Riptide (24 page)

“Do you really expect to recover a fortune in gold?”

Wopner looked up from the brochure. “Well, I plan to do a pretty good imitation of it.” The man didn’t smile. “Sure, I expect
to. Why not?”

“Why not? Shouldn’t the question be
why?”

Something in the man’s tone disconcerted Wopner. “Whaddya mean, why? It’s two billion dollars.”

“Two billion dollars,” the man repeated, momentarily surprised. Then he nodded, as if in affirmation of something he’d suspected.
“So it’s just for the money. There’s no other reason.”

Wopner laughed.
“Just
for the money? You need a better reason? Let’s be realistic. I mean, you’re not talking to Mother Teresa here, for Chrissakes.”
Suddenly he remembered the clerical collar. “Oh, sorry,” he said, abashed, “I didn’t mean, you being a priest and all, it’s
just—”

The man gave a clipped smile. “It’s all right, I’ve heard it before. And I’m not a priest. I’m a Congregational minister.”

“I see,” said Wopner. “That’s some kind of sect, right?”

“Is the money
really
that important to you?” Clay gazed at Wopner steadily. “Under the circumstances, I mean?”

Wopner returned the look. “What circumstances?” He glanced nervously into the bowels of the post office. What the hell was
taking that fat lady so long, anyway? She’d have had time to
walk
to frigging Brooklyn by now.

The man leaned forward. “So what do you do for Thalassa?”

“I run the computers.”

“Ah. That must be interesting.”

Wopner shrugged. “Yeah. When they work.”

As he listened, the man’s face became a picture of concern. “And everything’s running smoothly? No complaints?”

Wopner frowned. “No,” he said guardedly.

Clay nodded. “Good.”

Wopner put the brochure back on the counter. “Why are you asking, anyway?” he said with feigned nonchalance.

“No reason,” the minister replied. “Nothing important, anyway. Except…” he paused.

Wopner craned his neck forward slightly.

“In the past, that island—well, it created difficulties for anyone who set foot on it. Boilers exploded. Machines failed without
any reason. People got hurt. People got
killed.”

Wopner stepped back with a snort. “You’re talking about the Ragged Island curse,” he said. “The curse stone, and all that
stuff? It’s a load of bullpoop, if you’ll excuse my French.”

Clay’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it, now? Well, there are people who’ve been here a lot longer than you who don’t think so. And
as for the stone, it’s locked in the basement of my church right now, where it’s been for the last one hundred years.”

“Really?” Wopner asked, mouth open.

Clay nodded.

There was a silence.

The minister leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Ever wonder why there’s no lobster buoys around that island?”

“You mean those things floating on the water everywhere?”

“That’s right.”

“I never noticed there weren’t any.”

“Next time you go out there, take a look.” Clay dropped his voice even further. “There’s a good reason for that.”

“Yeah?”

“It happened about a hundred years ago. As I heard it, there was a lobsterman, name of Hiram Colcord. He used to drop his
pots around Ragged Island. Everybody warned him not to, but the lobstering was fine and he said he didn’t give a fig for any
curse. One summer day—not unlike this one—he disappeared into that mist to set his traps. Around sundown his boat came drifting
back out on the tide. Only this time he wasn’t on it. There were lobster traps piled up, and a barrel full of live lobsters.
But no Colcord. They found his lunch, half-eaten on the galley board, and a half-drunk bottle of beer, left as if he’d just
stood up and walked away.”

“He fell overboard and got his butt drowned. So what?”

“No,” Clay continued. “Because that evening his brother went out to the island to see if Hiram had been stranded somehow.
He never came back, either. The next day,
his
boat drifted out of the mists.”

Wopner swallowed. “So they
both
fell out and drowned.”

“Two weeks later,” Clay said, “their bodies washed up on Breed’s Point. One of the locals who saw what had happened went mad
with fright. And none of the rest would say what they had seen. Not ever.”

“Come on,” said Wopner, nervously.

“People said it wasn’t just the Pit that guarded the treasure now. Understand? You know that terrible sound the island makes,
every time the tide changes? They say—”

There was a bustling noise from the rear of the house. “Sorry I took so long,” panted Rosa as she emerged, a package tucked
under one plump arm. “It was under that load of bird feeders for the Coast to Coast, and with Eustace down at the pound this
morning, you know, I had to shift everything myself.”

“Hey, no problem, thanks.” Wopner grabbed the package gratefully and headed quickly for the door.

“Excuse me, mister!” the postmistress said.

Wopner stopped short. Then, unwillingly, he looked around, the package clasped to his chest.

The woman was holding out the yellow sheet. “You have to sign for it.”

Wordlessly, Wopner stepped forward and scrawled a hasty signature. Then, turning away again, he moved quickly out of the parlor,
letting the screen door slam behind him.

Once outside, he took a deep breath. “The hell with this,” he muttered. Priest or no priest, he wasn’t going back to the boat
until he’d made sure they hadn’t screwed up his order again. He wrestled with the small box, tugging at the tab, first gingerly,
then enthusiastically. The seam of the box gave way suddenly and a dozen role-playing figurines spilled out, wizards and sorcerers
clattering across the cobbles at his feet. Fluttering after them came a pack of gamer’s witching cards: pentagrams, spells,
reverse prayers, devil’s circles. With a cry and a curse, Wopner stooped to pick them up.

Clay stepped outside, once again shutting the door carefully behind him. He stepped off the porch and into the street, took
one long look at the plastic figurines and the cards, then hurried up the lane without another word.

T
he following day was cool and damp, but by the end of the afternoon the drizzle had lifted and low clouds were scudding across
a freshening sky.
Tomorrow will be crisp and windy,
Hatch thought as he strode up the narrow, yellow-taped path behind Orthanc. This daily hike to the top of the island had
become a closing ritual for him. Reaching the height of land, he walked around the edge of the southern bluffs until he had
a good view of Streeter’s crew, wrapping up the day’s work on the offshore cofferdam.

As usual, Neidelman had come up with a simple, but elegant, plan. While the cargo vessel was dispatched to Portland for cement
and building materials, Bonterre had mapped out the exact lie of the ancient pirate cofferdam, taking samples for later archaeological
analysis. Next, divers had poured an underwater concrete footing directly atop the remains of the old foundation. This had
been followed by the sinking of steel I-beams into the footing. Hatch stared at the enormous beams, rising vertically out
of the water at ten-foot intervals, forming a narrow arc around the southern end of the island. From his vantage point, he
could see Streeter in the cab of the floating crane, positioned near the barge and just outside the row of steel beams. A
massive section of reinforced concrete dangled from the crane’s sling. As Hatch watched, Streeter maneuvered the rectangle
of concrete into the slot formed by two of the I-beams, then slid it home. Once it was securely in place, two divers unhooked
the slings. Then, Streeter deftly swung the crane around toward the barge, where more sections of concrete were waiting.

There was a flash of red hair: Hatch could see that one of the deckhands on the barge was Donny Truitt. Neidelman had found
work for him despite the delay in draining the Pit, and Hatch was pleased that Donny seemed to be working efficiently.

There was a roar from the floating crane as Streeter swung it back toward the semicircle of beams, slotting a new piece of
concrete into place beside the other.

When the cofferdam was finished, Hatch knew, it would completely enclose the southern end of the island and the flood tunnel
exits. Then, the Water Pit and all its connected underwater works could be pumped dry, with the dam holding back the sea—just
as the pirates’ cofferdam had done 300 years before.

A whistle sounded, signaling quitting time; the crew on the barge began throwing tie-downs over the stacked sections of cofferdam,
while the waiting tugboat came in out of the offshore mist to tow the crane toward the dock. Hatch took a final look around,
and turned back down the trail toward Base Camp. He stopped in at his office, collected his bag and locked the door, then
headed toward the dock. He’d have a simple dinner at home, he decided, then head into town and look up Bill Banns. The next
issue of the
Stormhaven Gazette
was due out shortly, and Hatch wanted to make sure the old man had plenty of appropriate copy for the front page.

The mooring at the safest section of the reef had been enlarged and Hatch given a berth. As he started the engine of the
Plain Jane
and prepared to cast off, he heard a nearby voice cry, “Ahoy, the frigate!” Looking up, he saw Bonterre coming down the dock
toward him, dressed in bib overalls and wearing a red bandanna around her neck. Mud was splashed generously across her clothes,
hands, and face. She stopped at the foot of the dock, then stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker, impishly raising one pant
leg to expose a foot or so of tan calf.

“Need a lift?” Hatch asked.

“How did you guess?” Bonterre replied, tossing her bag into the boat and jumping in. “I am already sick of your ugly old island.”

Hatch cast off and heeled the boat around, easing it past the reefs and through the inlet. “Your tummy healing up?”

“There is a nasty scab on my otherwise beautiful stomach.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing permanent.” Hatch took another look at her dirty coveralls. “Making mud pies?”

Bonterre frowned. “Mud… pies?”

“You know. Playing in the mud.”

She snorted a laugh. “Of course! It is what archaeologists do best.”

“So I see.” They were approaching the thin circle of mist, and Hatch throttled down until they were clear. “I didn’t see you
out among the divers.”

Bonterre snorted again. “I am an archaeologist first, a diver second. I’ve done the important work, gridding out the old cofferdam.
Sergio and his friends can do the labor of the beasts.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Hatch brought the boat through Old Hump Channel and swung it around Hermit Island. Stormhaven
harbor came into view, a shining strip of white and green against the dark blue of the ocean. Leaning against the fantail,
Bonterre shook out her hair, a glossy cascade of black.

“So what is there to do in this one-horse town?” she said, nodding toward the mainland.

“Not much.”

“No disco dancing until three?
Merde,
what is a single woman to do?”

“I admit, it’s a difficult problem,” Hatch replied, resisting the impulse to return her flirtations.
Don’t forget, this woman is trouble.

She looked at him, a tiny smile curling the corners of her lips. “Well, I could have dinner with the doctor.”

“Doctor?” Hatch said, with mock surprise. “Why, I suppose Dr. Frazier would be delighted. For sixty, he’s still pretty spry.”

“You bad boy! I meant
this
doctor.” She poked him playfully in the chest.

Hatch looked at her.
Why not?
he thought.
What kind of trouble could I get into over dinner?
“There are only two restaurants in town, you know. Both seafood places, naturally. Although one does a reasonable steak.”

“Steak? That is for me. I am a strict carnivore. Vegetables are for pigs and monkeys. As for fish—” She made an elaborate
gesture of retching over the side.

“I thought you grew up in the Caribbean.”

“Yes, and my father was a fisherman, and that is all we ate, forever and ever. Except at Christmas, when we had
chèvre.”

“Goat?” Hatch asked.

“Yes. I love goat. Cooked for eight hours in a hole on the beach, washed down with homemade
Ponlac
beer.”

“Delectable,” said Hatch, laughing. “You’re staying in town, right?”

“Yes. Everything was booked up, so I placed a notice in the post office. The lady behind the counter saw it and offered me
a room.”

“You mean, upstairs? At the Poundcooks?”

“Naturellement.”

“The postmistress and her husband. They’re a nice quiet couple.”

“Yes. Sometimes I think they might be dead, it’s so quiet downstairs.”

Wait and see what happens if you try to bring home a man,
thought Hatch.
Or even if you stay out after eleven.

They reached the harbor, and Hatch eased the boat up to its mooring. “I must change out of these dirty clothes,” Bonterre
said, leaping into the dinghy, “and of course you must put on something better than that boring old blazer.”