The Cry of the Halidon [antikvár]

Port Antonio, JamaicaThe white sheet of ocean spray burst up from the coral rockand appeared suspended, the pitch-blue waters of theCaribbean serving as a backdrop. The spray cascadedforward and downward and asserted itself over thethousands of tiny, sharp, ragged crevices that were the coraloverlay. It became ocean again, at one with its source.Timothy Durell walked out on the far edge of the hugefree-form pool deck, imposed over the surrounding coral,and watched the increasing combat between water androck. This isolated section of the Jamaican north coast wasa compromise between man and natural phenomenon.Trident Villas were built on top of a coral sheet, surroundedby it on three sides, with a single drive that led to the roadin front. The villas were miniature replicas of their names:guest houses that fronted the sea and the fields of coral.Each an entity in itself; each isolated from the others, as theentire complex was isolated from the adjoining territory ofPort Antonio.Durell was the young English manager of Trident Villas,a graduate of London's College of Hotel Management,with a series of letters after his name indicating moreknowledge and experience than his mid-twenties appearancewould seem to support. But Durell was good; he knew it,the Trident's owners knew it. He never stopped looking forthe unexpected - that, along with routine smoothness, wasthe essence of superior management.He had found the unexpected now. And it troubled him.It was a mathematical impossibility. Or, if not impossible,certainly improbable in the extreme.It simply did not make sense.'Mr Durell?'He turned. His brown Jamaican secretary, her skin and