Gates of Hades by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online Page B

Possibly this division of labor kept more priests profitably occupied, not unlike the strict division of tasks favored by today’s labor unions.
    6 . The cave of the Sibyl at Cumae may be visited today. The approach is a number of equally wide pillars of stone and open space. In the afternoon sun, a person walking along this corridor would enter darkness and light at identical intervals, giving the illusion to the observer outside of alternately appearing and disappearing. We will further examine other tricks of showmanship designed to dazzle, or better yet, frighten, those who dealt with the cult of priests.

PART II
C HAPTER F IVE
    North Caicos, Turks and Caicos Islands
    British West Indies
    January
    The silver column of bubbles floated lazily toward the surface, leaving tiny globs of air to hang momentarily on the lips of the barrel sponge and plate coral above Jason’s head. Despite the eighty-foot depth, the tropical sun was bright enough to make an artist’s palette of color of the wall, a natural drop that fell into the hazy blue hundreds of feet below.
    His artistic eye was oblivious to the spectacular quality of his surroundings. Instead, his attention was focused on something else as he hung motionless over the abyss, concentrating on a small hole in which he could see a spider crab. Though it was small in body, the crustacean’s legs and claws were large enough to make a meal for two, a meal of the sweetest meat Jason had ever tasted. He wouldn’t taste this one, though, unless he could get it out of its lair. The crab had retreated far enough back that it was out of reach, and Jason had left his spear in the boat. Nothing to do but remember the spot and come back.That tangle of branchlike black coral would make a good marker, he thought as he flicked his fins and slowly moved on.
    His dive watch told him he had still had a good twenty minutes before the pressure of depth presented any danger of the bends.
    He watched a leopard ray glide by, its wings rippling in a graceful simulation of flight.
    Then he heard it: an angry buzzing like the sound of an electric razor, growing louder. An outboard. Inside his mask, his eyebrows curved into a frown. On an island as sparsely populated as North Caicos, there were plenty of places for the natives to fish without dropping a line on the section of wall he was diving. Surely they could see the boat and would know he was down here. Maybe they’d go on by.
    Somehow he doubted it.
    As if to confirm his suspicions, he heard a splash and watched an anchor pull its line down to the sandy shelf forty feet above his head as the motor died. Jason waited, expecting to hear the thunk of a sinker on a hand line as it hit the water. He wanted to see where the treble hooks preferred by the locals were hanging rather than risk getting snagged. No fishing line, sinker, or hook was forthcoming.
    Strange.
    Unless the boat’s occupant wasn’t fishing. Unless somebody had come out here for him.
    He bit the soft rubber of his regulator’s mouthpiece in annoyance. There would be only one reason for somebody to come out here after him, and they were supposed to leave him alone for the next three months. Two jobs a year—that was it, the max. It had been only weeks since the affair on St. Bart’s.
    In fact, it would be fine if they overlooked him for a year or two. The work had paid well enough for him to retire as it was, enough to mandate that he reside someplace with no income taxation. His employer managed tosatisfy the IRS by means Jason felt were best not inquired into, but sheltering his income where he lived was his responsibility. Hence his present residence. He had built the house as a vacation home, an excuse to claim residence in a tax haven. Now it was where he lived, had been home since his life had been turned upside down and shaken out as though the gods were emptying a paper bag. Ever since . . .
    He pushed the thought out of his mind and