Douglas Preston - Riptide

Bonterre nodded, hugging her sweater around her. "With a following sea and tide. Good luck, for a change."

They came alongside the Griffin and Hatch secured the launch, keeping it steady in the pitching surf while Bonterre helped Clay on board. As Hatch clambered up behind and ran to the pilothouse, lightning tore a jagged path over the island. He watched in horror as an entire section of the cofferdam collapsed. A great wall of water lunged through, pale against the dark sky as it enveloped the southern shore of the island in a mantle of white.

Bonterre brought in the anchors as Hatch primed the engines. He glanced toward the rear of the pilothouse, saw the bank of complex controls, and decided not to bother; he'd find his way back by dead reckoning. His eyes fell on the large maple table and he was irresistibly reminded of the last time he'd sat at it. Kerry Wopner, Rankin, Magnusen, Streeter, Neidelman . . . now all gone.

His gaze turned to Woody Clay. The minister sat in his chair, gaunt and wraithlike. He returned the gaze, nodding silently.

"All is secure," Bonterre said as she burst into the pilothouse, closing the wooden door behind her.

As Hatch eased the boat out of the lee, a great explosion sounded behind them, and a concussive wave rattled the rain-flecked sweep of windows. The heaving sea suddenly turned crimson. Hatch goosed the throttle, moving quickly away from the island.

"Mon dieu," Bonterre breathed.

Hatch looked over his shoulder in time to see the second fuel tank explode into a mushroom of fire that punched up through the low-lying fog, lighting the sky above the entire island and enveloping the buildings of Base Camp in a cloud of smoke and ruin.

Bonterre quietly slipped a hand into his.

A third roar came, this time seemingly from the bowels of the island itself. They watched, awestruck, as the entire surface of the island shuddered and liquefied, sending up vast plumes and waterspouts to violate the night sky. Burning gasoline spread a furious glow across the water until the waves themselves were on fire, breaking over the rocks and leaving the reef aflame.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. The island folded in on itself with a wrenching boom as the last section of the cofferdam gave way. The sea rushed into the open wound and met itself in the middle, rising in a great geyser whose top disappeared into the mist, falling back in a sluggish brown curtain. In a moment, all that was left was a great boiling patch of sea, worrying a cluster of jagged rocks. Plumes of dirty steam rose into the restless air.

"Ye who luste after the key to the Treasure Pitt," Bonterre murmured, "shall find instead the key to the next world, and your carcase shall rot close to the Hell where your soule hath gone."

"Yes," Clay said in a weak voice.

"It was a meteorite, you know," Bonterre added.

"And the fifth angel sounded," Clay whispered, "and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit."

Hatch glanced at the dying minister, afraid to speak, and was surprised to see Clay smiling, his sunken eyes luminous. Hatch looked away.

"I forgive you," Clay said. "And I believe I need to ask your forgiveness, as well."

Hatch could only nod.

The minister closed his dark eyes. "I think I'll rest now," he murmured.

Hatch looked back at the remains of Ragged Island. The fog was rapidly closing in again, enveloping the destruction in a gentle mist. He stared for a long moment.

Then he turned away and aimed the prow of the boat toward Stormhaven harbor.

Chapter 63

The North Coast Really Company had its offices in a small yellow cape across the square from the Stormhaven Gazette. Hatch sat at a desk in the front window, drinking weak coffee and staring idly at a bulletin board littered with photographs of properties. Under the headline "Great Fixer-Upper," he saw what could only be the old Haigler place: broken-backed and listing gently, but still quaint. "$129,500 steals it," he read off the card. "Built 1872. Four acres, oil heat, 3 bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths." Should have mentioned central air, he thought wryly as he stared at the gaping chinks between the boards, the sagging sills. Beside it was a photo of a prim old clapboard on Sandpiper Lane, set between giant rock maples. Owned these fifty years by Mrs. Lyons, now deceased. "Not just a piece of property," read the accompanying card, "but a piece of history." Hatch smiled as he remembered the painstaking care with which he and Johnny had festooned those maples with toilet paper one Halloween more than thirty years ago.

His eyes traveled down to the next column of photos. "Maine dream house!" read the nearest card, burbling with enthusiasm. "Authentic Second Empire in every detail. Sunroom, bow windows, ocean views, wraparound terrace, waterfront dock. Original fixtures. $329,000." Underneath was a snapshot of his own house.

"Oh!" Doris Bowditch came bustling up. "There's no reason that should still be up there." She plucked the photo from the board and dropped it on a nearby desk. "Course, I didn't want to say anything, but I thought you'd made a mistake, not budging from a price as high as all that. But that couple from Manchester didn't bat an eye."

"So you told me," Hatch said, surprised by the regret in his voice. There was no reason for him to stay now, no reason at all. But despite the fact he hadn't even left town yet, he already found himself missing the weathered shingles, the clank of steel cable on mast, the resolute insularity of the town. Yet his was now a completely different kind of regret: a bittersweet nostalgia, better left to fond memory. He glanced out the window, past the bay, toward the few jagged upthrusts of rock that marked the remains of Ragged Island. His business—three generations of his family's business—was finished in Stormhaven.

"The closing will be in Manchester," the bright voice of Doris intruded. "Their bank wanted it that way. I'll see you there next week?"

Hatch rose, shaking his head. "I think I'll send my lawyer. You'll see that everything's crated and sent to this address?"

Doris took the proffered card and peered at it through rhinestoned glasses. "Yes, Dr. Hatch, of course."

Saying good-bye, Hatch stepped outside and walked slowly down the steps to the worn cobbles. This had been the last piece of business; he'd already shared a bottle of pop with Bud the grocer and called ahead to his housekeeper in Cambridge. He paused a moment, then stepped around his car and pulled open the door.

"Malin!" came a familiar plummy cry.

Turning, Hatch saw St. John lurching toward him at an uneven trot, trying to keep numerous folders beneath his arms while maintaining his balance on the cobbles.

"Christopher!" he said with real pleasure. "I telephoned the inn this morning to say good-bye, but they told me you'd already left."

"I was killing the last few hours at the library," St. John replied, blinking in the sunlight. "Thalassa's sending a boat to take the last half dozen of us down to Portland. It should be here in the next half hour." He clutched the folders more tightly as a playful sea breeze threatened to spill his precious papers across the square.

"The Stormhaven Library?" Hatch said with a smile. "You have my sympathy."

"Actually, I found the place rather useful. It had just the kind of local history I'll need."

"For what?"

St. John gave his folders a pat. "Why, my monograph on Sir William Macallan, of course. We've opened up a whole new page in Stuart history here. And, you know, his intelligence work alone will merit at least two papers for the Journal of the International Cryptographic Association —"