Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  "That is true enough. But I would not call you a weak reed, if I understand the term. Perhaps a kitchen match would be a better analogy, non? All you really need is the right woman to ignite you." She carelessly picked up an oyster shell and sent it spinning into the water. "The real problem will be making sure you do not flare out too quickly."

  Hatch turned back to his painting. In this kind of sparring, Bonterre would always be the victor.

  Bonterre approached him again. "Besides, I was afraid you were seeing that other woman."

  Hatch looked up.

  "Yes, what is her name: the minister's wife. Your old, old friend."

  "That's all she is," Hatch said, more sharply than he intended. "A friend." Bonterre scrutinized him curiously, and he sighed. "She's made that very clear to me."

  Bonterre arched her brows. "You are disappointed."

  Hatch lowered his brush. "To tell you the truth, I don't know what I expected when I came home. But she's made it clear that our relationship belongs to the past, not the present. Wrote me a letter, in fact. That part hurt. But you know what? She's absolutely right."

  Bonterre looked at him, a smile slowly forming.

  "What are you grinning at?" Hatch said. "The doctor and his romance problems? You must have had your share of peccadilloes."

  Bonterre laughed out loud, refusing to be baited. "I am grinning with relief, monsieur. But you have obviously misunderstood me all along." She slid an index finger along the back of his wrist. "I like to play the game, comprends? But only for the right man will I allow myself to be caught. My mother raised a good Catholic."

  Hatch stared at her for a minute in surprise. Then he lifted the paintbrush again. "I'd have guessed you'd be closeted with Neidelman today, poring over charts and diagrams."

  At this change of subject, a cloud passed over her face. "No," she said, good humor suddenly gone. "The Captain no longer has the patience for careful archaeology. He wants to rush, rush, vitement, and to hell with everything else. He is down in the Pit now, preparing to excavate the bottom of the shaft. No screening for artifacts, no stratigraphic analysis. I cannot bear it."

  Hatch looked at her in surprise. "He's working today?" Working on Sunday, with the medical office unmanned, was a breach of regulations.

  Bonterre nodded. "Since the discovery of the spire, he has been a man possessed. I do not think he has slept in a week, he is so busy. But do you know, despite all his eagerness, it still took him two days to ask my dear digger for help? I told him again and again that Christophe, with his knowledge of architecture, was the very man he needed to reconstruct the supports. But he did not seem to listen." She shook her head. "I never understood him. But now, I think, I understand him less."

  For a moment, Hatch considered telling her about Neidelman's worries of a traitor, then decided against it. He thought of mentioning the documents he'd found, but once again decided it could wait. It could all wait. Let Neidelman dig his damned fool ass off on a Sunday if he wanted to. It was Hatch's day off, and what he wanted to do was finish his painting.

  "Time for me to add Mount Lovell," he said, nodding at the dark shape in the distance. As Bonterre watched, he dipped a brush in the Payne's gray, mixing it with a touch of cobalt blue, then laid down a heavy line, dragging it above the spot on the paper where the land met the sky. Then, taking the board off the easel, he turned the painting upside down, waiting until the fresh paint had flowed into the horizon. Then he righted the board and placed it back on the easel.

  "Man dieu! Where did you learn that?"

  "There's a trick in every trade," Hatch said, cleaning the bristles and replacing the tubes into the paintbox. He stood up. "It needs to dry a bit. Why don't we have a climb?"

  They scrambled up the side of the tallest shell heap, oysters crunching beneath their feet. From the top, Hatch looked past their boats toward the river. Birds rustled in the spreading oaks. The air was warm and clear: if there was a storm gathering, it certainly wasn't evident. Upriver, there was no sigh of human habitation, just the blue twists of water and the tops of trees, broken here and there by meadows, stretching as far as the eyes could see.

  "Magnifique," said Bonterre. "What a magical place."

  "I used to come here with Johnny," Hatch said. "An old high school teacher of mine would bring us here, every now and then on Saturday afternoons. We were here the day before Johnny died."

  "Tell me about him," Bonterre said simply.

  Silently, Hatch took a seat, the oysters rustling and whispering under his weight. "Well, he was very bossy. There weren't that many kids in Stormhaven, so we did lots of things together. We were best friends, I guess—at least, when he wasn't busy beating me up."

  Bonterre laughed.

  "He loved everything to do with science—even more than me. He had incredible collections of butterflies, rocks, and fossils. He knew the names of all the constellations. He even built his own telescope."

  Hatch leaned back on his elbows and looked through the trees. "Johnny would have done something amazing with his life. I think one of the reasons I worked so hard, got through Harvard Medical School, was to make up for what happened."

  "What did you have to make up for?" Bonterre asked gently.

  "It was my idea to go to Ragged Island that day," Hatch replied.

  Bonterre repeated none of the usual platitudes, and again Hatch found himself feeling grateful. He fetched a deep breath, then another, letting them out slowly. It seemed that, with every breath, he was exhaling the pent-up poisons of many years.

  "After Johnny disappeared in the tunnel," he went on, "it took me a while to find my way out. I don't remember how long. The fact is, I don't remember much of anything. I've tried, but there's a stretch of time that remains a complete blank. We were crawling down the shaft, and Johnny lit another match. . . . After that, the first thing I remember clearly is arriving at my parents' dock.

  They were just getting home from lunch or something, and they raced out to Ragged Island, along with half the town. I'll never forget my father's face when he reappeared at the entrance to the tunnel. He was covered with Johnny's blood. He was yelling out, pounding on the beams, crying."

  He paused a minute, replaying the scene in his mind.

  "They couldn't find the body. They searched, dug holes in the walls and ceiling. The Coast Guard came out, and a mining engineer with listening equipment. They floated out a backhoe, but the ground was too unstable and they couldn't get into position."

  Bonterre remained silent, listening.

  "They spent all that night, and the next day, and the next. Then, when it became clear Johnny couldn't possibly be alive, people began to drop away. The medical team said the amount of blood in the tunnel meant Johnny must be dead, but Dad kept looking. He refused to leave. After a week people pretty much gave up, even Mom, but Dad stayed out there. The tragedy did something to his mind. He wandered around, climbed down into the shafts, dug holes with a pick and shovel, yelling until he was so hoarse he couldn't speak. He wouldn't leave the island. God, weeks went by. Mom begged him to leave, but he wouldn't. Then one day she came out with food and he wasn't there. There was another search, and this time they found a body. Dad was floating in one of the shafts. Drowned. Nobody said anything to us. But talk turned to suicide."

  Hatch continued staring at the pattern of leaves against the blue sky. He had never told anyone this much of the story before, and he could never have imagined what a vast relief it was simply to talk: the lifting of a burden that had been with him so long he'd forgotten it was there.

  "We stayed in Stormhaven for another six years. I think Mom hoped it would go away, somehow. But it never did. A little town like this never forgets. Everyone was so ... nice. But the talk never stopped. I didn't hear much of it, but I knew it was there, all the same. It went on and on. There was something about the body never being found that really preyed on people's minds.

  And, you know, some of the fishermen's families believed i
n the curse. Later, I learned that some parents wouldn't let their kids play with me. Finally, when I was sixteen, my mother couldn't stand it any longer. She took me to Boston for the summer. We were only supposed to stay a few months, but then September came, and I had to start school, and a year went by, then another. And then I went off to college. And I never came back. Until now."

  A great blue heron glided down the length of the river, then settled on a dead branch, waiting.

  "And then?"

  "Medical school, the Peace Corps, Medecins sans Frontieres, Mount Auburn Hospital. And then one day your Captain walked into my office. There you have it." Hatch paused. "You know, after the Pit was drained and they located the spot where the shore tunnel angled in, I kept quiet. I didn't insist they explore it right away. You'd have thought I would have been all over the Captain about it. But the fact was, now that we were this close, I was scared. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what really happened."

  "So you're sorry you signed the Captain's agreement?" Bonterre asked.

  "Actually, he signed my agreement." Hatch fell silent a moment. "But no, I'm not sorry. If I was, yesterday changed all that."

  "And in a week or two, you can retire as one of the richest men in America."

  Hatch laughed. "Isobel," he said, "I've decided to put the money into a foundation in my brother's name."

  "All of it?"

  "Yes." He hesitated. "Well, I'm still thinking about that."

  Bonterre settled back on the shells, squinting at him skeptically. "I am a good judge of character, monsieur le docteur. You may put most of the money into this foundation. But I will be skinned alive if you do not keep a tidy little sum back for yourself. You would not be human otherwise. And I am sure I would not like you so much if you were not human."

  Automatically, Hatch opened his mouth to protest. Then he relaxed again.

  "Either way, you are a saint," said Bonterre. "I have more venal things planned for my share. Like buying a very fast car—and of course, I will send a large sum to my family in Martinique." She looked over at him, and he was surprised to see that she seemed to be seeking his approval.

  "That's fine," he said. "For you, it's a professional thing. For me, it was personal."

  "You and Gerard Neidelman both," Bonterre replied. "You may have exorcised your demons, but I think he is still summoning his, n'est-ce pas? The Ragged Island treasure has always held a special spell for him. But all this obsession with Macallan, c'est incroyable! Everything is now like a personal affront, a direct challenge. I do not think he will be happy until he wrangs that old architect's neck."

  "Wrings," Hatch corrected lazily.

  "Whatever." Bonterre shifted, searching for a more comfortable position. "A plague on both their houses."

  They fell silent, lying on their backs in the late morning sun. A squirrel edged out on a branch above their heads, gathering acorns, chattering softly. Hatch closed his eyes. Vaguely, he realized that he'd have to tell Bill Banns at the paper about the discovery of Johnny's body. Bonterre was saying something, but he was growing too drowsy to listen. And then he drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 39

  It was the following afternoon that Hatch heard from the marquesa.

  The small icon of a closed airmail envelope had appeared in the lower right corner of his laptop, indicating new e-mail. But when he'd tried to access it, Hatch found his Internet connection kept dropping. Deciding to take a short break, he trotted down to the pier and motored the Plain Jane away from her berth. Clear of the island and its perpetual fog bank, he connected the laptop's modem to his cell phone and retrieved the marquesa's message without difficulty. What is it with computers and this island? he thought.

  Firing up the diesels again, he swung the Plain Jane back toward Ragged Island. The prow of the boat cut through the glassy swell, startling a cormorant, who disappeared into the water. It reappeared several dozen yards farther off, paddling furiously.

  A weather report crackled on the marine radio: The disturbance over the Grand Banks had developed into a strong low-pressure system, currently headed toward the coast of northern Maine. If the storm kept to its present course, a small craft advisory would go into effect at noon the next day. A classic Nor'easter, thought Hatch grimly.

  He could see an unusual number of lobster boats spread along the horizon, pulling their traps. Perhaps it was in preparation for the storm. Or perhaps there was another reason. Though he had not seen Claire since Squeaker's Cove, Bill Banns had called Sunday evening to let him know that Clay had scheduled the protest for the last day of August.

  Back in his office, he drained the dregs of his coffee and turned to his laptop, eager to read the marquesa's message. In typical fashion, the wicked old lady began by talking about her latest young conquest.

  He is terribly shy, but so sweet and eager to please that I find myself just doting upon him. His hair lies across his forehead in small brown ringlets that turn black from sweat when he has been exerting himself. And there is much to be said for enthusiasm, is there not?

  She went on to discuss past lovers and husbands, and to more specific details of her anatomical preferences in men. The marquesa always approached electronic mail as if it were a medium for gossipy confessions. If the woman held true to form, her message would turn next to her chronic shortage of ready money, and to a family ancestry that dated back through the Holy Roman emperors to Aleric the Visigoth himself. This time, however, she proceeded with uncharacteristic speed to the information she had unearthed in the archives of Cadiz Cathedral. Reading, then rereading her message, Hatch felt a chill course through him.

  There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Hatch said as he sent the marquesa's message to the nearby printer. He glanced up at the workman who stood in the doorway, then froze.

  "My God," he breathed, pushing back from his desk. "What the hell happened to you?"

  Chapter 40

  Fifty minutes later, Hatch was quickly climbing the path toward the Water Pit. The rays of the lowering sun blazed over the water, turning the island's fogbank into a fiery swirl.

  Orthanc was empty save for Magnusen and a technician operating the winch. There was a grinding noise, and a massive bucket emerged from the Water Pit, hooked to a thick steel cable. As Hatch watched through the glass porthole, a crew at the edge of the Pit swung the bucket off to one side and tilted it into one of the abandoned tunnels. There was a loud sucking sound, and countless gallons of mud and dirt poured out in a rush. The crew righted the now-empty bucket and swung it back toward the mouth of the Water Pit, where it once again descended out of sight.

  "Where's Gerard?" Hatch asked.

  Magnusen was monitoring a wireframe grid of the base of the Water Pit. She turned to look at him for a moment, then returned to her screen. "With the digging team," she replied.

  On the wall near the winch technician was a bank of six red phones, hardwired to various points on the island network. Hatch picked up the phone labeled WATER PIT, FORWARD TEAM.

  He heard three quick beeps. In a moment, Neidelman's voice came over the channel. "Yes?" Hatch could hear loud hammering in the background.

  "I need to speak with you," Hatch said.

  "Is it important?" Neidelman asked, irritation in his voice.

  "Yes, it's important. I have some new information about St. Michael's Sword."

  There was a pause during which the hammering grew louder. "If you must," Neidelman replied at last. "You'll have to come down here. We're in the midst of setting some braces."

  Hatch returned the phone to its cradle, buckled on a safety helmet and harness, then stepped outside and climbed down the tower to the staging platform. In the gathering dusk, the Pit looked even more brilliant, projecting a shaft of white light into the mists above. One of the crew members at the Pit's mouth helped him onto the electric lift. He pressed a button on the housing and the small platform lurched and descended.

  He passed through the gle
aming web of titanium struts and cables, marveling despite himself at the complexity. The lift descended past a team checking a set of braces at the forty-foot level. Another ninety seconds and the bottom of the Water Pit became visible. Here, activity was more pronounced. The muck and mire had been removed, and a battery of lights erected. A smaller shaft now extended down from the base of the Pit, braced on all sides. Several small instruments and measuring devices— belonging to Magnusen, or maybe Rankin—dangled from slender wires. The winch cable descended into one corner, and in the opposite corner a titanium ladder had been fitted. Stepping off the lift, Hatch went down the ladder into a roar of sound: shovels, hammers, the rush of air-filtration units.

  Thirty feet below, he reached the actual floor of the excavation. Here, under the gaze of a lone closed-circuit camera, workmen were digging out the sodden earth and dumping it into the large bucket. Others were using suction hoses to vacuum up the mud and water. Neidelman stood in one corner, a construction helmet on his head, directing the placement of the supports. Streeter hovered nearby, a set of blueprints in his hand.

  Malin came toward them, and the Captain nodded. "I'm surprised you haven't been down here to see this before," he said.

  "Now that the Pit is stabilized, we've been able to proceed with the final digging at full speed."

  There was a pause in which Hatch made no answer.

  Neidelman turned his pale eyes toward him. "You know how pressed for time we are," he said. "I hope this is important."

  A great change had taken place in the man in the week since Wopner's death. Gone was the look of calm certainty, the equanimity that had surrounded him like a mantle from the very first day he'd sat in Hatch's office and looked out over the Charles River. Now, there was a look Hatch found hard to describe: a haggard, almost wild, determination.

  "It's important," said Hatch. "But private."

  Neidelman looked at him a moment longer. Then he glanced at his watch. "Listen up!" he said to the men. "Shift ends in seven minutes. Knock off, get topside, and tell the next team to come down for an early start."