Douglas Preston - Riptide

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."