ONCE FEAR TAKES HOLD there is no escape. It surfaces to haunt the brain, to lead the eyes down corridors of terror, to taunt the senses with the presence of something unknown, just beyond reach. As Moore drove the girl toward the boatyard he saw that the fear had spread rapidly in the village, a fire fueled by Boniface's eyes and cryptic words. There were bolted doors and shuttered windows everywhere; on some of the walls were hastily drawn voodoo symbols, painted there as talismans of protection. A few people were still moving about the streets, as dusk still was several hours off, and in the harbor men worked on their nets for Monday's fishing, but the air was different. The bar district was almost deserted, and there were no children running along the beaches or playing ball among the fishermen's shanties.

The boatyard gates were unrepaired and Moore drove through. In another few moments he steered the truck around the piles of debris and oil barrels and passed the supply shed. He put on the brakes and slowed. The shed doors were open; one of the large wooden doors had been ripped off its hinges and lay in the sand, and there was a jumble of barrels, splintered crates, and cans around the entrance. Moore knew it should have been securely locked. He continued on across the yard for the naval shelter.

When they reached it he immediately saw that the doorway was wide open, a dark entry leading toward the twisted iron hulk. He stopped the truck and pointed at the shelter. "It's in there," he told her.

Jana went around to the truck bed and began unzipping the duffel bag. "Any electricity in there? Arc lights?"

"No," he said, his gaze fixed on that square of blackness, knowing what lay beyond. "All the juice is cut off."

She opened the bag and took out a camera case and a flash attachment. Zipping the bag up again, she took the Nikon from its case and fit the flash to it, then let it fall around her neck. "Now," she said, "we'll see your precious relic."

They stood together for a long time in the foul-smelling darkness as their eyes slowly made out the sharp lines of the huge craft. A prehistoric monster, Moore thought. Jana coughed into her hand. "Chlorine gas," she said quietly, her voice echoing against metal. "Battery seepage." When she was finally able to see it, from bow to stern, she caught her breath and took a step forward.

Jana blinked, put out a hand as if to touch it. "My God," she said, awed. "My God." She moved forward again and Moore moved with her, stepping over an empty crate marked LUBRICANT, TWENTY CANS.

Jana had dived in murky green water twelve miles to the north of Jamaica about six months ago, finding at a depth of ninety-four feet a submarine that had been in its days of glory similar to this one; she had first seen it as a long dark cigar shape, then as she hovered above it, as a mass of coral with twisted iron ribs protruding. The hatches had been open, circular holes all clogged with growth, nothing left of the conning tower but a dark flower of iron where a bomb or shell had struck. And in the center of the veins of tubing were crisscrossed pipes that now served as home to starfish and spotted eels. That boat had been dead, devoid of power and menace. But this one, here only a few feet away... was very different. It's a hoax, she thought suddenly. A joke. No boat could be underwater that length of time and not be a rusted, broken hulk. But no; it was real, the iron hull secure. She had seen boats down only a few months in worse shape than this one, and she couldn't believe what she was seeing. She picked up her camera and switched on the flash to let it charge up, then began to take her pictures carefully and unhurriedly, moving along the port side and then back again. When she called out to Moore he could hear the excitement in her voice. "It's a VII-C, all right. Minor damage to the superstructure, snapped sky periscope... Jesus! The eighty-eight millimeter cannon's still intact, so is the twenty-millimeter gun! Deck looks to be broken through in places, but my God, the corrosion hasn't even begun on most of the hull!" As she talked she took picture after picture, the flash outlining a jagged shadow on the opposite wall. "There's water inside?" she asked.

"Not very much."

"Condensation or overflow through a hatch, probably. If that's so, the boat must have gone down in a hurry. Possibly under attack, if you say there was a depth charge near it." She came along the port side and then toward the bow. "Torpedo tubes are clear," she told him. "Bow torpedo-loading hatch is open. Is that how you went in?"

"Yes." Moore nodded.

She took another photograph, the flash a silent white explosion. In its light Moore saw something; he took a step forward, but already she was on her way across the gangplank. She stepped onto the deck, avoiding debris and rats.

"Just a minute..." Moore said, trying to figure out what it was he'd seen.

Jana was peering through broken deck timbers. "Pressure hull looks unscathed." She pushed a box away and empty oil cans rolled out. "I can see the explosion you mentioned loosening it from the sand, but what made this boat surface? Compressed-air expansion? Possibly there was already air in the buoyancy tanks?" She was talking to herself, not noticing as Moore moved to the edge of the concrete walkway and stared over at the bow. "For the time being we'll have to accept your theory," she was saying, "until the Foundation comes up with something better. My God, what a weapon!"

"The hatch," Moore said quietly, and the sound of his voice made her look up.

"Through there, that's where the bow torpedoes were loaded," she explained. "There's another at the stern for the aft tube. What are all these crates and cans doing here? This gun mount looks as if someone's greased it..."

"Kip closed this hatch," Moore said in a hollow tone, staring into the hole. "And now it's opened again."

Jana moved over by the hatch and snapped another picture of the conning tower. "I'll have to look at the mechanisms inside," she told him. "But I'll need the high-intensity lamp from my bag."

"Don't... stand near that hole," Moore rasped, his mouth dry. She stood over the hatch now, peering down into it. She hadn't heard, and he raised his voice. "Don't stand near the hatch!" He started across the gangplank toward her.

"What?" she asked, glancing over at him, one foot resting on the hatch rim. "What did you..." And then she abruptly sucked in her breath, a half-cry escaping her lips; she stepped away from the hole and Moore saw that her eyes were fixed on something behind him.

He whirled around; a shadow blocked the doorway, moving toward him. He took a step backward, lifting an arm to ward it off, his teeth bared and eyes widened.

The shadow stood motionless, looking at the two of them. "What the hell are you doing here, David?" Kip asked. "And who's she?" He didn't wait for a reply, but raised his voice. "Come off that thing, miss, before you break your neck!"

"Who are you giving orders to?" she asked indignantly.

"I'm the constable of Coquina, and I'm ordering you off that boat!" He glanced at Moore. "Who is she?"

"Dr. Thornton. She came from Kingston to examine the submarine."

"Is that so?" Kip watched as she made her way across the gangplank and approached him. "What were you trying to do," he asked her, "go down in that bastard by yourself?"

"That's exactly right," Jana said, her guard up.

"Wrong. This shelter and that boat are off-limits to everyone without my express permission, and so far I haven't given it to you." He pressed the back of his hand against his face. "It smells of rot in here; let's get out into the sun."

When they had left the shelter Kip closed the door and looked for some way to lock it; he found a thin metal rod in the debris of the yard and jammed it through the door's hasp as a temporary solution.

"I have a letter from the Jamaica Historic Foundation in my bag," Jana said curtly. "If you like I'll get it for you and then we can..."

"No," Kip said. "Never mind any letters." He was aware of the woman's growing anger. "How did you get to Coquina?"

"My airplane."

"I see." He glanced over at Moore, then back to the woman. "Well... Dr. Thornton, is it? I'm afraid you made a long trip for nothing. First thing Monday morning two trawlers are going to tow the submarine out to deep water. A couple of welders are going to cut holes into it, and it's going back down where it came from."

"Wait a minute," Jana said, her face flushing. "I don't know why you think you can make this decision, but I'm not going to let you do it!"

"I'm sorry. The plans have been made."

"Then unmake them, damn it!" she said, stepping defiantly toward him. Kip stood where he was, but he could feel the heat of her anger. "You don't seem to realize what that boat is! It's a Nazi U-boat in almost perfect condition after forty years or so at the bottom of the Caribbean. We have to know how it stayed that way, what made it cork, and what boat it was. I can have a salvage team down here within three days! You can't sink it!"

"It's a rotting old hulk," Kip said.

"No! It's in remarkable condition, not much deteriorated from the day it went down! And I'll wager the interior is in excellent condition as well, including the engine room! My God, the boat's a naval historian's dream. It's almost certain I can guarantee interest from the British Museum if I can just examine the inside!"

"You ever heard the story of Pandora's Box?" Kip asked her; the question startled her. "Let's just say there's plenty you don't know about the submarine. All manner of hell's been raised here because of it. No, I'm not going to wait any three days. I wouldn't wait three damned hours if I didn't have to!" He reached over and pulled at the metal rod to make certain the door was shut securely. Moore realized he had locked the door as if to keep something in instead of out. Kip turned to him and said, "I was driving past on my way back from Caribville and I saw your truck parked here. I didn't think you would've come back here alone..."

"You're a madman!" Jana said suddenly. "That's a scientific find you want to destroy!"

"I've had enough arguing, miss," Kip told her, looking her straight in the eye. "I've had my say, and that's how things stand. If you want to file a protest with your Foundation when you get back to Kingston, that's fine with me too. Let them get in touch with me, and I'll tell them the same thing. The U-boat's going back into the ocean. David, I'll see you later. Dr. Thornton, have a good trip." He nodded toward her and walked back to his jeep. He started the engine and roared off, leaving them standing together at the side of the shelter.

"What's wrong with that man?" Jana asked. "Is he out of his mind?"

"No," Moore said. "No, he's not." It was getting late; the shadows were thicker, a blue-black mist stretching across the yard. Soon night would cover the island, and Moore realized there was no place on earth he would rather avoid than this boatyard, with the U-boat lying only behind the thickness of a wooden wall after darkness fell. "It's too late for you to make Kingston before dark," he told Jana. "If you'd like I'll give you a room up at the hotel."

"I appreciate that," she said, "but I've no intention of leaving until I've talked some sense into that idiot."

"Suit yourself," Moore said, motioning toward the truck.

Driving into the village, Kip knew there was something terribly wrong; he saw the empty streets, the shuttered windows, the voodoo talismans scrawled on stucco and clapboard. Anger surged within him, and he felt a confusion he couldn't begin to define. One of the symbols, chalked against a sea-green door, held his attention, started the slow stirring of memories - sluggish, nebulous - at the back of his brain. It was the crude drawing of a huge hand, from top to bottom of the door, the fingers spread as if to ward off the invisible. Kip pulled the jeep to the side of the road and stared at it, unable to tear his gaze away.

He was a child again, a boy of thirteen, sitting at a low table eating from a bowl of corn mush and ham bits. He ate slowly, though it was his first meal in over a day. Across the plank-walled room, a few half-charred logs burned erratically in a stone fireplace. On the floor was woven sea-grass, well-worn; the window shutters were closed tight and the only light came from several oil lamps placed around the room. The dim half-glow illuminated the straw tribal masks on the walls, their features cunning and wolfish: heavy-browed seashell eyes gleaming. He thought they were staring directly at him, and that sometimes their features changed to look almost human, but grotesque and freakish.

A man sat in a rocking chair before the fire. He stared into the flames, rattling a jar of dog's teeth distractedly. After a while he took one of the teeth out and tossed it in, then bent forward as if he saw something there. He leaned back, the runners making a soft, catlike murmur on the grass mat. From one corner there was a low rustle; the man turned his head and the boy caught a firelight profile of slitted eyes in an aged, weather-lined face. On a bed of sea-grass across the room there was a large green iguana almost two feet long; a metal collar clamped about its neck secured the reptile to a line tied around an overhead beam with enough slack so that the lizard could move about in the room. Its pale red eyes stared at Kip, the white flesh under the jaw and belly undulating as it breathed. It came forward a few feet, crunching on the grass, stopped, flesh quivering along its spine, slender tail sweeping across the floor. Its head moved jerkily, eyes fixed on Kip.

"Feed it," the man said.

There was a piece of doughy brown bread beside him. He tore off a small chunk and tossed it over. The lizard jerked, scurried back, waited. Then it advanced on the bread and licked at it.

Kip was still dazed from hunger and weak from sleeping. In the past three days he had slept a great deal, intoxicated by the strange fumes eminating from pots the man kept in a circle around the boy's bare mattress. Sometimes his sleep was dreamless and black, the sleep of the dead, but more often it was peopled by phantoms, grinning things like the masks that watched him, always in an anticipatory silence. The faces spun about him in his dreams, calling his name over and over.

Out of necessity, Kip had begun to build a brick wall in his mind to keep the horrors back, the mortar going down smooth and thick, each row of bricks solid and even. But sometimes the things seemed to have more strength, and they reached out with their gray tendrils to pull down the bricks he had erected the night before. No matter how hard he shrieked at the nightmare forms there was no escape; there were too many, and he had to work harder and harder to put the bricks back into place. He worked at the wall like a madman, as if sleep were just another of the many labors set for him by his uncle, who had made him heat and knead balls of wax, to be fashioned into images by the man and sold to furtive customers. Kip had also been made to drain seven white chickens of their blood, and, one night, to accompany his uncle to the pauper's graveyard to sever a recently dead man's head for that fearful death spell, the Garabanda. The wall never seemed to be complete, for the things still found holes and weak spots through which to grasp at him. But someday it would be strong enough to hold them back and away forever, and never again would they make him scream that terrible scream from the deep pit of sleep. He vowed it to himself, made the vow as much a part of him as was his fear and dislike of the man who called himself "uncle."

In one of his cold-sweat nightmares he was wandering the wide corridors and empty rooms of a huge, abandoned mansion. Moss draped the windows and doors; no light could penetrate, and he moved through spidery shadows. When he ran into boarded-over doors, sealed windows, bricked passageways, he would turn and retrace his steps. In one room there were older people dressed in bright colors, each of them standing alone and not speaking to the others; in another was a child playing on the floor with a bright green ball that suddenly uncurled and became a lizard that slithered away. Upstairs was a passage with gaping holes in the floor, the black timbers threatening to give way beneath his feet. He guided himself onward, searching, feeling his way along.

As he came through a doorway, the tides suddenly surged around his feet. He resisted the pull of the current and saw the blue water slowly turn a dark-red color. In another room, farther along, were a woman and a little girl who waved to him and smiled. He heard the tolling of a ship's bell from far away, a world away, then silence. He moved on, finding rooms crowded with iron, ship's parts, and rusted equipment; a white man moved across the corridor ahead of him and Kip followed. A skeleton stood before him, arms out, face imploring him for something he couldn't understand; the skeleton crumpled, fell to dust.

And in the next room, almost at the crown of the house, a congregation of shadows. A chair. Open windows, black sky, sheer tattered curtains trailing in an unfelt wind. And in the chair a dark form, unrecognizable, a roiling thing without true substance, but emanating a vast and terrible hate. The door slammed behind him. Alerted by the noise, the hideous form turned what would be its head, slowly, seeking out the intruder. Two blinding crimson orbs fixed Kip to the floor; they burned through to his brain. And then the thing rose from the chair and started for him, dark arms coming up to embrace him. He felt his back against the door, felt the hardness of the wood pressing into his spine. The thing's hot breath touched his cheek and he began to shout for help, over and over; it neared him, smelling of age and rot, uncoiling like a black mamba.

And then the door behind him came open. He fell backward, still screaming.

Opened his eyes.

A hand coming for him, brown and withered. A craggy, staring face behind it. He recoiled; the hand grasped his shoulder and shook him fully awake.

In the corner the lizard had shifted, tiny pinpoints of gleaming red still unblinking.

His uncle stood over him, wiping sweat from his cheeks. "Your future is not with me," he said.

And suddenly the figure of the hand on the green door trembled. The door came open and a man in dungarees peered out at the constable.

Kip stared at him for a few seconds, then composed himself and drove on to the Square, the memories whirling inside his head: bits of remembered faces and colors, sights and smells. He had labored long and hard to wall off that part of his life. He'd thought the bricks were firmly mortared into place. Until the U-boat had come.

I know what you could have been, Boniface had told him.

Bullshit, Kip muttered between clenched teeth. Bullshit.

The evening shadows fell across Coquina. The moon rose, glittering silver on the waves that surged over Kiss Bottom. The breeze began to pick up, gently at first, then strengthening and finally sweeping up sand in the streets, swirling it in gritty puffs that stung the shuttered windows. A dog bayed at the moon until someone cursed and threw a shoe to quiet him.

And no one heard the sound of hammers ringing against iron down in the boatyard.