over to the shelter just before quitting time and had hidden it in the carpentry shop。 He was taking a chance； if Cochran had decided to take a check of the supply shed； but the worker in charge of the equipment was a lazy bastard； Turk thought。 Which had worked out fine for him。
Now he wheeled the truck over the gangplank onto the deck； carefully because it was fairly heavy and the planks groaned beneath its weight。 He got the truck positioned as he wanted it before putting on the welder's mask he'd left hanging on the truck frame。 Turning on the valves to release the gas and oxygen flow； he used his striker to spark the torch tip and it sprang into life； a soft orange glow in the darkness。 He adjusted the mix until he was ready； then bent down and began to work； his hand moving in a smooth semicircular motion。
Over the soft hissssss of the burning gas he heard the great boat moan； like a sluggish and heavy creature awakening from sleep。
In the small bedroom of a brown…painted stucco house across the island； Steven Kip jerked suddenly and his eyes opened。
He lay very still； listening to the repetitious voice of the surf； wondered what it was that had awakened him。 Beside him his wife； Myra； was sleeping peacefully； one slender arm thrown out across his chest； her body pressed against his side。 He turned his head and kissed her very softly on the cheek； and she rustled the sheet and smiled。 They had been through a lot together； and though the years had made Kip tougher and more cynical； they had been gentle with her。 There were laugh lines around her eyes and mouth； but they were lines of good living。 He kissed her again。 He was a light sleeper； so anything could have awakened him： a wave breaking； the clatter of a coconut palm； the shrill of a nightbird。 He waited for a few moments。 Still nothing。 All familiar sounds he had heard a thousand times before。 He lay his head back on the pillow beside hers； and closed his eyes。
Then he heard it again。
A muffled stacatto of drums； echoing from somewhere distant。
He sat up； drew the covers aside； and rose from the bed。 Myra stirred and lifted her head。 〃It's nothing； baby；〃 he whispered。 〃Go back to sleep。 I'm going to have to go out。〃
〃Where are you going？〃 she asked； rubbing her eyes。 〃What time is it？〃
〃After three。 Lie back now； and sleep。 I won't be long。〃 Already he was getting into his trousers； then buttoning his shirt。 Myra pulled the sheet up around her； and Kip crossed the room to peer out through a window that faced the harbor。 It was pitch black out there except for the stars； tiny clusters of light in the sky like the wheelhouse lanterns of a thousand spectral ships against a black ocean。
Then； again； echoing through the jungle； the sharp rattle of the drums； Kip's skin tightened at the back of his neck。 Damn it to hell！ he thought； pulling on his shoes and leaving the house as quietly as possible。
He drove the jeep to Front Street； turned along the dark shanty village on the harbor rim and toward the jungle； the wind sharp in his face。 He watched the windows for lights and searched the streets for moving figures； but no one was stirring。 Who else was listening to those drums？ How many lay in the dark； eyes open； trying to read the message that was swept across the island with the early breezes？ Kip knew what it had to be： Boniface conducting a ritual over the boat。 Damn the man！ Kip cursed silently； still watching for lights。 I'm the law here； the only law； above and beyond Boniface's voodoo gods。
Along Front Street where the jungle bent down low in strange shadowy shapes； he saw several men standing in the road。 When his headlights touched them they twisted away before he had a chance to recognize any of them。 They leaped into the surrounding underbrush and were gone in a few seconds。 When Kip came to the church； he found it darkened and deserted。 He stopped the jeep and sat there for a few moments； listening。 When the next brief flurry of drums came； still somewhat distant； Kip caught their direction。 He took a flashlight from a storage box on the rear floorboard； clicked it on； and climbed down from the jeep。
There was a narrow path leading past the chicken coop and Kip walked along it as silently as he could； the thorns catching at his shirt。 The jungle was densely black on all sides and quiet but for the persistent； steady drone of insects。 In a few more minutes he could hear fragments of voices； the sudden crying out of what sounded like several women at once； the forceful voice of a man； all punctuated by sudden bursts of the rapid drums。 He went on； following the path even when he was forced to crawl beneath a thick cluster of wiry brush。 The voices became progressively louder； more frantic； and at last he caught a glimmer of light ahead。 The drums pounded a steady rhythm； three or four patterns intertwining； louder and louder； each beat acpanied by a scream or a shout as if the drums themselves were crying out in either pain or ecstasy。 The noise grew until the drumming was inside Kip's head； a wild and unconfined frenzy of sound。 And through the drum voices there was the voice of a man； rising from a whisper to a shout： 〃Serpent； serpent…o； Damball