Douglas Preston - Riptide

Hatch headed apprehensively up the gentle slope of the grassy hill. The lobster bake was the first real opportunity for him to meet the town at large, and he wasn't at all sure what kind of reception to expect. But there was little doubt in his mind about what kind of reception the expedition itself would receive.

Although Thalassa had been in Stormhaven little more than a week, the company's impact had been considerable. Crew members had taken most of the available rental houses and spare rooms, sometimes paying premium prices. They had filled the tiny bed-and-breakfast. The two restaurants in town, Anchors Away and The Landing, were packed every night. The gas station at the wharf had been forced to triple its deliveries, and business at the Superette—though Bud would never admit to it—was up at least fifty percent. The town was in such a fine mood about the Ragged Island treasure hunt that the mayor had hastily made Thalassa the collective guest of honor at the lobster bake. And Neidelman's quietly picking up half the tab—at Hatch's suggestion—had simply been icing on the cake.

As he approached the pavilion, Hatch could make out the table of honor, already occupied by prominent town citizens and Thalassa officials. A small podium and microphone had been placed behind it. Beyond, townspeople and expedition members were milling around, drinking lemonade or beer, and lining up to get their lobsters.

As he ducked inside, he heard a familiar nasal shout. Kerry Wopner was carrying a paper plate groaning under the weight of twin lobsters, potato salad, and corn on the cob. A huge draft beer was balanced in his other hand. The cryptanalyst walked gingerly along, arms straight ahead, trying to keep the food and beer from dripping on his trademark Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, high white socks, and black sneakers.

"How do you eat these things?" Wopner cried, buttonholing a confused lobsterman.

"What's that?" the lobsterman said, inclining his head as if he hadn't heard properly.

"We didn't have lobsters where I grew up."

"No lobsters?" the man said, as if considering this.

"Yeah. In Brooklyn. It's part of America. You should visit the country some time. Anyway, I never learned how to eat one." Wopner's loud drawl echoed up and down the pavilion. "I mean, how do you open the shells?"

With a stolid face, the lobsterman replied. "You sit on 'em real hard."

There was a guffaw of laughter from nearby townspeople.

"Very funny," said Wopner.

"Well, now," the lobsterman said in a gentler tone. "You need crackers."

"I got crackers," Wopner replied eagerly, waving the plate heaped with oyster crackers under the man's nose. There was another round of laughter from the locals.

"Crackers to crack the shells, see?" the lobsterman said. "Or you can use a hammer." He held up a boat hammer, covered with lobster juice, tomalley, and bits of pink shell.

"Eat with a dirty hammer?" Wopner cried. "Hepatitis city, here we come."

Hatch moved in. "I'll give him a hand," he said to the lobsterman, who went off shaking his head. Hatch ushered Wopner to one of the tables, sat him down, and gave him a quick lesson in lobster consumption: how to crack open the shells, what to eat, what not to eat. Then he went off to get some food himself, stopping along the way to fill a pint cup at an enormous keg. The beer, from a small brewery in Camden, was cold and malty; he gulped it down, feeling the tightness in his chest unraveling, and refilled the cup before getting in line.

The lobsters and corn had been steamed in piles of seaweed heaped over burning oak, sending clouds of fragrant smoke spiraling into the blue sky. Three cooks were busily at work behind the mounds of seaweed, checking the fires, dumping bright red lobsters onto paper plates.

"Dr. Hatch!" came a voice. Hatch turned to see Doris Bowditch, another splendid muumuu billowing behind her like a purple parachute. Her husband stood to one side, small, razor-burned, and silent. "How did you find the house?"

"Wonderful," said Hatch with genuine warmth. "Thanks for tuning the piano."

"You're certainly welcome. No problems with the power or the water, I expect? Good. You know, I wondered if you'd had a chance to think about that nice couple from Manchester—"

"Yes," said Hatch quickly, ready now. "I won't be selling."

"Oh," said Doris, her face falling. "They were so counting on—"

"Yes, but Doris, it's the house I grew up in," Hatch said gently but firmly.

The woman gave a start, as if remembering the circumstances of Hatch's childhood and departure from the town. "Of course," she said, with an attempt at a smile, laying her hand on his arm.

"I understand. It's hard to give up the family home. We'll say no more about it." She gave his arm a squeeze. "For now."

Hatch reached the front of the line, and turned his attention to the enormous, steaming piles of seaweed. The nearest cook flipped over one of the piles, exposing a row of red lobsters, some ears of corn, and a scattering of eggs. He picked up an egg with a mitted hand, chopped it in half with a knife, and peered inside to see if it was hard. That, Hatch remembered, was how they judged when the lobsters were cooked.

"Perfecto!" the cook said. The voice was distantly familiar, and Hatch suddenly recognized his old high-school classmate Donny Truitt. He braced himself.

"Why, if it ain't Mally Hatch!" said Truitt, recognizing him. "I was wondering when I'd run into you. Damn it to hell, how are you?"

"Donny," Hatch cried, grasping his hand. "I'm not bad. You?"

"The same. Four kids. Looking for a new job since Martin's Marine went under."

"Four kids?" Hatch whistled. "You've been busy."

"Busier than you think. Divorced twice, too. What the hell. You hitched?"

"Not yet," Hatch said.

Donny smirked. "Seen Claire yet?"

"No." Hatch felt a sudden swell of irritation.

As Donny slipped a lobster onto his plate, Hatch looked at his old classmate. He'd grown paunchy, a little slow. But otherwise, they'd picked up right where they left off, twenty-five years before. The talkative kid with few brains but a big heart had obviously grown up into the adult equivalent.

Donny gave Hatch a suggestive leer.

"Come on, Donny," Hatch said. "Claire and I were just friends."

"Oh, yeah. Friends. I didn't think friends were caught kissing in Squeaker's Glen. It was just kissing, Mal... wasn't it?"

"That was a long time ago. I don't remember every detail of my every romance."

"Nothing like first love, though, eh, Mal?" Donny chuckled, one goggle eye winking below the mop of carrot-colored hair. "She's around here somewhere. Anyway, you'll have to look elsewhere, 'cause she ended up—"

Suddenly Hatch had heard enough about Claire. "I'm holding up the line," he interrupted.

"You sure are. I'll see you later." Donny waved his fork with another grin, expertly flipping open more layers of seaweed to expose another row of gleaming red lobsters.

So Donny needs a job, Hatch thought as he headed back toward the table of honor. Wouldn't hurt for Thalassa to hire a few locals.

He found a seat at the table between Bill Banns, the editor of the paper, and Bud Rowell. Captain Neidelman was two seats down, next to Mayor Jasper Fitzgerald and the local Congregational minister, Woody Clay. On the far side of Clay sat Lyle Streeter.

Hatch looked at the two locals curiously. Jasper Fitzgerald's father had run the local funeral home, and no doubt the son had inherited it. Fitzgerald was in his early fifties, a florid man with handlebar mustaches, alligator-clip suspenders, and a baritone voice that carried like a contrabassoon.

Hatch's eyes traveled to Woody Clay. He's obviously an outsider, he thought. Clay was, in almost every way, the opposite of Fitzgerald. He had the spare frame of an ascetic, coupled with the hollow, spiritual face of a saint just in from the desert. But there was also a crabbed, narrow intensity to his gaze. Hatch could see he was ill at ease being part of the table of honor; he was one of those people who spoke to you in a low voice, as if he didn't want anyone else to overhear, evident from his low-pitched conversation with Streeter. Hatch wondered what the minister was saying that was making the team leader look so uncomfortable.