Douglas Preston - Riptide

She jerked her thumb downriver. "Impressive houses back there."

"A group of wealthy New York families used to come up to Black Harbor in the summertime," Hatch replied. "Built all those houses. FDR used to spend his summers at Campobello Island, ten miles north of here."

Bonterre frowned. "FDR?"

"President Roosevelt."

She nodded. "Ah. You Americans, so fond of abbreviating your leaders. JFK. LBJ." Her eyes widened. "But look at you! Painting! Monsieur le docteur, I never expected such artistic depth."

"You'd better reserve judgment until you see the finished product," he replied, dabbing in the shingle beach with short brush strokes. "I became interested in med school. Helped me relax. I found I enjoyed watercolors most. Especially for landscapes like this."

"And what a landscape!" Bonterre said, pointing at the shell heaps. "Mon dieu, they are enormous!"

"Yes. The oyster shells at the bottom supposedly date back three thousand years, and the ones at the top are early seventeenth century, when the Indians were driven out." Hatch gestured upriver. "There are several prehistoric Indian encampments along the river. And there's an interesting Micmac site on Rackitash Island."

Bonterre moved away, scrambling up the oyster-covered bank to the bottom of the nearest heap. "But why did they leave their shells in just this place?" she called back.

"Nobody knows. It must've been a lot of trouble. I remember reading that there may have been some kind of religious reasons."

Bonterre broke into laughter. "Ah. Religious reasons. That is what we archaeologists always say when we do not understand something."

Hatch chose another brush. "Tell me, Isobel," he said. "To what do I owe this visit? Surely you have better ways to spend your Sundays than following old bachelor doctors around."

Bonterre grinned mischievously. "I wanted to find out why you had not asked me for a second date."

"I figured you thought I was a weak reed. Remember what you said about us northerners having had the marrow sucked from our bones?"

"That is true enough. But I would not call you a weak reed, if I understand the term. Perhaps a kitchen match would be a better analogy, non? All you really need is the right woman to ignite you." She carelessly picked up an oyster shell and sent it spinning into the water. "The real problem will be making sure you do not flare out too quickly."

Hatch turned back to his painting. In this kind of sparring, Bonterre would always be the victor.

Bonterre approached him again. "Besides, I was afraid you were seeing that other woman."

Hatch looked up.

"Yes, what is her name: the minister's wife. Your old, old friend."

"That's all she is," Hatch said, more sharply than he intended. "A friend." Bonterre scrutinized him curiously, and he sighed. "She's made that very clear to me."

Bonterre arched her brows. "You are disappointed."

Hatch lowered his brush. "To tell you the truth, I don't know what I expected when I came home. But she's made it clear that our relationship belongs to the past, not the present. Wrote me a letter, in fact. That part hurt. But you know what? She's absolutely right."

Bonterre looked at him, a smile slowly forming.

"What are you grinning at?" Hatch said. "The doctor and his romance problems? You must have had your share of peccadilloes."

Bonterre laughed out loud, refusing to be baited. "I am grinning with relief, monsieur. But you have obviously misunderstood me all along." She slid an index finger along the back of his wrist. "I like to play the game, comprends? But only for the right man will I allow myself to be caught. My mother raised a good Catholic."

Hatch stared at her for a minute in surprise. Then he lifted the paintbrush again. "I'd have guessed you'd be closeted with Neidelman today, poring over charts and diagrams."

At this change of subject, a cloud passed over her face. "No," she said, good humor suddenly gone. "The Captain no longer has the patience for careful archaeology. He wants to rush, rush, vitement, and to hell with everything else. He is down in the Pit now, preparing to excavate the bottom of the shaft. No screening for artifacts, no stratigraphic analysis. I cannot bear it."

Hatch looked at her in surprise. "He's working today?" Working on Sunday, with the medical office unmanned, was a breach of regulations.

Bonterre nodded. "Since the discovery of the spire, he has been a man possessed. I do not think he has slept in a week, he is so busy. But do you know, despite all his eagerness, it still took him two days to ask my dear digger for help? I told him again and again that Christophe, with his knowledge of architecture, was the very man he needed to reconstruct the supports. But he did not seem to listen." She shook her head. "I never understood him. But now, I think, I understand him less."

For a moment, Hatch considered telling her about Neidelman's worries of a traitor, then decided against it. He thought of mentioning the documents he'd found, but once again decided it could wait. It could all wait. Let Neidelman dig his damned fool ass off on a Sunday if he wanted to. It was Hatch's day off, and what he wanted to do was finish his painting.

"Time for me to add Mount Lovell," he said, nodding at the dark shape in the distance. As Bonterre watched, he dipped a brush in the Payne's gray, mixing it with a touch of cobalt blue, then laid down a heavy line, dragging it above the spot on the paper where the land met the sky. Then, taking the board off the easel, he turned the painting upside down, waiting until the fresh paint had flowed into the horizon. Then he righted the board and placed it back on the easel.

"Man dieu! Where did you learn that?"

"There's a trick in every trade," Hatch said, cleaning the bristles and replacing the tubes into the paintbox. He stood up. "It needs to dry a bit. Why don't we have a climb?"

They scrambled up the side of the tallest shell heap, oysters crunching beneath their feet. From the top, Hatch looked past their boats toward the river. Birds rustled in the spreading oaks. The air was warm and clear: if there was a storm gathering, it certainly wasn't evident. Upriver, there was no sigh of human habitation, just the blue twists of water and the tops of trees, broken here and there by meadows, stretching as far as the eyes could see.

"Magnifique," said Bonterre. "What a magical place."

"I used to come here with Johnny," Hatch said. "An old high school teacher of mine would bring us here, every now and then on Saturday afternoons. We were here the day before Johnny died."

"Tell me about him," Bonterre said simply.

Silently, Hatch took a seat, the oysters rustling and whispering under his weight. "Well, he was very bossy. There weren't that many kids in Stormhaven, so we did lots of things together. We were best friends, I guess—at least, when he wasn't busy beating me up."

Bonterre laughed.

"He loved everything to do with science—even more than me. He had incredible collections of butterflies, rocks, and fossils. He knew the names of all the constellations. He even built his own telescope."

Hatch leaned back on his elbows and looked through the trees. "Johnny would have done something amazing with his life. I think one of the reasons I worked so hard, got through Harvard Medical School, was to make up for what happened."

"What did you have to make up for?" Bonterre asked gently.

"It was my idea to go to Ragged Island that day," Hatch replied.

Bonterre repeated none of the usual platitudes, and again Hatch found himself feeling grateful. He fetched a deep breath, then another, letting them out slowly. It seemed that, with every breath, he was exhaling the pent-up poisons of many years.