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ged and rattled as they were jostled together by the rough currents。
Moore steered between them； following the path of blue…green water before him； and then he headed toward the deeper； almost purple sea in the distance。 It was still shallow just off Kiss Bottom…thirty to thirty…five feet…but the sand and coral bottom quickly shelved off into what was respectfully and fearfully known as the Abyss。
Moore turned in his seat and glanced back at the island he'd just steered from to get a correct bearing。 The dark； tire…lined piers； the fishermen's cluster of tinderbox shanties； the village of Coquina with its houses and shops of stucco brilliantly painted in wild reds； oranges； pale pinks； blues； browns； light greens。 In the white sunlight the colors were dazzling。 He let his eyes move up the island； where High Street left Coquina village and wound its way； on a path of ruts and gravel； to a small dark…blue structure with a white gabled roof and white wrought…iron terraces overlooking the harbor。 The Indigo Inn was his hotel； he'd made the purchase three years before from an elderly man who was moving back to the States。 In the last few days Moore and Markus； his handyman； had been busy replacing broken windows； shattered porch railing slats； and shutters that had been ripped away by the high winds。 They did a patchwork job replacing things that had been broken before and would surely be broken again。 In the islands； decay was the only certainty。
He turned out from land and steered toward the deeps； searching the water around him。 Most of the debris had been washed ashore in the previous few days and whatever was still usable had been gathered up by the islanders。 The storm had been a particularly fierce one even for September； one of the most furious of months during the autumn hurricane season。 It had blown in from the east； almost unheralded except for the ominously yellow sky。 Smashing first into the Coquina harbor； sending boats flying against the piers； the storm had torn a few of the fishermen's dwellings to pieces； then screamed into the interior jungle； uprooting palms and shrubs； and miraculously veered around the shanty village of Caribville on the island's northern point before finally heading out to sea again。 The few radios that were the island's sole method of munication had been knocked out by electrical interference。 It was a wonder there had been so few serious injuries： only a few broken bones and lacerations； which had been tended by Dr。 Maxwell at the clinic。
The sea darkened under his boat。 The squat stone tower of the Carib Point beacon lay over his shoulder； a sighting point still used on stormy； wild nights to aid merchant freighters out in the channel。 Since it lay near the Carib settlement； it had been allowed to fall into a state of near…ruin。 Moore corrected his course a few degrees。 In another few moments he was in the right spot； the beacon was just over his left shoulder and the tin…roofed structures of the boatyard drydock shelters over his right。 He cut the motor； went to the bow； and heaved a lightweight grapple anchor over the side； allowing the rope to coil out from a hand…winch reel。 When the line stopped； he knew that he'd been correct； he was in about fifty feet of water； at the very rim of the Abyss； where the bottom suddenly dropped off into infinity。
Moore moved back to get his diving gear and tank in the stern。 He sat down； almost forted by the skiff's slow rocking； and took off his khaki slacks and thongs。 He wore dark…blue bathing briefs underneath； and he pulled a thin cotton T…shirt over his shoulders to guard against strap…burn。 When he'd turned on his tank's air supply； he hoisted the tank to his shoulders and strapped it on securely。 Then he looked out across the Abyss。
In the distance he could see the faint shapes of far…off land masses： Chocolate Hole； Sandy Cay； Starfish Cay。 They were much smaller than Coquina…mainly long spits of hot； palm…edged beaches…and of the three nearest； only Chocolate Hole was really a village。 It was a tiny settlement of only fifty or so people who made their living selling green sea…turtles to the bulky industry boats that dealt in local island products。 Here； out in the open； the breeze was strong and warm on Moore's face。 He let his eyes wander the plain of purple water above the great depths。
Only a few fishermen sailed here； they generally stayed nearer Coquina or fished for albacore and jacks in the shallow waters to the south。 The Abyss was a haunted place； so the old islanders…the superstitious ones…said。 A score of them had sworn they'd seen or heard things out here。 There were those who'd been vehement： a great blazing ghost freighter； burning with a spectral emerald fire； in the midst of the Abyss； water hissing all around her； the moans of her doomed crew carrying out into dawn's twilight。 Though Moore was a man who made up his own mind about such things； he was sometimes inclined to believe it wasn't just bad rum or Red Stripe beer talking。 Not from the looks some of those men had in their eyes。
But now； in the clear afternoon sunlight； with the entire sky a huge unbroken canopy of hot blue； he could not believe in ghosts。 At least； not sailing the surface。
When Moore looked into a mirror； he saw first his father's eyes； as blue as the Caribbean depths themselves； crackling with intelligence and caution。 He had let his beard grow when he reached the islands from Europe； and by the time he'd stepped off a tramp steamer onto Coquina's shore he was a hard…muscled； tanned； and lean figure with black hair that curled around his collar； and a dark beard and mustache。 He would be thirty…four in November； but he was light…years away from the life he'd led in Baltimore； his birthplace。 No one in Baltimore…no one who remained in the life he'd left behind…could have recognized him； except perhaps by his eyes。 He was a different man entirely； no longer the one who'd been a rising young executive in his father's bank； who'd lived in a modest if expensive home in a fashionable Baltimore suburb with his wife； Beth； and eight…year…old son； Brian； who'd fought for a membership at the Amsterdam Hills Country Club； who'd owned a beautiful； teak…decked sailing sloop； custom…built by a Canadian firm； that he and Beth had christened…with champagne and all…Destiny's Child。 In those days he had worn 〃the uniform；〃 dark…blue or gray suits with regimental…striped ties； to quiet business luncheons and discussions in oak…paneled drawing rooms where he had struggled to stifle his yawning and restless unease。
He slipped into his black swim fins； strapped a sheathed knife around the calf of his right leg； then secured a weight…belt to his waist。 Putting on a pair of gauntlet gloves； Moore rinsed out his mask with seawater； spat into it to prevent it from fogging； and then rinsed it out again。 He eased the mask down over his face； put the regulator mouthpiece between his teeth； sucked and exhaled to make certain it was clear； then flipped himself backward over the gunwale in an easy； practiced motion。
Below； in the great room with light…blue walls streaming with sunlight； he waited for his bubbles to clear； watching t