Douglas Preston: Riptide

The basso profundo blast of an air horn shivered the windows of the square, and Hatch looked in time to see a sleek white yacht turn into the channel and approach the pier. "They're early," St. John said. He balanced the folders awkwardly as he held out his hand. "Thank you again, Malin."

"There's nothing to thank me for," Hatch replied, returning the limp shake. "Best of luck to you, Christopher." He watched the historian teeter down the hill toward the dock. Then he stepped into the Jaguar, closed the door, and cranked the motor.

He pulled out into the square and pointed the car's nose south, toward Coastal Route 1A and Massachusetts. He drove slowly, enjoying the salt air, the play of sun and shade across his face as he passed beneath the ancient oaks that lined the quiet streets.

He approached the Stormhaven Post Office and pulled over to the curb. There, balanced on the endpost of a white picket fence, sat Isobel Bonterre. She was wearing a thin leather jacket and a short ivory skirt. A large duffel lay on the sidewalk beside her. She turned toward him, stuck out a thumb, and crossed one leg over the other, exposing a shocking length of skin in the process.

"Ca va, sailor?" she called out.

"I'm fine. But I'd watch out if I were you." He nodded toward her tanned thighs. "They still burn scarlet women around here, you know."

She laughed out loud. "Let them try! Your town fathers are fat, fat to the last man. I could outrun them all. Even in these heels." She lifted herself from the post, walked over, and kneeled by the car, resting her elbows on the passenger window. "What took you so long?"

"Blame Doris the Realtor. She wanted to enjoy every last hard-earned minute of the sale."

"It made no difference." Bonterre pretended to pout. "I was busy anyway. Very busy, trying to decide what to do with my share of the treasure."

Hatch smiled. They both knew that nothing had been salvaged from the island; that the treasure could never, ever be reclaimed.

She sighed extravagantly. "Anyway, are you at last ready to drive me out of this ville horrible? I am looking forward to noise, dirt, panhandlers, daily newspapers, and Harvard Square."

"Then get in." Hatch reached over and opened the door.

But she remained leaning on the windowframe, staring at him quizzically. "You will allow me to buy dinner, yes?"

"Of course."

"And then we shall finally see how you Yankee doctors say good night to young ladies."

Hatch grinned. "I thought we already answered that."

"Ah, but this evening shall be different. This evening will not be spent in Stormhaven. And this evening, I am buying." With a smile, she dug her hand into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a massive gold doubloon.

Hatch stared in amazement at the oversized coin that filled her palm. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Bonterre's smile widened. "From your medical hut, naturellement. I found it there when I was rooting around for the Radmeter. The first—and last—of the Ragged Island treasure."

"Hand it over."

"Desolee, my friend," Bonterre laughed, holding it away from his reaching fingers. "But finders are keepers. Remember, it was I who dug it up in the first place. Do not worry yourself. It should buy us a great many dinners." She threw her duffel in the back seat, then leaned toward him again. "Now, back to tonight. I shall give you a choice. Head or tail?" And she flipped the thick coin into the air. It caught the sun as it turned, flashing brilliantly against the post office windows.

"You mean, heads or tails," Hatch corrected.

"No," Bonterre said as she slapped the coin against her forearm. "Head, or tail? Those are the correct terms, non?" She lifted her fingers and peeked at the coin, eyes widening salaciously.

"Get in here before they burn both of us at the stake," Hatch laughed, dragging her inside the car.

In a moment, the Jaguar's eager engine brought them to the outskirts of town. It was the work of two minutes more to reach the bluffs behind Burnt Head. Just as the car topped the brow of the hill, Hatch had one last glimpse of Stormhaven, a picture postcard of memory, caught in his rearview mirror: the harbor, the boats swaying at anchor, the white clapboard houses winking on the hill.

And then, in a flash of reflected sunlight, they were all gone.

Cover Flaps

For generations, treasure hunters have tried to unlock the deadly puzzle known as the Water Pit: a labyrinth of shafts and tunnels that honeycombs the heart of a small island off the coast of Maine. Reputed to be the hiding place of pirate treasure, the Water Pit possesses an inexplicable ability to kill those who venture into it, from professionals to innocent explorers. But now one man has made a startling discovery: The Water Pit is actually a carefully designed fortress, conceived for pirates by a renowned seventeenth-century architect who hid his plans in code. Unlocking the code will break the curse of the Water Pit. Or will it?

The most comprehensive, high-tech expedition ever assembled has come to Maine and to Dr. Malin Hatch, owner of the island. While the treasure hunters have their reasons for mounting this assault—$2 billion in gold—Hatch has his own motives to join them. For Hatch, whose brother died on Ragged Island thirty years before, the only escape from the curse is through the black swirling waters and bloodstained chambers of the Pit.

With more computing power than a small university, the recovery team slowly chips away at the mystery. But as the seekers try to conquer the Pit, men begin to die. Hatch is confronted with his childhood memories of the tragedy even as he is drawn into a complex relationship with a beautiful French diver. All the while, the last, secret chamber of the Pit waits to unleash the most lethal mystery of all...

A thriller of the highest order, RIPTIDE is an extraordinary novel of obsession, courage, and adventure. With each nerve-racking page we are swept into the mystery and the challenge of Ragged Island and forced to face the haunting question: Is the Water Pit a gateway to limitless treasure—or to hell itself?

About The Authors

DOUGLAS PRESTON is coauthor of the phenomenal bestseller The Relic, as well as Mount Dragon and the recently released thriller Reliquary. He worked for the American Museum of Natural History in New York as managing editor of Curator magazine. In 1989 he undertook a thousand-mile horseback journey retracing the Spanish explorer Coronado's search for the legendary Seven Cities of Gold. LINCOLN CHILD is a former book editor and coauthor, with Douglas Preston, of The Relic, Mount Dragon, and Reliquary. He has published numerous anthologies of short stories, including Dark Company and Dark Banquet.