Douglas Preston - Riptide

"After Johnny disappeared in the tunnel," he went on, "it took me a while to find my way out. I don't remember how long. The fact is, I don't remember much of anything. I've tried, but there's a stretch of time that remains a complete blank. We were crawling down the shaft, and Johnny lit another match. . . . After that, the first thing I remember clearly is arriving at my parents' dock.

They were just getting home from lunch or something, and they raced out to Ragged Island, along with half the town. I'll never forget my father's face when he reappeared at the entrance to the tunnel. He was covered with Johnny's blood. He was yelling out, pounding on the beams, crying."

He paused a minute, replaying the scene in his mind.

"They couldn't find the body. They searched, dug holes in the walls and ceiling. The Coast Guard came out, and a mining engineer with listening equipment. They floated out a backhoe, but the ground was too unstable and they couldn't get into position."

Bonterre remained silent, listening.

"They spent all that night, and the next day, and the next. Then, when it became clear Johnny couldn't possibly be alive, people began to drop away. The medical team said the amount of blood in the tunnel meant Johnny must be dead, but Dad kept looking. He refused to leave. After a week people pretty much gave up, even Mom, but Dad stayed out there. The tragedy did something to his mind. He wandered around, climbed down into the shafts, dug holes with a pick and shovel, yelling until he was so hoarse he couldn't speak. He wouldn't leave the island. God, weeks went by. Mom begged him to leave, but he wouldn't. Then one day she came out with food and he wasn't there. There was another search, and this time they found a body. Dad was floating in one of the shafts. Drowned. Nobody said anything to us. But talk turned to suicide."

Hatch continued staring at the pattern of leaves against the blue sky. He had never told anyone this much of the story before, and he could never have imagined what a vast relief it was simply to talk: the lifting of a burden that had been with him so long he'd forgotten it was there.

"We stayed in Stormhaven for another six years. I think Mom hoped it would go away, somehow. But it never did. A little town like this never forgets. Everyone was so ... nice. But the talk never stopped. I didn't hear much of it, but I knew it was there, all the same. It went on and on. There was something about the body never being found that really preyed on people's minds.

And, you know, some of the fishermen's families believed in the curse. Later, I learned that some parents wouldn't let their kids play with me. Finally, when I was sixteen, my mother couldn't stand it any longer. She took me to Boston for the summer. We were only supposed to stay a few months, but then September came, and I had to start school, and a year went by, then another. And then I went off to college. And I never came back. Until now."

A great blue heron glided down the length of the river, then settled on a dead branch, waiting.

"And then?"

"Medical school, the Peace Corps, Medecins sans Frontieres, Mount Auburn Hospital. And then one day your Captain walked into my office. There you have it." Hatch paused. "You know, after the Pit was drained and they located the spot where the shore tunnel angled in, I kept quiet. I didn't insist they explore it right away. You'd have thought I would have been all over the Captain about it. But the fact was, now that we were this close, I was scared. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what really happened."

"So you're sorry you signed the Captain's agreement?" Bonterre asked.

"Actually, he signed my agreement." Hatch fell silent a moment. "But no, I'm not sorry. If I was, yesterday changed all that."

"And in a week or two, you can retire as one of the richest men in America."

Hatch laughed. "Isobel," he said, "I've decided to put the money into a foundation in my brother's name."

"All of it?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "Well, I'm still thinking about that."

Bonterre settled back on the shells, squinting at him skeptically. "I am a good judge of character, monsieur le docteur. You may put most of the money into this foundation. But I will be skinned alive if you do not keep a tidy little sum back for yourself. You would not be human otherwise. And I am sure I would not like you so much if you were not human."

Automatically, Hatch opened his mouth to protest. Then he relaxed again.

"Either way, you are a saint," said Bonterre. "I have more venal things planned for my share. Like buying a very fast car—and of course, I will send a large sum to my family in Martinique." She looked over at him, and he was surprised to see that she seemed to be seeking his approval.

"That's fine," he said. "For you, it's a professional thing. For me, it was personal."

"You and Gerard Neidelman both," Bonterre replied. "You may have exorcised your demons, but I think he is still summoning his, n'est-ce pas? The Ragged Island treasure has always held a special spell for him. But all this obsession with Macallan, c'est incroyable! Everything is now like a personal affront, a direct challenge. I do not think he will be happy until he wrangs that old architect's neck."

"Wrings," Hatch corrected lazily.

"Whatever." Bonterre shifted, searching for a more comfortable position. "A plague on both their houses."

They fell silent, lying on their backs in the late morning sun. A squirrel edged out on a branch above their heads, gathering acorns, chattering softly. Hatch closed his eyes. Vaguely, he realized that he'd have to tell Bill Banns at the paper about the discovery of Johnny's body. Bonterre was saying something, but he was growing too drowsy to listen. And then he drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 39

It was the following afternoon that Hatch heard from the marquesa.

The small icon of a closed airmail envelope had appeared in the lower right corner of his laptop, indicating new e-mail. But when he'd tried to access it, Hatch found his Internet connection kept dropping. Deciding to take a short break, he trotted down to the pier and motored the Plain Jane away from her berth. Clear of the island and its perpetual fog bank, he connected the laptop's modem to his cell phone and retrieved the marquesa's message without difficulty. What is it with computers and this island? he thought.

Firing up the diesels again, he swung the Plain Jane back toward Ragged Island. The prow of the boat cut through the glassy swell, startling a cormorant, who disappeared into the water. It reappeared several dozen yards farther off, paddling furiously.

A weather report crackled on the marine radio: The disturbance over the Grand Banks had developed into a strong low-pressure system, currently headed toward the coast of northern Maine. If the storm kept to its present course, a small craft advisory would go into effect at noon the next day. A classic Nor'easter, thought Hatch grimly.

He could see an unusual number of lobster boats spread along the horizon, pulling their traps. Perhaps it was in preparation for the storm. Or perhaps there was another reason. Though he had not seen Claire since Squeaker's Cove, Bill Banns had called Sunday evening to let him know that Clay had scheduled the protest for the last day of August.

Back in his office, he drained the dregs of his coffee and turned to his laptop, eager to read the marquesa's message. In typical fashion, the wicked old lady began by talking about her latest young conquest.

He is terribly shy, but so sweet and eager to please that I find myself just doting upon him. His hair lies across his forehead in small brown ringlets that turn black from sweat when he has been exerting himself. And there is much to be said for enthusiasm, is there not?