"That's good." Bud gave his guest a sidelong look. "Then maybe it's got to do with those helicopters."
Hatch looked at him quizzically.
"Just yesterday it was. Nice, sharp, clear day. Two helicopters came by. Big things they were, too. Went right over town and headed out toward the islands. Seen them hovering over Ragged Island for quite a spell. I thought they were from the army base." Bud's look turned speculative. "But then again, maybe not."
Hatch was spared having to reply by the creak of the screen door. He waited while Bud lumbered inside to attend to the customer. "Business seems good," he replied when Bud returned.
"Can't hardly say that," Bud replied. "Out of season, population's down to eight hundred."
Hatch thought to himself that this was about the size Stormhaven had always been.
"Ayuh," Bud went on, "kids just up and leave now when they finish high school. Don't want to stay in town. They go off to the big cities, Bangor, Augusta. One even went so far as Boston. We've had five kids leave town in the last three years. If it weren't for the summerpeople, or that nudist camp on Pine Neck, I don't think I'd have two extra pennies to rub together."
Hatch merely nodded. Bud was obviously prospering, but it would have been impolite to disagree with him in his own store. The "nudist camp" he referred to was actually an artists' colony, located on an old estate in a pine forest some ten miles up the coast. Hatch remembered that thirty years before, a lobsterman pulling traps had seen a nude sunbather on their beach. The memory of a Maine seacoast town was long indeed.
"And how's your mother?" Bud asked.
"She passed away in 1985. Cancer."
"Sorry to hear that." Hatch could tell Bud meant it. "She was a good woman, and she raised some fine ... a fine son." After a short silence Bud rocked back in his chair and polished off his birch beer. "Seen Claire yet?" he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.
Hatch waited a moment. "She still around?" he replied with equal nonchalance.
"Yup," said Bud. "Been some changes in her life. And how about you? Any family?"
Hatch smiled. "No wife. Not yet, anyway." He put down his empty bottle and stood. It was definitely time to go. "Bud, it's been great visiting with you. I think I'll go and fix myself dinner."
Bud nodded and clapped him on the back as Hatch pushed his way through into the store. He had his hand on the screen door when Bud cleared his throat.
"One other thing, Malin."
Hatch froze. He knew he'd gotten off too easily. He waited, dreading the question he knew was coming.
"You watch out with that licorice," Bud said with great solemnity. "Those teeth won't last forever, you know."
Chapter 7
Hatch emerged on the deck of the Plain Jane, stretched, then looked around the harbor through slitted eyes. The town of Stormhaven was quiet, almost torpid under the heavy light of the July afternoon, and he felt grateful for the silence. The night before, he'd washed down the steak with a little more Beefeater's than he'd intended, and he'd woken that morning to his first hangover in almost a decade.
It had been a day of several firsts. It was the first day he had spent in the cabin of a boat since his trip down the Amazon. He'd forgotten how peaceful it could be, alone with nothing but the gentle rocking of the waves for company. It was also the first day he could remember without having much of anything to do. His lab was now closed down for the month of August, and Bruce the bewildered lab assistant had been sent off to write up initial results under the care of a colleague. The Cambridge town house was locked up, with instructions to the housekeeper that he would not be back until September. And his Jaguar was parked, as discreetly as possible, in the vacant lot behind the old Coast to Coast hardware store.
Before checking out of the hotel in Southport the day before, he'd received a note from Neidelman: a single sentence, asking him to rendezvous off Ragged Island at sunset this evening. That gave Hatch an entire day to himself. At first, he'd been afraid this meant a day alone with his memories. He'd thought of dragging out the watercolors he dabbled with on weekends and hazarding a sketch of the shoreline. But the intention fell away unpursued. Somehow, here on the water, he felt a torpid kind of peace. He had come home to Stormhaven. He'd even approached Ragged Island. He had gazed upon the beast and survived.
He checked his watch: almost 7:30. Time to get started.
He cranked the engine and was pleased to hear the big diesel turn over obediently. The deep vibration underfoot, the blub-blub of exhaust fumes, was like a siren song out of the past, at once sweet and painful. He put the boat in gear with a thrust of his hand and pointed the big bow in the direction of Ragged Island.
The day was clear, and as the boat cut through the water Hatch watched its shadow flitting on ahead of him, draped across the water by the afternoon sun. The ocean was deserted except for a lone lobster boat, hauling traps off the coast of Hermit Island. He had come on deck a few times during the day to scan the horizon, half-expecting to see activity of some sort in the direction of Ragged Island. Seeing nothing but sea and sky each time, he hadn't been sure whether he was disappointed or relieved.
Past the harbor, the air turned cool. But instead of throttling down and grabbing his windbreaker, Hatch found himself cranking the boat faster, turning his face into the wind, opening his mouth to the occasional salt spray as the Plain Jane slapped through the chop. It was somehow cleansing, alone out here; he felt almost as if the wind and water might begin to shake loose the accumulated cobwebs and dirt of a quarter century.
Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared ahead, low on the eastern horizon. Hatch throttled back, feeling the old, familiar trepidation return. The fog around the island was thinner today, but the outlines were still vague and forbidding, the derricks and winches protruding dimly like the ruined minarets of some alien city. Hatch turned the boat to port, keeping his distance, preparing to circle.
Then, on the lee side of the island, he saw an unfamiliar boat, moored perhaps a quarter mile offshore. As he approached, he could see it was an antique fireboat, built of rich brown wood, mahogany or teak. The name GRIFFIN was painted across its stern in severe gold letters. And below, smaller: MYSTIC, CONNECTICUT.
Hatch considered coming alongside, then changed his mind and cut the Plain Jane's engine about a hundred yards off. The boat appeared empty. Nobody came on deck to acknowledge his arrival. For a moment he wondered if it belonged to some tourist or trophy hunter, but it was now almost sunset; the coincidence seemed too strong.
He stared curiously at the boat. If it was Neidelman's command craft, it was an unusual but practical choice. What the thing lacked in speed it made up for in stability: Hatch felt sure it would ride out any but the heaviest sea, and with fore-and-aft engines it would be highly maneuverable. The hose reels and monitors had been removed, freeing up a lot of deck space. The davits, tower, and searchlights had been retained, and a computer-controlled crane was retrofitted onto the stern. Hatch's eyes traveled up to the capacious pilothouse and flying bridge. Above, there was the usual cluster of electronic antennae, loran, and radar, along with additional gear not especially nautical: a microwave horn, satellite dish, air-search radar, and VLF antennae. Impressive rig, Hatch thought. He dropped one hand to the instrument panel, ready to give a blast of his air horn.
Then he hesitated. Beyond the silent boat, and beyond the mist-shrouded island, he could make out a deep throbbing sound, so low in pitch it was almost beneath the audible spectrum. His hand dropped away as he listened. In a minute, he was certain: a boat engine, distant but approaching fast. Hatch scanned the horizon until he picked up a smudge of gray to the south. As he watched, he saw a momentary flash as the setting sun hit some article of polished metal on the distant craft. Probably a Thalassa boat, he thought, swinging up from Portland.
Then, slowly, Hatch saw the smudge separate into two, then three, then six distinct shapes. He waited in disbelief as a veritable invasion fleet approached the tiny island. A huge
sea barge steamed toward him, its dark red underbelly revealed as bow waves pulled back across the waterline. In its wake labored a tug, its bow-net mossy and glistening, a hundred-ton floating crane towed behind. Next came a brace of powerboats, sleek and muscular-looking, bristling with electronics. A supply boat followed, heavy with cargo and low in the water. From its masthead flew a small flag of white and red. Hatch noticed that the design on the flag matched the insignia he'd seen on Neidelman's portfolio cover, just days before.
Last came an elegant vessel, large and fantastically equipped. The name CERBERUS was stenciled on its bows in blue letters. Hatch gazed in awe over the gleaming superstructure, the harpoon gun on the foredeck, the smoked-glass portholes. Fifteen-thousand tonner, minimum, he thought.
In a kind of silent ballet, the vessels nosed up to the Griffin. The larger ships came to a stop on the far side of the fireboat, while the smaller craft came to rest beside the Plain Jane. There was a rattling of chains and singing of hawsers as anchors ran out. Gazing at the powerboats straddling his port and starboard sides, Hatch could see the occupants staring back. A few smiled and nodded. In the closest boat, Hatch noticed a man with iron-gray hair and a plump white face looking at him with an expression of polite interest. He wore a bulky orange life preserver over a carefully buttoned suit. Next to him lounged a young man with long greasy hair and a goatee, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a flowered shirt. He was eating something out of a white paper wrapper, and he gazed back at Hatch with a kind of insolent disinterest.
The last engine was cut, and a strange, almost spectral silence fell over the gathering. Hatch looked from boat to boat, and noticed that everyone's eyes were gravitating toward the empty deck of the fireboat in the center.
A minute passed, then two. At last a door in the side of the pilothouse opened and Captain Neidelman emerged. Silently, he walked to the edge of the railing and stood, ramrod-straight, gazing out at the company that surrounded him. The setting sun gave a burgundy cast to his sunburned face, and kindled his fair, thinning hair into gold. It was amazing, Hatch thought, how his slender presence projected out over the water and the circle of boats. As the silence gathered, another man, small and wiry, stepped unobtrusively out of the door behind Neidelman and remained standing in the background, hands folded.
For a long moment, Neidelman remained silent. At last he started to speak, in a voice that was low, almost reverent, yet carried easily over the water.
"We live in an era," Neidelman began, "when the unknown is known, and most of earth's mysteries have been solved. We have gone to the North Pole, scaled Everest, flown to the Moon. We have broken the bonds of the atom and mapped the abyssal plains of the oceans. Those who tackled these mysteries often endangered their lives, squandered their fortunes, and risked everything they held dear. A great mystery can only be solved at a high price—sometimes the highest price."
He gestured in the direction of the island. "Here—a mere hundred yards away—lies one of those great riddles, perhaps the greatest still left in North America. Look at it. It looks like nothing, a hole in a patch of dirt and rock. And yet this hole—this Water Pit—has sucked the living marrow from the bones of everyone who tried to plumb its secrets. Many millions of dollars have been spent. Lives have been ruined and even lost. There are those among us today that have felt firsthand just how sharp the teeth of the Water Pit can be."
Neidelman looked around at the company, gathered on the assembled boats. His eyes met Hatch's. Then he began again.
"Other enigmas of the past—the monoliths of Sacsahuaman, Easter Island's statues, the standing stones of Britain—cloak their meaning in mystery. Not so the Water Pit. Its location, its purpose, even its history is known. It lies here before us, a brazen oracle, daring to take on all comers."
He paused another moment. "By 1696 Edward Ockham had become the most feared pirate cruising the high seas. The ships in his treasure fleet were swollen with accumulated loot, sluggish, low in the water. The next storm, even an unlucky meeting with a man-of-war, could deal his fleet a mortal blow. He had held off hiding his treasure and he was now desperate. A chance encounter with a certain architect provided the answer."
Neidelman leaned on the rail, the wind stirring his hair. "Ockham seized that architect and charged him with designing a pit to house the treasure. A pit so fearfully impregnable that it would stymie even the most well-equipped treasure hunter. Everything went according to plan. The pit was built, the treasure stored. And then, as the pirate set out for another round of murder and depredation, providence struck. Red Ned Ockham died. Since that day, his treasure has slumbered at the bottom of the Water Pit, waiting for the time when technology and human resolve would finally bring it once again into the world."
Neidelman took a deep breath. "Despite the enormous value of this treasure, the best efforts of one man after another have failed to pluck anything of value from the pit. Anything but this!" And suddenly the Captain held his arm aloft, something gripped between his fingers. The light of the setting sun winked and played so dazzlingly across it that his fingertips seemed to burn. Murmurs of wonder and surprise rippled across the company.
Hatch leaned over the railing to get a better look. My God, he thought, that must be the gold cored up by the Gold Seekers drill over a hundred years ago.
Neidelman held the curl of gold over his head, motionless, for what seemed a long time. Then he spoke again. "There are some who say there is no treasure at the bottom of the Water Pit. To those doubters, I say: Gaze upon this."
As the dying sun lit water and vessel a dusky rose, he turned to face the forward windows of the Griffin's pilothouse. Picking up a small hammer, he placed the piece of gold against the roofline of the pilothouse and, with a single blow, drove it against the wood with a nail. He stepped away to face the company once again, the gold glittering from the superstructure.
"Today," he said, "the rest of Ockham's treasure remains at the bottom of the pit, unvexed by sun or rain, undisturbed for three hundred years. But tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of that long rest. Because the key that was lost has been found again. And before the summer is over, the treasure will sleep no longer."
He paused to survey the crowd of vessels. "There is much to do. We must remove the litter of past failure and make the island safe again. We must determine the location of the original pit. We must then find and seal the hidden underwater channel that allows seawater to enter. We must pump the existing water from the shaft, and secure it for the excavation of the treasure chamber. The challenge is vast. But we come equipped with technology more than adequate to handle the challenge. We're dealing with perhaps the most ingenious creation of the seventeenth-century mind. But the Water Pit is no match for twentieth-century tools. With the help of all who are assembled here today, we will make this the greatest—and most famous—salvage in history."
A cheer began to break out, but Neidelman silenced it with an open hand. "We have among us today Dr. Malin Hatch. It is through his generosity this endeavor was allowed to proceed. And he, more than anyone, knows that we're here today for more than just gold. We're here for history. We're here for knowledge. And we're here to make sure that—at long, long last—the ultimate sacrifices of those brave souls who came before us will not have been in vain."
He bowed his head a brief moment, then stepped back from the railing. There was a scattering of applause, a thin waterfall of sound skipping over the waves, and then in an instant the company erupted into a spontaneous cheer, arms lifted above heads, caps thrown in the air, a cry of excitement and eagerness and jubilation rising in a joyous circle around the Griffin. Hatch realized he was cheering too, and as a single tear trickled down his cheek he had the absurd feeling that Johnny was peering over his shoulder, watching the proceedings with wry interest, longing in his youthful way to finally be laid to rest.
Chapter 8
A day later, Hatch stood at the helm of the Plain Jane, watching the preparations going on around
him. Almost despite himself, he felt a sense of mounting excitement. At his side, two communications monitors—a closed-band scanner covering all the expedition's channels, and a radio tuned to the dedicated medical frequency—emitted occasional chirps and squawks of conversation. The ocean was calm, with only the barest swell, and there was a gentle offshore breeze. The perpetual mist was thin today, gauzy linen loosely encircling the island. It was a perfect day for off-loading, and Captain Neidelman was making the most of it.
Although the Plain Jane was anchored in the same spot as the night before—just outside the Ragged Island reef—the landscape had changed dramatically. Setup had begun shortly after sunset and escalated at daybreak. The huge sea barge was now anchored two points off the eastern shore by massive chains, bolted into the rocky sea floor by Neidelman's dive team. As Hatch watched, the hundred-ton floating crane was being moored off the western end of the island, its long hydraulic rig hanging over the shoreline like a scorpion's tail, ready to pluck off the wrack of two hundred years of treasure hunting. Lying in its shadow was the Griffin, Neidelman's command ship. Hatch could just make out the Captain's stiff, narrow figure on the flying bridge, closely supervising the proceedings.
The large research vessel, the Cerberus, remained beyond the circle of mist, silent and still, as if not deigning to approach land. The two launches, named the Naiad and the Grampus, had dropped crews on the island early in the morning. Now the boats were busy offshore. From the pattern of the Naiad's movements, Hatch could tell she was plotting the sea floor. The Grampus was taking readings of the island itself, using equipment he was not familiar with.
Hatch continued scanning the activity around him until his gaze fell at last upon the island itself. He still felt a kind of sickness in his gut when he looked at it. Perhaps it was a sickness that would never go away. But he had made his decision, and that in itself lifted a huge burden from his shoulders. Every morning now, he awoke more certain that his decision had been the right one. The night before, he'd even caught himself speculating over what he could do with close to a billion dollars. Then and there, he'd made up his mind: He would put all of it, every penny, into a foundation in his brother's name.
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