We left Spike in the run with KiKo and drove down to South Beach. As I turned off Front Street to park, I looked up the coastal road. The Navy blockade was at the top, a crude wall of gray concrete, at least twenty feet tall. It appeared to be crammed into the hillside. Warning signs applied generously. An extension of chain link and barbed wire snaked up the hill and continued into the brush.

The beach at that point was just a narrow spit and the wall cut across it and continued into the ocean, creating a damming effect. But the water was shallow and still, lapping weakly at the algae-stained base of the sea-barrier. Large chunks of coral were stacked nearby, desiccated and sunbaked: part of the reef had been shattered to accommodate the barrier.

I parked atop the widest section of beach. The sand was as smooth and white as a freshly made bed, the lagoon that same silvery green.

We collected our gear, and as I carried it to the shoreline, I noticed flat, smooth rocks above the tide pools.

The altar where AnneMarie Valdos had been sacrificed.

To what?

We stepped onto the sand. The temperature was holding as mild and steady as Moreland had promised. When I tested the lagoon with my foot, there was no chill, and when I eased in for a swim a soft warmth enveloped me.

"Perfect," I called out to Robin.

We put on our fins and masks and snorkels, flipper-walked the shallows till the water reached our thighs, then knifed in and floated belly down on the surface of the pool. The reef took a long time to deepen, finally reaching eight feet as we neared the brown-red ring of coral that held back the ocean.

The coral colonies grew in wide, flat beds. Despite the lack of current, the reef's living rock seemed to dance, patches of tiny animals sharing space with bio-condos of sea urchins, chitons, feather duster worms, and gooseneck barnacles. Small, brilliant fish grazed, untroubled by our presence: electric-blue damsels, lemon-yellow tangs, confident gray-black French angels, shocking-pink basslets with the stern little faces of tax auditors. Orange-and-white clownfish nested in the soft, stinging embrace of fluorescent sea anemones.

The bottom sand was fine, almost downy, spotted with shells and rocks and shreds of coral. The sunlight made its way down easily, dappling the ocean floor. We shattered the light with our shadows, causing some of the shells to move in reflexive panic.

Drifting in opposite directions, we explored separately for a while, then I heard Robin burble through her breathing tube and turned to see her pointing excitedly at the far end of the reef.

Something torpedo shaped was shooting between us, speeding across the lagoon. A small sea turtle, maybe a foot long, head down, legs compressed, skimming the top of the coral as it headed for bluer pastures.

I watched it disappear, then looked back at Robin, making the OK sign. She waved and I paddled to her, extending a hand. We bumped masks in a mock kiss, then swam together, thrilled and weightless, suspended like twins in a warm salty womb.

When we got back on the beach we were no longer alone.

Skip Amalfi and Anders Haygood had spread a horse blanket thirty feet from our clothes. Skip was lying on his back, eyes closed, belly surging and collapsing as he sucked on a cigarette and blew smoke. Haygood crouched nearby, hairy thighs thick as logs, tongue tip sticking out the corner of his mouth. Concentrating as he pulled the limbs off something huge and ugly.

The biggest crab I'd ever seen. Easily thirty inches from claw to claw, with a knobby, blue, spotted carapace and pincers the size of bear traps. My year for monster arthropods.

Haygood looked up at us and snapped a leg free, watched the juice drip out of it, then held it up and waved it.

"Ma'am. Sir." Again, the gray eyes washed over Robin and I became aware of how she looked in her two-piece, hair dripping over smooth, bare shoulders, hips swelling above the low-cut bottom, the sharp, sweet contrast between bronze skin and white nylon.

She turned her back on them just as Skip sat up. Both men watched her trudge to our blanket. Walking in the sand made her sway more than she intended to.

"Big crab," I said.

"Stoner," said Haygood. "Great eating- can I give you a couple of legs, sir?"

"No, thanks."

"You're sure?"

"Forget it," said Skip. "Old man Moreland don't eat animals."

"That's right," said Haygood. "Too bad. Stoners are great eating. This one liked coconuts- that's why it's blue. When they eat other things, they can be orange. I've seen them even bigger, but he's healthy."

"Mean though," said Skip. "Bite your finger clear off. Best thing is throw 'em in the pot live- how was your swim?"

"Great."

"See any octopus?"

"No, just a turtle."

"Little one?"

I nodded.

"Last summer's hatch. They come in, lay at the breaker line, bury the eggs. The natives dig 'em up- makes a helluva omelet. The suckers that make it swim the hell out of here, but most of them get eaten, too. Sometimes a real stupid one comes back. Musta been what you saw."

"Checking out the old 'hood," said Haygood, laughing. His teeth were widely spaced and white. The sun turned his body hair into dense copper wire.

"Octopus are smart," said Skip. "Those big eyes, you swear they're checking you out." A glance Robin's way.

"Best omelet for my money is tern," said Haygood. "Lays pink eggs. First time people see it they freak out, think it's blood. But pink's the true color. Pink omelet." He licked his lips. "Salty- like duck."

"You can have it, man," said Skip. "Too fuckin' gamy."

Haygood smiled. "Well, I go for the pink."

Skip snickered.

"Shark's good eating, too," said Haygood, "but you have to soak the meat in acid or it tastes like piss- how long are you here for, doc?"

"Couple of months."

"Like it?"

"It's beautiful."

They looked at each other. Haygood snapped off another crab leg.

Skip said, "Rich people would dig this place, right?"

"I guess anyone who likes swimming and relaxing would."

"What about you? What kind of stuff do you dig?"

"All kinds of things."

He dragged on his cigarette and flipped the butt onto the spotless sand. "Me and my buddy Hay here wanna build a resort. But different. Grass huts, like a Club Med. Pay one price up front, get your food, drinks, the works. No TV or phones or video movies, just swimming and digging the beach, maybe we'll bring some girls over to put on a dance show or something."

His eyes got hard. "So what do you think?"

"Sounds good."

"It does, huh?"

"Sure."

He spat on the sand. "I figure rich assholes from the mainland'd go for it in a big way, right? 'Cause otherwise, we'd hafta go for the Japanese tour groups like all the other islands do." He put both hands in front of his face, hooked his upper teeth over his lower lip and flexed his thumbs.

"Take pikcha, crick crick." He laughed.

Haygood smiled and examined the crab's legless body.

"Full of roe," he said. "A girl."

"We wanna get Americans," said Skip. "This is America even though no one in America knows shit about this place."

"Good luck." I started to walk away.

"Wanna invest?" he called after me.

I was about to laugh, then I saw his face and stopped.

"I'm not really much of an investor."

"Then maybe you should start, man. Get in early. Guys who invested in Hawaii after the war are wiping their asses with hundred-dollar bills."

He held out a palm, as if panhandling.

"Hey, the man came here to mellow out," said Haygood. "Give him a break."