Douglas Preston: Riptide

"Would you mind seeing what he wants?" Hatch asked. "Unless it's urgent, refer him to my office. Dr. Winslow's on call today."

Bruce went off again and the lab fell back into silence. Hatch's gaze drifted once again toward the window. The afternoon light was streaming in, sending a shower of gold through the test tubes and lab apparatus. With an effort, he forced his concentration back to his notes.

"He's not a patient," Bruce said, bustling back into the lab. "Says you'll want to see him."

Hatch looked up. Probably a researcher from the hospital, he thought. He took a deep breath. "Okay. Show him in."

A minute later, footsteps sounded in the outer lab. Malin looked up to see a spare figure gazing at him from the far side of the doorframe. The setting sun was striking the man full force, modeling the sunburnt skin drawn tight across a handsome face, refracting light deep within a pair of gray eyes.

"Gerard Neidelman," the stranger said in a low, gravelly voice.

Couldn't spend much time in a lab or the OR with a tan like that, Hatch thought to himself. Must be a specialist, getting in a lot of golf time. "Please come in, Dr. Neidelman," he said.

"Captain," the man replied. "Not Doctor." He passed through the doorway and straightened up, and Hatch immediately knew it wasn't just an honorary title. Simply by the way he stepped through the door, head bent, hand on the upper frame, it was clear the man had spent time at sea. Hatch guessed he was not old—perhaps forty-five—but he had the narrow eyes and roughened skin of a sailor. There was something different about him— something almost otherworldly, an air of ascetic intensity—that Hatch found intriguing.

Hatch introduced himself as his visitor stepped forward and offered his hand. The hand was dry and light, the handshake short and to the point.

"Could we speak in private?" the man asked quietly.

Bruce spoke up again. "What should I do about these colonies, Dr. Hatch? They shouldn't be left out too long in—"

"Why don't you put them back in the refrigerator? They won't be growing legs for at least a few billion more years." Hatch glanced at his watch, then back into the man's steady gaze. He made a quick decision. "And then you might as well head home, Bruce. I'll put you down for five. Just don't tell Professor Alvarez."

Bruce flashed a brief smile. "Okay, Dr. Hatch. Thanks."

In a moment Bruce and the colonies were gone, and Hatch turned back to his curious visitor, who had strolled toward the window.

"Is this where you do most of your work, Doctor?" he asked, shifting a leather portfolio from one hand to the other. He was so thin he would have seemed spectral, were it not for the intensity of calm assurance he radiated.

"It's where I do just about all of it."

"Lovely view," Neidelman murmured, gazing out the window.

Hatch looked at the man's back, mildly surprised that he felt unoffended by the interruption. He thought of asking the man his business but decided against it. Somehow, he knew Neidelman had not come on a trivial matter.

"The water of the Charles is so dark," the Captain said. "'Far off from these a slow and silent stream/Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.'" He turned. "Rivers are a symbol of forgetfulness, are they not?"

"I can't remember," Hatch said lightly, but growing a little wary now, waiting.

The Captain smiled and withdrew from the window. "You must be wondering why I've barged into your laboratory. May I ask a few minutes of your indulgence?"

"Haven't you already?" Hatch indicated a vacant chair. "Have a seat. I'm about finished for the day here, and this important experiment I've been working on"—he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the incubator—"is, how shall I put it? Boring."

Neidelman raised an eyebrow. "Not as exciting as fighting an eruption of breakbone fever in the swamps of Amazonia, I imagine."

"Not quite," Hatch said after a moment.

The man smiled. "I read the article in the Globe"

"Reporters never let the facts stand in the way of a story. It wasn't nearly as exciting as it seems."

"Which is why you returned?"

"I got tired of watching my patients die for lack of a fifty-cent shot of amoxycillin." Hatch spread his hands fatalistically. "So isn't it odd that I wish I were back there? Life on Memorial Drive seems rather tepid by comparison." He shut up abruptly and glanced at Neidelman, wondering what it was about the man that had gotten him talking.

"The article went on to talk about your travels in Sierra Leone, Madagascar, and the Comoros," Neidelman continued. "But perhaps your life could use some excitement right now?"

"Pay no attention to my grousing," Hatch replied with what he hoped was a light tone. "A little boredom now and then can be tonic for the soul." He glanced at Neidelman's portfolio. There was some kind of insignia embossed into the leather that he couldn't quite make out.

"Perhaps," came the reply. "In any case, it seems you've hit every spot on the globe over the last twenty-five years. Except Stormhaven, Maine."

Hatch froze. He felt a numbness begin in his fingers and move up his arms. Suddenly it all made sense: the roundabout questions, the seafaring background, the intense look in the man's eyes.

Neidelman stood very still, his eyes steady on Hatch, saying nothing.

"Ah," Hatch said, fighting to recover his composure. "And you, Captain, have just the thing to cure my ennui."

Neidelman inclined his head.

"Let me guess. Does this, by any freak of chance, have to do with Ragged Island?" A flicker in Neidelman's face showed that he had guessed right. "And you, Captain, are a treasure hunter. Am I right?"

The equanimity, the sense of quiet self-confidence, never left Neidelman's face. "We prefer the term 'recovery specialist.'"

"Everyone has a euphemism these days. Recovery specialist. Sort of like 'sanitary engineer.' You want to dig on Ragged Island. And let me guess: Now, you're about to tell me that you, and only you, hold the secret to the Water Pit."

Neidelman stood quietly, saying nothing.

"No doubt you also have a high-tech gizmo that will show you the location of the treasure. Or perhaps you've enlisted the help of Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyant?"

Neidelman remained standing. "I know you've been approached before," he said.

"Then you'll know the common fate of those who've approached me. Dowsers, psychics, oil barons, engineers, everybody with a foolproof scheme."

"Their schemes may have been flawed," Neidelman replied, "but their dreams were not. I know about the tragedies that befell your family after your grandfather bought the island. But his heart was in the right place. There is a vast treasure down there. I know it."

"Of course you do. They all do. But if you think you're the reincarnation of Red Ned himself, it's only fair to warn you that I've heard from several others who already claim that distinction. Or perhaps you purchased one of those old-looking treasure maps that occasionally come up for sale in Portland. Captain Neidelman, faith won't make it true. There never was, and there never will be, any Ragged Island treasure. I feel sorry for you, I really do. Now, perhaps you should leave before I call the guard—I beg your pardon, I mean the security specialist— to escort you to the door."

Ignoring this, Neidelman shrugged, then leaned toward the desk. "I don't ask you to take it on faith."

There was something so self-confident, so utterly detached, about the Captain's shrug that a fresh flood of anger swept Hatch. "If you had any idea how many times I've heard this same story, you'd be ashamed for coming here. What makes you any different from the rest?"

Reaching inside the leather portfolio, Neidelman withdrew a single sheet of paper and wordlessly pushed it across the desk.