rm.thenightboat-第2部分

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e　realized　he　was　weak　and　growing　weaker；　that　he　could　not　tread　water；　and　land　was　too　distant。　There　was　something　stringy；　like　dark　clumps　of　jellyfish；　in　the　waves。　Gouts　of　blood。　Intestines。　Brains。　Bodies　torn　to　pieces。　The　offal　of　war。　He　reached　Drexil　and　it　was　only　when　he　took　the　man's　shoulder　that　he　realized　this　man　had　black　hair；　and　Drexil's　had　been　red。
　　The　corpse；　floating　in　a　tattered　life　jacket；　had　no　face。
　　White　teeth　grinned　from　a　pulp　of　tissues　and　membranes　and　nerve　fibers。　Schiller　shouted　hysterically　and　pulled　his　hands　back　as　if　they　had　been　contaminated。　He　began　swimming　into　the　green…glowing　ocean；　the　fires　still　burning　around　him；　but　he　was　swimming　without　direction。　Ahead　was　a　solid　plain　of　flame；　and　in　the　midst　of　the　flame　he　could　see　the　blackened；　shriveled　corpses；　whirling　around　and　around　as　if　they　were　spinning　above　a　gigantic　whirlpool。　He　could　feel　the　power　of　the　water　over　the　freighter　wrenching　at　him。　He　tried　to　move　away　from　it；　but　the　sea　had　him　and　was　pulling　him　down；　and　he　couldn't　swim　anymore。　He　wondered　where　Drexil　was　and　if　there　were　a　true　peace　in　death。　He　lowered　his　head　and　opened　his　mouth　to　fill　his　lungs　before　he　went　down。
　　Hands　grasped　him。　Pulled　him　up　from　the　surface。　Threw　him　down　into　the　bottom　of　a　boat。　Men　standing　over　him；　peering　down。
　　Schiller　blinked；　could　not　make　out　their　faces；　could　not　move　his　body。
　　〃A　live　one；〃　someone　said；　in　English。
　　　
　　　One
　　
　　SOMETHING　LAY　AHEAD；　dark　against　the　thick　blue…green　swells。
　　David　Moore　reached　back　and　cut　the　sputtering　motor。　The　sharp；　hot　sun　lay　across　his　bare　back　and　shoulders　like　a　bright　tropical　jacket。　The　battered　fisherman's　skiff　slowed；　rolled　lazily　across　the　next　swell；　and　Moore　turned　the　tiller　so　whatever　was　in　the　water　would　e　up　on　his　starboard　side。　Squinting　from　the　glare　of　sun　off　sea；　he　reached　over　the　gunwale　and　brought　the　object　up。
　　It　was　another　piece　of　timber…God　only　knew　where　it　had　drifted　or　been　torn　from。　It　was　a　new　piece；　though；　not　yet　gnarled　and　aged　by　the　salt　water；　and　he　placed　it　in　the　bottom　of　the　boat　to　examine　it。　On　one　side　there　were　the　remnants　of　red…painted　letters　against　a　white　background。　An　S　and　an　A。　Salty？　Sally？　Samantha？　It　was　evidently　a　shard　of　a　boat's　transom；　perhaps　one　of　the　Coquina　boats；　perhaps　one　that　had　drifted　from　a　long　way　off。　He　knew　the　names　of　most　of　the　island's　fishing　fleet：　Jolly　Mack；　Kinkee；　Blue　Lady；　Lucy　J。　Leen；　Gallant；　a　dozen　others。　This　boat　had　probably　been　destroyed　in　some　distant　harbor　or　maybe　it　was　one　of　the　unfortunates　caught　in　the　teeth　of　the　tropical　storm　that　had　screamed　across　the　island　three　days　previously。　Some　fisherman　might　have　lost　his　life　clinging　to　this　boat；　Moore　thought；　staring　at　the　plank。　He　didn't　want　to　think　about　that。　It　brought　up　too　many　bad　memories。
　　He　started　the　motor　again　and　swung　the　tiller　so　that　the　skiff's　prow　was　aimed　at　a　point　directly　into　the　opening　of　Kiss　Bottom　Reef　some　forty　yards　ahead。　The　sea　was　still　fairly　rough；　〃somewhat　jumpin'〃　as　the　Caribbean　fishermen　said；　and　as　he　neared　the　reef　passage　the　swells　struck　hard　against　the　hull。　There　was　debris　all　around：　more　splintered　timbers；　driftwood　that　might　be　worth　salvaging；　tree　branches；　roof　tiles；　even　a　rusted　tin　placard　that　read　COLA；　BEER；　WINE。　He　had　seen　it　ripped　off　the　front　of　the　Landfall　Tavern　from　his　hotel　terrace。　The　sign　had　spun　high　across　the　island　roofs　and　had　been　tossed　in　a　wild；　rain…swept　spiral　into　the　sea。　As　Moore　passed　through　the　channel　he　could　see　the　ragged　edges　of　the　reef；　stubbled　with　brown　and　green　coral　growths；　just　grazing　the　surface。　A　lot　of　boats　had　been　torn　open　by　those　treacherous　devil's…horns；　and　had　had　to　be　dragged　off　to　be　patched　up　at　the　island's　boatyard　or　to　die　in　deeper　water。　Outside　the　reef　were　two　〃clangers；〃　brightly　painted　orange　buoys　that　banged　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　C