Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

The latter approach was the only practical one, the house's single vulnerability should someone choose to trek miles across scrub bush and sharp rocks to reach the shoreline. Discouraging as such a journey might be, Jason had done his best to foresee the possibility.

Jason had not been surprised that Jeremiah had chosen to deliver the packet by boat rather than the long walk along the beach to a house that, to the untrained eye, was only an attractive beach home somewhat difficult to reach. In Jason's business, the more difficult, the better.

He walked into the kitchen area, pulled out a large pot, and filled it with water from the cistern. Dumping the still-thrashing spider crab into the water, he turned next to rinsing out the dive equipment. Finished, he went to a pine cabinet that housed the sound system. Seconds later, notes of the first movement of a Mozart concerto grosso filled the room.

Jason turned around and faced the glass that framed the beachscape a few yards away. Between him and the view, just inside the glass, was a canvas on an easel. Part of a gecko, vibrant green, was staring back from a half- completed cluster of bougainvillea. Tubes of acrylic paint and brushes lay in the tray at the bottom of the easel. The unfinished painting and art supplies were exactly as he had had left them a lifetime ago. He and Laurin had gone back to the States together without a suspicion that she would never return.

Jason stared mutely at the canvas, as incomplete as his own life. How many times had he picked up the brushes to start again? More than he could count. Each time he saw not lizard and flower but Laurin beside him, fascinated as the canvas filled with paint. Each time he had replaced the brush in the tray, unable to concentrate. Twice he had vowed to toss the unfinished picture; twice he had been as unable to destroy the last thing she had watched him create. Not only was he incapable of finishing or destroying this specific canvas; it was as if his ability had drained away along with whatever passions and feelings he had formerly possessed. Brushes had become foreign objects, as strange and unfamiliar in his hands as an ancient war club.

There were times he feared he had lost the talent to paint forever. Other times he didn't care.

As though only partially aware of what he was doing, he went outside and followed the walkway to the building that housed his bedroom. Shuttered against the heat of the day, the room had a slightly musty smell that Jason knew would disperse as soon as he opened the windows to the evening's breezes. Overhead, a fan lazily churned the warm, humid air as he flipped on a light switch and entered a walk-in closet.

The space was more bare than occupied. On one side hung a few sundresses, the sort of beach casual wear appropriate for a place where shoes were optional at most. Repeatedly, Jason had vowed to remove them, to donate the lot to the local church for distribution. Each time he had removed one from its hanger to box it up, he remembered the last time she had worn it: the white with red polka dots she had on the night surprisingly rough seas had nearly swamped the Whaler on their return from a visit to a neighboring island; the green one with the exceptionally short skirt she wore to a friend's birthday party, provoking clucks and head shakes among some of the older native women; the blue stripe that she… Real or imagined, her clothes still had the scent of her, that musky, sweet odor he had come to associate with sex. Years later and the closet still smelled like she had just left it.

No use. He had given up, unable to part with the last physical vestige of the woman he still loved. He not only couldn't remove her clothes; he couldn't go into the closet without tears blurring his vision.

Turning his back on the rack of dresses, he unzipped the clothes bag that contained what little remained of his business wardrobe. He slung a lightweight wool suit over one arm and, with some effort, extracted a cashmere overcoat. Jason scowled. In spite of his effort to stave off moths as ravenous as the sharks outside the reef, the insects had gotten to it. He'd better take it along, moth holes included, until he could replace it. It was likely to be cold where he was headed.

It took a few minutes longer to find his only two dress shirts and a tie. Now if he could only remember where he had put his suitcase…

That night

The number of things that had to be done before leaving the island always surprised Jason. Arrangements had to be made to refuel the house's generator every few days so that the contents of the freezer would keep; the bed linen needed to be stripped to prevent the mildew that bred in the humid air in any darkness; the cistern level must be checked to ensure a water supply upon his return. The alarm clock would have to be found so Jason could wake in time to take the Whaler over to Providenciales to catch the twice-weekly flight to Miami. Pangloss, along with appropriate rations, would have to be delivered in the morning to the native family who would keep him.

Pangloss.

The dog was scratching at the door, eager to enter where Jason was packing. Jason knew better than to let him in. The mutt recognized a suitcase and its purpose. With canine logic, the dog figured that if he unpacked the luggage, scattering its contents as wide and far as possible, Jason would not leave. It had taken Jason only one evening retrieving his underwear from the beach and his socks from the mangrove thicket to determine that Pangloss should be excluded from any area in which packing was taking place.

Closing the suitcase, Jason began to search for the tin of shoe polish he was certain he had bought only a few months ago. He found it under the sink in the bathroom. He sat on the floor to begin to try to remove the green mold that seemed to be devouring his only pair of toe caps.

In the background, Offenbach's overture to Orpheus in Hades cancanned through the sound system. Although he had never had any musical training, there was something about the symmetry of classical composers that Jason found restful. Contemporary pop, rock, or-worse-rap seemed to focus on the vocal, usually repetitive, and banal, with sharp elbows, rhythm without meaning. Or, in Jason's very private opinion, mere noise. He could endure the big band sound, the tunes of pre- and post-World War II, mostly long forgotten, but the classics of centuries past entertained him, setting a mood without the effort of trying to understand any particular lyrics.

He called it music to think by.

The heaviness of his eyelids told him it was well past his usual bedtime.

Pangloss had added a low growl to his persistent scratching. Putting down a shoe, Jason Opened the door. Hackles raised, Pangloss had his lips pulled back, exposing long teeth. As if to make his point, the dog gave two sharp barks.

Then Jason heard it over the dancing violins: a low series of beeps coming from the system he had rigged in every room except the bath. The sound was what had so disturbed the dog, sound from wireless transmitters in the weight detectors he had buried at random intervals along the beach. Each device gave off a sound slightly louder than the previous one the closer someone got to the house.

Jason was not expecting visitors.

The sportfisherman he had seen that morning popped into his mind. What had made him notice it? There was no bone in its teeth, no white wake as it cut through the water. It hadn't been moving. The flash he'd seen had come from a telescope or binoculars. Instead of trolling for marlin yet to arrive, it had been observing him. Oversight like that could get a fellow killed.

But how…?

The keys to the sailboat he had rented in St. Maarten's to sail to St. Bart's. The keys Paco had when he was captured. The float had the name of the rental company, and the rental company had… what?