Douglas Preston - Riptide

Claire frowned. "A spire? There's no spire on the island."

"No, no, I mean an upside-down spire. It sounded crazy to me, too. But when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. He was explaining it to me." It felt good to talk. And Hatch somehow knew that he could trust Claire to keep a confidence. "See, Red Ned Ockham wanted this Macallan to build something that would keep his treasure safe until he came back to retrieve it."

"Retrieve it how?"

"Through a secret back door. But Macallan had other ideas. In revenge for being kidnapped, he designed the Pit so that nobody, not even Red Ned, could get at the treasure. He made sure that if Red Ned ever tried, he'd be killed. Of course, Red Ned died before he could return to claim his hoard, and the Pit has resisted attack ever since. But we're using technologies Macallan never dreamed of. And now that the Pit is drained of water, we've been able to figure out exactly what he built. Macallan designed churches. And you know how churches have a complex internal and external buttressing to keep them from falling down, right? Well, Macallan just inverted the whole scheme, and used it as the supports for his Pit during its construction. Then he secretly removed the most important supports as the Pit was filled in. None of the pirates would have guessed anything was wrong. When Ockham returned, he'd have rebuilt his cofferdam, sealed his flood tunnels and pumped out the Pit, if necessary. But when he tried to actually retrieve the treasure, the whole Pit would have collapsed on him. That was Ockham's trap. But, by re-creating the cathedral braces, we can stabilize the Pit, extract the treasure without fear."

"That's incredible," she said.

"Yes, it is."

"Then why aren't you more excited?"

Hatch paused. "Is it that obvious?" he laughed quietly. "Despite everything that's happened, I guess there are times when I still feel a little ambivalent about the whole project. Gold, or the lure of gold, does strange things to people. I'm no exception. I keep telling myself this is all about finding out what happened to Johnny. I'd planned to put my share into a foundation in his memory. But every now and then I catch myself thinking about what I could do with all that money."

"That's only natural, Malin."

"Maybe. But that doesn't make me feel any better about it. Your Reverend gave all his away, remember?" He sighed. "Maybe he's a little bit right about me, after all. Anyway, he doesn't seem to have caused much damage with his opposition."

"You're wrong about that." Claire looked at him. "You know about the sermon last Sunday?"

"I heard something about it."

"He read a passage out of Revelation. It had a huge effect on the fishermen. And did you hear he brought out the Curse Stone?"

Hatch frowned. "No."

"He said the treasure was worth two billion. That you'd lied, telling him it was worth much less. Did you lie to him, Malin?"

"I—" Hatch stopped, uncertain of whether to feel more angry at Clay or at himself. "I guess I got defensive, the way he cornered me at the lobster festival like that. So, yes, I lowballed the number. I didn't want to arm him with more information than necessary."

"Well, he's armed now. The haul is down this year, and in the minds of the fishermen he's linked that to the dig. He really was able to split the town over this one. He's finally found the issue he's been looking for these twenty years."

"Claire, the haul is down every year. They've been overfishing and overlobstering for half a century."

"You know that, and I know that. But now they've got something to blame it on. Malin, they're planning some kind of protest."

Hatch looked at her.

"I don't know the details. But I've never seen Woody so charged up, not since we were first married. It's all come together over the last day or two. He's gotten the fishermen and lobster-men together, and they're planning something big."

"Can you find out more?"

Claire fell silent, looking at the ground. "I've told you this much," she said after a moment. "Don't ask me to spy on my husband."

"I'm sorry," Hatch said. "I didn't mean that. You know that's the last thing I'd want."

Suddenly, Claire hid her face in her hands. "You don't under- understand," she cried. "Oh, Malin, if only I could. . ." Her shoulders sagged as she began to sob.

Gently, Malin pulled her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm acting like such a child."

"Shhh," Malin whispered quietly, patting her shoulders. As her sobs died away, he smelled the fresh apple scent of her hair, felt the moistness of her breath through his shirt. Her cheek was smooth against his and as she mumbled something indistinct he felt the hot trickle of a tear touch his lips. His tongue came forward to it. As she turned toward him he pulled his head back just enough to let his lips graze hers. He kissed her lightly, feeling the smooth line of her lips, sensing the looseness in her jaw. He kissed her again, tentatively, then a little harder. And then, suddenly, their mouths were locked together and her hands were tangled in his hair. The strange noise of the surf, the warmth of the glade, seemed to recede into nothingness. The world was instantly bounded by themselves. His heart raced as he slid his tongue into her mouth and she sucked on it. Her hands were clutching his shoulder blades now, digging into his shirt. Dimly, he was aware that, as kids, they had never kissed with this kind of abandon. Or was it just that we didn't know how? He leaned toward her hungrily, one hand gently teasing the fine hairs of her neck while the other slid almost involuntarily down the curve of her blouse, to her waist, to her loosening knees. A moan escaped her lips as her legs parted. He felt the narrow line of sweat that creased the inside of her knee. The apple-heavy air became tinged with a scent of musk.

Suddenly she pulled away from him. "No, Malin," she said huskily, clambering to her feet and brushing at her dress.

"Claire—" he began, reaching out one hand. But she had already turned away.

He watched her stumble back up the path, disappearing almost immediately into the green fastness of the glen. His heart was pounding, and an uncomfortable mixture of lust, guilt, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. An affair with the minister's wife: Stormhaven would never tolerate it. He'd just done one of the stupidest things he had ever managed to do in his life. It was a mistake, a foolish lapse of judgment—yet as he rose to his feet and moved slowly down a different path, he found his hot imagination turning to what would have happened if she had not pulled herself away.

Chapter 35

Early the next morning, Hatch jogged up the short path toward Base Camp and opened the door to St. John's office. To his surprise, the historian was already there, his aged typewriter pushed to one side, a half dozen books open before him.

"I didn't think I'd find you here so early," Hatch said. "I was planning to leave you a note asking you to stop by the medical hut."

The Englishman sat back, rubbing weary eyes with plump fingers. "Actually, I wanted a word with you anyway. I've made an interesting discovery."

"So have I." Wordlessly, Hatch held out a large sheaf of yellowed pages, stuffed into several folders. Making space on his cluttered desk, St. John spread the folders in front of him. Gradually, the tired look on his face fell away. In the act of picking up an old sheet of parchment, he looked up.

"Where did you get these?" he asked.

"They were hidden in an old armoire in my attic. They're records from my grandfather's own research. I recognize his handwriting on some of the sheets. He became obsessed with the treasure, you know, and it ruined him. My father burned most of the records after my grandfather's death, but I guess he missed these."