Wordlessly, Wopner stepped forward and scrawled a hasty signature. Then, turning away again, he moved quickly out of the parlor, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Once outside, he took a deep breath. "The hell with this," he muttered. Priest or no priest, he wasn't going back to the boat until he'd made sure they hadn't screwed up his order again. He wrestled with the small box, tugging at the tab, first gingerly, then enthusiastically. The seam of the box gave way suddenly and a dozen role-playing figurines spilled out, wizards and sorcerers clattering across the cobbles at his feet. Fluttering after them came a pack of gamer's witching cards: pentagrams, spells, reverse prayers, devil's circles. With a cry and a curse, Wopner stooped to pick them up.
Clay stepped outside, once again shutting the door carefully behind him. He stepped off the porch and into the street, took one long look at the plastic figurines and the cards, then hurried up the lane without another word.
Chapter 22
The following day was cool and damp, but by the end of the afternoon the drizzle had lifted and low clouds were scudding across a freshening sky. Tomorrow will be crisp and windy, Hatch thought as he strode up the narrow, yellow-taped path behind Orthanc. This daily hike to the top of the island had become a closing ritual for him. Reaching the height of land, he walked around the edge of the southern bluffs until he had a good view of Streeter's crew, wrapping up the day's work on the offshore cofferdam.
As usual, Neidelman had come up with a simple, but elegant, plan. While the cargo vessel was dispatched to Portland for cement and building materials, Bonterre had mapped out the exact lie of the ancient pirate cofferdam, taking samples for later archaeological analysis. Next, divers had poured an underwater concrete footing directly atop the remains of the old foundation. This had been followed by the sinking of steel I-beams into the footing. Hatch stared at the enormous beams, rising vertically out of the water at ten-foot intervals, forming a narrow arc around the southern end of the island. From his vantage point, he could see Streeter in the cab of the floating crane, positioned near the barge and just outside the row of steel beams. A massive section of reinforced concrete dangled from the crane's sling. As Hatch watched, Streeter maneuvered the rectangle of concrete into the slot formed by two of the I-beams, then slid it home.
Once it was securely in place, two divers unhooked the slings. Then, Streeter deftly swung the crane around toward the barge, where more sections of concrete were waiting.
There was a flash of red hair: Hatch could see that one of the deckhands on the barge was Donny Truitt. Neidelman had found work for him despite the delay in draining the Pit, and Hatch was pleased that Donny seemed to be working efficiently.
There was a roar from the floating crane as Streeter swung it back toward the semicircle of beams, slotting a new piece of concrete into place beside the other.
When the cofferdam was finished, Hatch knew, it would completely enclose the southern end of the island and the flood tunnel exits. Then, the Water Pit and all its connected underwater works could be pumped dry, with the dam holding back the sea—just as the pirates' cofferdam had done 300 years before.
A whistle sounded, signaling quitting time; the crew on the barge began throwing tie-downs over the stacked sections of cofferdam, while the waiting tugboat came in out of the offshore mist to tow the crane toward the dock. Hatch took a final look around, and turned back down the trail toward Base Camp. He stopped in at his office, collected his bag and locked the door, then headed toward the dock. He'd have a simple dinner at home, he decided, then head into town and look up Bill Banns. The next issue of the Stormhaven Gazette was due out shortly, and Hatch wanted to make sure the old man had plenty of appropriate copy for the front page.
The mooring at the safest section of the reef had been enlarged and Hatch given a berth. As he started the engine of the Plain Jane and prepared to cast off, he heard a nearby voice cry, "Ahoy, the frigate!" Looking up, he saw Bonterre coming down the dock toward him, dressed in bib overalls and wearing a red bandanna around her neck. Mud was splashed generously across her clothes, hands, and face. She stopped at the foot of the dock, then stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker, impishly raising one pant leg to expose a foot or so of tan calf.
"Need a lift?" Hatch asked.
"How did you guess?" Bonterre replied, tossing her bag into the boat and jumping in. "I am already sick of your ugly old island."
Hatch cast off and heeled the boat around, easing it past the reefs and through the inlet. "Your tummy healing up?"
"There is a nasty scab on my otherwise beautiful stomach."
"Don't worry, it's nothing permanent." Hatch took another look at her dirty coveralls. "Making mud pies?"
Bonterre frowned. "Mud . . . pies?"
"You know. Playing in the mud."
She snorted a laugh. "Of course! It is what archaeologists do best."
"So I see." They were approaching the thin circle of mist, and Hatch throttled down until they were clear. "I didn't see you out among the divers."
Bonterre snorted again. "I am an archaeologist first, a diver second. I've done the important work, gridding out the old cofferdam. Sergio and his friends can do the labor of the beasts."
"I'll tell him you said that." Hatch brought the boat through Old Hump Channel and swung it around Hermit Island. Storm-haven harbor came into view, a shining strip of white and green against the dark blue of the ocean. Leaning against the fantail, Bonterre shook out her hair, a glossy cascade of black.
"So what is there to do in this one-horse town?" she said, nodding toward the mainland.
"Not much."
"No disco dancing until three? Merde, what is a single woman to do?"
"I admit, it's a difficult problem," Hatch replied, resisting the impulse to return her flirtations. Don't forget, this woman is trouble.
She looked at him, a tiny smile curling the corners of her lips. "Well, I could have dinner with the doctor."
"Doctor?" Hatch said, with mock surprise. "Why, I suppose Dr. Frazier would be delighted. For sixty, he's still pretty spry."
"You bad boy! I meant this doctor." She poked him playfully in the chest.
Hatch looked at her. Why not? he thought. What kind of trouble could I get into over dinner? "There are only two restaurants in town, you know. Both seafood places, naturally. Although one does a reasonable steak."
"Steak? That is for me. I am a strict carnivore. Vegetables are for pigs and monkeys. As for fish—" She made an elaborate gesture of retching over the side.
"I thought you grew up in the Caribbean."
"Yes, and my father was a fisherman, and that is all we ate, forever and ever. Except at Christmas, when we had chevre."
"Goat?" Hatch asked.
"Yes. I love goat. Cooked for eight hours in a hole on the beach, washed down with homemade Ponlac beer."
"Delectable," said Hatch, laughing. "You're staying in town, right?"
"Yes. Everything was booked up, so I placed a notice in the post office. The lady behind the counter saw it and offered me a room."
"You mean, upstairs? At the Poundcooks?"
"Naturellement."
"The postmistress and her husband. They're a nice quiet couple."
"Yes. Sometimes I think they might be dead, it's so quiet downstairs."
Wait and see what happens if you try to bring home a man, thought Hatch. Or even if you stay out after eleven.
They reached the harbor, and Hatch eased the boat up to its mooring. "I must change out of these dirty clothes," Bonterre said, leaping into the dinghy, "and of course you must put on something better than that boring old blazer."
"But I like this jacket," Hatch protested.
"You American men do not know how to dress at all. What you need is a good suit of Italian linen."
"I hate linen," Hatch said. "It's always wrinkled."
"That is the point!" Bonterre laughed. "What size are you? Forty-two long?"
"How did you know
?"
"I am good at measuring a man."
Chapter 23
Hatch picked her up outside the post office, and they walked down the steep cobbled streets toward The Landing. It was a beautiful, cool evening; the clouds had blown away, and a vast bowl of stars hung over the harbor. In the clear evening light, with the little yellow lights of the town twinkling in windows and above doorways, Stormhaven seemed to Hatch like a place from a remote and friendlier past.
"This is truly a charming place," Bonterre said as she took his arm. "Saint Pierre, where I grew up on Martinique, is also beautiful, but alors, such a difference! It is all lights and colors. Not like here, where everything is black and white. And there is much to do there, very good nightclubs for wild times."
"I don't like nightclubs," said Hatch.
"How boring," said Bonterre, good-naturedly.
They arrived at the restaurant, and the waiter, recognizing Hatch, seated them immediately. It was a cozy place: two rambling rooms and a bar, decorated with nets, wooden lobster pots, and glass floats. Taking a seat, Hatch looked around. Fully a third of the patrons were Thalassa employees.
"Que de monde!" Bonterre whispered. "One cannot get away from company people. I cannot wait for Gerard to send them all home."
"It's like that in a small town. The only way you can get away is to go out on the water. And even then, there's always someone in the town looking at you with a telescope."
"No sex on deck, then," said Bonterre.
"No," said Hatch. "We New Englanders always have sex below." He watched her break into a delighted smile, and he wondered what kind of havoc she'd wreak among the male crew in the days to come. "So what was it you did today that made you so dirty?"
"What is this obsession with dirt?" she frowned. "Mud is the archaeologist's friend." She leaned across the table. "As it happens, I made a little discovery on your muddy old island."
"Tell me about it."
She took a sip from her water glass. "We discovered the pirate encampment."
Hatch looked at her. "You're kidding."
"Mais non! This morning, we set out to examine the windward side of the island. You know that spot where a large bluff stands off by itself, maybe ten meters down the rocks?"
"Yes."
"Right there, where the bluff was eroding, there was a perfect soil profile. A vertical cut, very convenient to the archaeologist. I was able to locate a lens of charcoal."
Hatch frowned. "A what?"
"You know. A black lens of charcoal. The remains of an ancient fire. So we ran a metal detector across the site and right then began finding things. Grapeshot, a musket ball, and several horseshoe nails." She ticked the items on her fingers.
"Horseshoe nails?"
"Yes. They used horses for the heavy work."
"Where did they get them?"
"Are you so ignorant of naval history, monsieur le docteur? It was common to carry livestock on ships. Horses, goats, chickens, pigs."
Their dinners arrived—steamers and lobsters for Hatch, a bloody top sirloin for Bonterre. The archaeologist tucked into the food at an alarming rate, and Hatch watched her eat with amusement: juice dripping from her chin, a furrowed, intent look in her face.
"Anyway," she went on, spearing an extravagantly large morsel of steak with her fork, "after those discoveries, we dug a test trench just behind the bluffs. And what do you think? More charcoal, a circular tent depression, a few broken turkey and deer bones. Rankin has some fancy sensors he wants to drag over to the site, in case we miss any spots. But meanwhile, we have gridded the camp and will start excavation tomorrow. My little Christophe is becoming an excellent digger."
"St. John? Digging?"
"But of course. I made him get rid of those horrid shoes and jacket. Once he resigned himself to getting his hands dirty, he proved most able. Now he is my prime digger. He follows me everywhere and comes when I whistle." She laughed in a kindly way.
"Don't be too hard on the poor man."
"Au contraire, I am doing him good. He needs the fresh air and the exercise, or he will stay as white and fat as a grub. You wait. When I am through with him, he will be all wire and gristle, like le petit homme."
"Who?"
"You know. The little man." The corners of Bonterre's mouth turned down impishly. "Streeter."
"Ah." The way Bonterre said it, Hatch could tell the nickname wasn't meant fondly. "What's his story, anyway?"
Bonterre shrugged. "One hears things. Hard to know what is the truth and what is not. He was under Neidelman in Vietnam. That is how you say it, non? Somebody told me that Neidelman once saved his life during combat. That story is one I believe. You see how devoted he is to the Captain? Like a dog to his master. He is the only one the Captain really trusts." She stared at Hatch. "Except for you, of course."
Hatch frowned. "Well, I suppose it's good the Captain cares about him. Somebody has to. I mean, the guy's not exactly Mr. Personality."
Bonterre raised her eyebrows. "Certainement. And I can sec that the two of you got off on the other foot."
"The wrong foot," Hatch corrected.
"Whatever. But you are wrong when you say that Captain Neidelman cares about Streeter. There's only one thing he cares about." She gave the briefest of nods in the direction of Ragged Island. "He does not talk about it much, but only an imbecile would not see. Do you know that, as long as I have known him, he has had a small photograph of your island, sitting on his desk at Thalassa?"
"No, I didn't." Hatch's thoughts went back to the first trip out to the island with Neidelman. What was it the Captain had said? I didn't want to see it unless we'd have the chance to dig it.
Something seemed to have upset Bonterre. As Hatch opened his mouth to change the subject, he sensed something, someone—a presence across the room—and when he looked up there was Claire, coming around the corner. The intended remark died on his lips.
She was just as he'd imagined she would be: tall and willowy, with the same dash of freckles across the upturned nose. She saw him and stopped dead, her face wrinkling into that same funny frown of surprise he remembered.
"Hello, Claire," Hatch said, standing up awkwardly and trying to keep his voice neutral.
She stepped forward. "Hello," she said, shaking his hand, and at the touch of his skin against hers a pink flush formed on her cheeks. "I heard you were in town." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Of course, who hasn't. I mean, with all that—" and she made a vague gesture over her shoulder, as if to indicate the Water Pit.
"You look great," Hatch said. And she did: the years had made her slender and turned her dark blue eyes a penetrating gray. The mischievous smile once etched permanently on her lips had given way to a more serious, introspective look. She smoothed her pleated skirt unconsciously as she felt his eyes on her.
There was movement at the restaurant entrance, then the minister, Woody Clay, stepped in. He looked around the room until his eyes landed on Hatch. A spasm of displeasure moved quickly across his sallow face, and he came forward. Not here, Hatch thought, bracing himself for another lecture about greed and the ethics of treasure hunting. Sure enough, the minister stopped at their table, glancing from Hatch to Bonterre and back. Hatch wondered if the man would actually have the gall to interrupt their dinner.
"Oh," said Claire, looking at the minister and touching her long blond hair. "Woody, this is Malin Hatch."
"We've met," Clay nodded.
With relief, Hatch realized it wasn't likely that Clay would launch into another tirade with the two women looking on. "This is Dr. Isobel Bonterre," he said, recovering his composure. "May I introduce Claire Northcutt and—"
"Reverend and Mrs. Woodruff Clay," said the minister crisply, extending his hand to Bonterre.
Hatch was stunned, his mind almost refusing to accept this fresh surprise.
Bonterre dabbed at her lips with a napkin and stood up with a languid motion, giving Claire and Woody each a hearty handshake, exposing a row
of dazzling teeth. There was an awkward pause, and then Clay ushered his wife away with a curt nod to Hatch.
Bonterre glanced at the retreating figure of Claire, then back at Hatch. "Old friends?" she asked.
"What?" Hatch murmured. He was staring at Clay's left hand, possessively placed in the small of Claire's back.
An arch smile formed on Bonterre's face. "No, I can see I am wrong," she said, leaning over the table. "Old lovers. How awkward it is to meet again! And yet how sweet."
"You have a keen eye," mumbled Hatch, still too off balance from the encounter—and the revelation that followed—to make any kind of denial.
"But you and the husband, you are not old friends. In fact, it seemed to me that he does not like you at all. That tiresome frown, and those big black bags under his eyes. He looks like he had a nuit blanche."
"A what?"
"A nuit blanche. A—how do you say it?—a sleepless night. For one reason or another." She smiled wickedly.
Instead of replying, Hatch picked up his fork and tried to busy himself with his lobster.
"I can see you still carry her torch," Bonterre purred, with a cheerful smile. "Someday you must tell me of her. But first, let me hear about you. The Captain's mentioned your travels. So tell me all about your adventures in Suriname."
Almost two hours later, Hatch forced himself to his feet and followed Bonterre out of the restaurant. He had overindulged ridiculously, obscenely: two desserts, two pots of coffee, several brandies. Bonterre had matched him enthusiastically, order for order, yet she did not seem any worse for wear as she threw open her arms and breathed in the crisp night breeze.
"How refreshing this air is!" she cried. "I could almost learn to love a place like this."
"Just wait," Hatch replied. "Another two weeks, and you won't be able to leave. It gets in your blood."
"Another two weeks, and you will not be able to get out of my way fast enough, monsieur le docteur." She looked at him appraisingly. "So what do we do now?"
Hatch hesitated a moment. He'd never thought about what might happen after dinner. He returned the gaze, warning bells once again sounding faintly in his head. Silhouetted in the yellow glow of the streetlamps, the archaeologist looked captivatingly beautiful, her tawny skin and almond eyes bewitchingly exotic in the small Maine village. Careful, the voice said.
Riptide Page 17
