Douglas Preston - Riptide

Some of his symptoms were similar to what other crew members had complained of: apathy, nausea. But, as with the others, there were symptoms Donny presented that were maddeningly unique. Hatch reached for his battered copy of the Merck manual. A few minutes of study gave him a depressingly easy working diagnosis: Donny was suffering from chronic granulomatous disease. The widespread granular lesions of the skin, the suppurative lymph nodes, the all-too-obviously painful perianal abscesses made diagnosis almost unavoidable. But CGD is usually inherited, Hatch thought to himself. An inability of the white blood cells to kill bacteria. Why would it be showing up only now?

Putting the book down, he walked back into the living room. "Donny," he said, "let me take another look at your scalp. I want to see if the hair is coming out in clean patches."

"Any cleaner, and I'd be Yul Brynner." Truitt touched his head with his hand, gingerly, and as he did so Hatch noticed an ugly cut he hadn't seen before.

"Lower your hand a moment." He rolled up Truitt's sleeve and examined the man's wrist. "What's this?"

"Nothing. Just a scratch I got in the Pit."

"It needs to be cleaned." Hatch reached for his bag, rummaged inside, irrigated the cut with saline solution and Betadine, then smeared on some topical antibacterial ointment. "How did this happen?"

"Got cut by a sharp edge of titanium, setting that fancy ladder thing into the Pit."

Hatch looked up, startled. "That was over a week ago. This wound looks fresh."

"Don't I know it. Damn thing keeps opening up. The missus puts liniment on it every night, I swear."

Hatch took a closer look at it. "Not infected," he said. Then: "How are your teeth?"

"Funny you should mention it. Just the other day, I noticed one of my buck teeth was a bit loose. Getting old, I guess."

Hair loss, tooth loss, cessation of the healing process. Just like the pirates. The pirates had other, unrelated diseases. But they all had those three things in common. As did some of the digging crew.

Hatch shook his head. They were all classic symptoms of scurvy. But all the other exotic symptoms made scurvy impossible. And yet something about it all was damnably familiar. Like the professor said, forget the other diseases, subtract them all, and see what's left. Abnormal white blood cell count. Hair loss, tooth loss, cessation of the healing process, nausea, weakness, apathy. . .

Suddenly, it became overwhelmingly clear.

Hatch stood up quickly.

"Oh, Jesus—" he began.

As the pieces flew into place he stood, thunderstruck, horrified at the implications.

"Excuse me a minute," he said to Truitt, pulling the blanket up and turning away. He looked at his watch: seven o'clock. Just a couple of hours until Neidelman reached the treasure chamber.

Hatch took a few deep breaths, waiting for a good ground of control to settle beneath his feet. Then he went to the phone and dialed the number for the island's automated cellular routing center.

It was down.

"Shit," he muttered to himself.

Reaching into his medical bag, he pulled out the emergency radio communicator. All Thalassa channels were awash in static.

He paused a minute, thinking quickly, trying to sort out his options. Just as quickly, he realized there was only one.

He stepped into the kitchen. The professor had spread out a dozen arrowheads on the kitchen table and was describing coastal Indian sites to Bonterre. She looked up excitedly, but her face fell when she saw Hatch.

"Isobel," he said in a low voice, "I have to go to the island. Will you make sure Donny gets on the ambulance and goes to the hospital?"

"Going to the island?" Bonterre cried. "Are you mad?"

"No time to explain," Hatch said on his way to the hall closet. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of chairs being pushed back as Bonterre and the professor rose to follow him. Opening the closet door, he pulled out two woolen sweaters and began shrugging into them.

"Malin—"

"Sorry, Isobel. I'll explain later."

"I will come with you."

"Forget it," Hatch said. "Too dangerous. Anyway, you have to stay here and see that Donny gets to the hospital."

"I ain't going to no hospital," rose the voice from the sofa.

"See what I mean?" Hatch pulled on his oilskin and stuffed a sou'wester into one pocket.

"No. I know the sea. It will take two to get across in this weather, and you know it." Bonterre began pulling clothes out of the closet: heavy sweaters, his father's old slicker.

"Sorry," Hatch said, tugging into a pair of boots.

He felt a hand laid on his arm. "The lady is right," the professor said. "I don't know what this is all about. But I do know you can't steer, navigate, and land a boat in this weather by yourself. I can get Donny on the ambulance and to the hospital."

"Did you hear me?" Donny called. "I ain't getting in no ambulance."

The professor turned and fixed him with a stern look. "One more word out of you and you'll be clapped on a stretcher and strapped down like a madman. One way or another, you are going."

There was a brief pause. "Yes, sir," Truitt answered.

The professor turned back and winked.

Hatch grabbed a flashlight and turned to look at Bonterre, her determined black eyes peering out from under an oversized yellow sou'wester.

"She's as capable as you are," the professor said. "More so, if I were being honest."

"Why do you need to do this?" Hatch asked quietly.

In answer, Bonterre slipped her hand around his elbow. "Because you are special, monsieur le docteur. You are special to me. I would never forgive myself if I stayed behind and something bad happened to you."

Hatch paused a moment to whisper Truitt's treatment instructions to the professor, then they raced out into the driving rain. In the last hour the storm had picked up dramatically, and above the howling wind and lashing trees Hatch could hear the boom of Atlantic rollers pounding the headland, so low and powerful it registered more in the gut than in the ear.

They dashed through streaming streets full of shuttered houses, lights gleaming in the premature dark. Within a minute Hatch was drenched despite the slicker. As they neared the wharf there was an immense flash of blue light, followed immediately by a thunderous crash. In the aftermath, Hatch could hear the pop of a transformer failing at the head of the harbor. Instantly, the town was plunged into blackness.

They made their way along the wharf, carefully stepping down the slick gangplank to the floating dock. All the dinghies had been lashed to the shaking structure. Pulling his knife from a pocket, Hatch cut the Plain Jane's dinghy loose, and with Bonterre's help slid it into the water.

"It might swamp with two," said Hatch, stepping in. "I'll come back and pick you up."

"You had better," Bonterre said, comic in the oversized sweater and slicker.

Not bothering to start the dinghy's engine, Hatch ran the oars through the oarlocks and rowed out to the Plain Jane. The harbor waters were still relatively calm, but the wind had raised a steep chop. The dinghy was flung up and down, slapping the troughs with unwholesome shudders. As he rowed, his back to the sea, Hatch could see the outlines of the town, dim against the dark sky. He found his eyes drawn toward the narrow, tall structure of the rectory, a wooden finger of blackness. There was a flash of livid lightning, and in the brief glare Hatch saw, or thought he saw, Claire—dressed in a yellow skirt, one hand on the open doorframe of the house, staring out to sea toward him—before darkness descended once again.

There was a thump as the dinghy nudged alongside his boat. Clipping it to a sternbolt, Hatch clambered aboard, primed the engine, then said a brief prayer and cranked the starter. The Plain Jane sprang to life. As he drew the anchor chain up through the hawsehole, Hatch was once again grateful to have secured such a weatherly craft.