Riptide
Page 39
They moved as quickly as they could down the maze of trails to the deserted Base Camp and the dock beyond. The pier, sheltered by the lee of the island, was battered but intact. At its end, the launch from the Cerberus bobbed crazily in the waves.
In a moment they were aboard. Hatch felt for the key, turned it, and heard himself shout out loud as the engine roared to life. He flicked on the bilge pump and heard its reassuring gurgle.
They cast off and headed out into the storm. "We'll take the Griffin!" Hatch said, aiming for Neidelman's command boat, still stubbornly riding its anchors out beyond the reefs. "The tide's turned. We'll be going before the wind."
Bonterre nodded, hugging her sweater around her. "With a following sea and tide. Good luck, for a change."
They came alongside the Griffin and Hatch secured the launch, keeping it steady in the pitching surf while Bonterre helped Clay on board. As Hatch clambered up behind and ran to the pilothouse, lightning tore a jagged path over the island. He watched in horror as an entire section of the cofferdam collapsed. A great wall of water lunged through, pale against the dark sky as it enveloped the southern shore of the island in a mantle of white.
Bonterre brought in the anchors as Hatch primed the engines. He glanced toward the rear of the pilothouse, saw the bank of complex controls, and decided not to bother; he'd find his way back by dead reckoning. His eyes fell on the large maple table and he was irresistibly reminded of the last time he'd sat at it. Kerry Wopner, Rankin, Magnusen, Streeter, Neidelman . . . now all gone.
His gaze turned to Woody Clay. The minister sat in his chair, gaunt and wraithlike. He returned the gaze, nodding silently.
"All is secure," Bonterre said as she burst into the pilothouse, closing the wooden door behind her.
As Hatch eased the boat out of the lee, a great explosion sounded behind them, and a concussive wave rattled the rain-flecked sweep of windows. The heaving sea suddenly turned crimson. Hatch goosed the throttle, moving quickly away from the island.
"Mon dieu," Bonterre breathed.
Hatch looked over his shoulder in time to see the second fuel tank explode into a mushroom of fire that punched up through the low-lying fog, lighting the sky above the entire island and enveloping the buildings of Base Camp in a cloud of smoke and ruin.
Bonterre quietly slipped a hand into his.
A third roar came, this time seemingly from the bowels of the island itself. They watched, awestruck, as the entire surface of the island shuddered and liquefied, sending up vast plumes and waterspouts to violate the night sky. Burning gasoline spread a furious glow across the water until the waves themselves were on fire, breaking over the rocks and leaving the reef aflame.
And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. The island folded in on itself with a wrenching boom as the last section of the cofferdam gave way. The sea rushed into the open wound and met itself in the middle, rising in a great geyser whose top disappeared into the mist, falling back in a sluggish brown curtain. In a moment, all that was left was a great boiling patch of sea, worrying a cluster of jagged rocks. Plumes of dirty steam rose into the restless air.
"Ye who luste after the key to the Treasure Pitt," Bonterre murmured, "shall find instead the key to the next world, and your carcase shall rot close to the Hell where your soule hath gone."
"Yes," Clay said in a weak voice.
"It was a meteorite, you know," Bonterre added.
"And the fifth angel sounded," Clay whispered, "and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit."
Hatch glanced at the dying minister, afraid to speak, and was surprised to see Clay smiling, his sunken eyes luminous. Hatch looked away.
"I forgive you," Clay said. "And I believe I need to ask your forgiveness, as well."
Hatch could only nod.
The minister closed his dark eyes. "I think I'll rest now," he murmured.
Hatch looked back at the remains of Ragged Island. The fog was rapidly closing in again, enveloping the destruction in a gentle mist. He stared for a long moment.
Then he turned away and aimed the prow of the boat toward Stormhaven harbor.
Chapter 63
The North Coast Really Company had its offices in a small yellow cape across the square from the Stormhaven Gazette. Hatch sat at a desk in the front window, drinking weak coffee and staring idly at a bulletin board littered with photographs of properties. Under the headline "Great Fixer-Upper," he saw what could only be the old Haigler place: broken-backed and listing gently, but still quaint. "$129,500 steals it," he read off the card. "Built 1872. Four acres, oil heat, 3 bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths." Should have mentioned central air, he thought wryly as he stared at the gaping chinks between the boards, the sagging sills. Beside it was a photo of a prim old clapboard on Sandpiper Lane, set between giant rock maples. Owned these fifty years by Mrs. Lyons, now deceased. "Not just a piece of property," read the accompanying card, "but a piece of history." Hatch smiled as he remembered the painstaking care with which he and Johnny had festooned those maples with toilet paper one Halloween more than thirty years ago.
His eyes traveled down to the next column of photos. "Maine dream house!" read the nearest card, burbling with enthusiasm. "Authentic Second Empire in every detail. Sunroom, bow windows, ocean views, wraparound terrace, waterfront dock. Original fixtures. $329,000." Underneath was a snapshot of his own house.
"Oh!" Doris Bowditch came bustling up. "There's no reason that should still be up there." She plucked the photo from the board and dropped it on a nearby desk. "Course, I didn't want to say anything, but I thought you'd made a mistake, not budging from a price as high as all that. But that couple from Manchester didn't bat an eye."
"So you told me," Hatch said, surprised by the regret in his voice. There was no reason for him to stay now, no reason at all. But despite the fact he hadn't even left town yet, he already found himself missing the weathered shingles, the clank of steel cable on mast, the resolute insularity of the town. Yet his was now a completely different kind of regret: a bittersweet nostalgia, better left to fond memory. He glanced out the window, past the bay, toward the few jagged upthrusts of rock that marked the remains of Ragged Island. His business—three generations of his family's business—was finished in Stormhaven.
"The closing will be in Manchester," the bright voice of Doris intruded. "Their bank wanted it that way. I'll see you there next week?"
Hatch rose, shaking his head. "I think I'll send my lawyer. You'll see that everything's crated and sent to this address?"
Doris took the proffered card and peered at it through rhinestoned glasses. "Yes, Dr. Hatch, of course."
Saying good-bye, Hatch stepped outside and walked slowly down the steps to the worn cobbles. This had been the last piece of business; he'd already shared a bottle of pop with Bud the grocer and called ahead to his housekeeper in Cambridge. He paused a moment, then stepped around his car and pulled open the door.
"Malin!" came a familiar plummy cry.
Turning, Hatch saw St. John lurching toward him at an uneven trot, trying to keep numerous folders beneath his arms while maintaining his balance on the cobbles.
"Christopher!" he said with real pleasure. "I telephoned the inn this morning to say good-bye, but they told me you'd already left."
"I was killing the last few hours at the library," St. John replied, blinking in the sunlight. "Thalassa's sending a boat to take the last half dozen of us down to Portland. It should be here in the next half hour." He clutched the folders more tightly as a playful sea breeze threatened to spill his precious papers across the square.
"The Stormhaven Library?" Hatch said with a smile. "You have my sympathy."
"Actually, I found the place rather useful. It had just the kind of local history I'll need."
"For what?"
St. John gave his folders a pat. "Why, my monograph on Sir William Macallan, of course. We've opened up a whole new page in Stuart history here. A
nd, you know, his intelligence work alone will merit at least two papers for the Journal of the International Cryptographic Association—"
The basso profundo blast of an air horn shivered the windows of the square, and Hatch looked in time to see a sleek white yacht turn into the channel and approach the pier. "They're early," St. John said. He balanced the folders awkwardly as he held out his hand. "Thank you again, Malin."
"There's nothing to thank me for," Hatch replied, returning the limp shake. "Best of luck to you, Christopher." He watched the historian teeter down the hill toward the dock. Then he stepped into the Jaguar, closed the door, and cranked the motor.
He pulled out into the square and pointed the car's nose south, toward Coastal Route 1A and Massachusetts. He drove slowly, enjoying the salt air, the play of sun and shade across his face as he passed beneath the ancient oaks that lined the quiet streets.
He approached the Stormhaven Post Office and pulled over to the curb. There, balanced on the endpost of a white picket fence, sat Isobel Bonterre. She was wearing a thin leather jacket and a short ivory skirt. A large duffel lay on the sidewalk beside her. She turned toward him, stuck out a thumb, and crossed one leg over the other, exposing a shocking length of skin in the process.
"Ca va, sailor?" she called out.
"I'm fine. But I'd watch out if I were you." He nodded toward her tanned thighs. "They still burn scarlet women around here, you know."
She laughed out loud. "Let them try! Your town fathers are fat, fat to the last man. I could outrun them all. Even in these heels." She lifted herself from the post, walked over, and kneeled by the car, resting her elbows on the passenger window. "What took you so long?"
"Blame Doris the Realtor. She wanted to enjoy every last hard-earned minute of the sale."
"It made no difference." Bonterre pretended to pout. "I was busy anyway. Very busy, trying to decide what to do with my share of the treasure."
Hatch smiled. They both knew that nothing had been salvaged from the island; that the treasure could never, ever be reclaimed.
She sighed extravagantly. "Anyway, are you at last ready to drive me out of this ville horrible? I am looking forward to noise, dirt, panhandlers, daily newspapers, and Harvard Square."
"Then get in." Hatch reached over and opened the door.
But she remained leaning on the windowframe, staring at him quizzically. "You will allow me to buy dinner, yes?"
"Of course."
"And then we shall finally see how you Yankee doctors say good night to young ladies."
Hatch grinned. "I thought we already answered that."
"Ah, but this evening shall be different. This evening will not be spent in Stormhaven. And this evening, I am buying." With a smile, she dug her hand into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a massive gold doubloon.
Hatch stared in amazement at the oversized coin that filled her palm. "Where the hell did you get that?"
Bonterre's smile widened. "From your medical hut, naturellement. I found it there when I was rooting around for the Radmeter. The first—and last—of the Ragged Island treasure."
"Hand it over."
"Desolee, my friend," Bonterre laughed, holding it away from his reaching fingers. "But finders are keepers. Remember, it was I who dug it up in the first place. Do not worry yourself. It should buy us a great many dinners." She threw her duffel in the back seat, then leaned toward him again. "Now, back to tonight. I shall give you a choice. Head or tail?" And she flipped the thick coin into the air. It caught the sun as it turned, flashing brilliantly against the post office windows.
"You mean, heads or tails," Hatch corrected.
"No," Bonterre said as she slapped the coin against her forearm. "Head, or tail? Those are the correct terms, non?" She lifted her fingers and peeked at the coin, eyes widening salaciously.
"Get in here before they burn both of us at the stake," Hatch laughed, dragging her inside the car.
In a moment, the Jaguar's eager engine brought them to the outskirts of town. It was the work of two minutes more to reach the bluffs behind Burnt Head. Just as the car topped the brow of the hill, Hatch had one last glimpse of Stormhaven, a picture postcard of memory, caught in his rearview mirror: the harbor, the boats swaying at anchor, the white clapboard houses winking on the hill.
And then, in a flash of reflected sunlight, they were all gone.
Cover Flaps
For generations, treasure hunters have tried to unlock the deadly puzzle known as the Water Pit: a labyrinth of shafts and tunnels that honeycombs the heart of a small island off the coast of Maine. Reputed to be the hiding place of pirate treasure, the Water Pit possesses an inexplicable ability to kill those who venture into it, from professionals to innocent explorers. But now one man has made a startling discovery: The Water Pit is actually a carefully designed fortress, conceived for pirates by a renowned seventeenth-century architect who hid his plans in code. Unlocking the code will break the curse of the Water Pit. Or will it?
The most comprehensive, high-tech expedition ever assembled has come to Maine and to Dr. Malin Hatch, owner of the island. While the treasure hunters have their reasons for mounting this assault—$2 billion in gold—Hatch has his own motives to join them. For Hatch, whose brother died on Ragged Island thirty years before, the only escape from the curse is through the black swirling waters and bloodstained chambers of the Pit.
With more computing power than a small university, the recovery team slowly chips away at the mystery. But as the seekers try to conquer the Pit, men begin to die. Hatch is confronted with his childhood memories of the tragedy even as he is drawn into a complex relationship with a beautiful French diver. All the while, the last, secret chamber of the Pit waits to unleash the most lethal mystery of all...
A thriller of the highest order, RIPTIDE is an extraordinary novel of obsession, courage, and adventure. With each nerve-racking page we are swept into the mystery and the challenge of Ragged Island and forced to face the haunting question: Is the Water Pit a gateway to limitless treasure—or to hell itself?
About The Authors
DOUGLAS PRESTON is coauthor of the phenomenal bestseller The Relic, as well as Mount Dragon and the recently released thriller Reliquary. He worked for the American Museum of Natural History in New York as managing editor of Curator magazine. In 1989 he undertook a thousand-mile horseback journey retracing the Spanish explorer Coronado's search for the legendary Seven Cities of Gold. LINCOLN CHILD is a former book editor and coauthor, with Douglas Preston, of The Relic, Mount Dragon, and Reliquary. He has published numerous anthologies of short stories, including Dark Company and Dark Banquet.
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