Riptide (34 page)

Suddenly Clay leaned back, gripping the pulpit.
“They will unleash the beast whose name is Abaddon.
Abaddon, king of the Pit. Abaddon, which in Hebrew means the Destroyer.”

He scanned the rows sternly. “Let me show you something.” Stepping away from the pulpit, he reached for the linen-covered
shape on the small table. Bud leaned forward as an expectant hush filled the room.

Clay paused a moment, then plucked the sheet away. Beneath was a flat, black stone, perhaps twelve by eighteen inches, its
edges badly worn and chipped. It was propped against an old box of dark wood. Carved into the face of the stone were three
faint lines of letters, crudely highlighted in yellow chalk.

Clay stepped up to the pulpit and in a loud, trembling voice repeated the inscription:

“First will y
^e
Lie

Curst shall y
^e
Crye

Worst must y
^e
Die

“It’s no coincidence this stone was found when the Pit was first discovered, and that its removal triggered the Water Pit’s
first death. The prophecy on this evil stone has held true ever since. All of you who would seek idols of gold and silver—whether
it be directly, by digging, or indirectly, by profiting from the diggers—should remember the progression it describes.
First will ye Lie:
The greed for riches will pervert your nobler instincts.”

He drew himself up. “At the lobster festival, Malin Hatch himself told me the treasure was worth a couple of million dollars.
Not an inconsiderable sum, even for a man from Boston. But I later learned the real estimate was closer to two billion. Two
billion.
Why would Dr. Hatch deceive me like that? I can tell you only this: The idols of gold are a seductive force.
First will ye Lie.
”

His voice dropped. “Then there’s the next line:
Curst shall ye Crye.
The gold brings with it the curse of sorrow. If you doubt that, talk to the man who lost his legs. And what is the last line
of the curse?
Worst must ye Die.
”

His hollow eyes parsed the audience. “Today, many of you want to lift the stone, so to speak, to get the gold idol underneath.
The same thing Simon Rutter wanted, two hundred years ago. Well, remember what happened to Rutter.”

He returned to the pulpit. “The other day, a man was killed in the Pit. I spoke to that man not one week ago. He offered no
excuses for his own lust for gold. In fact, he was brazen about it. ‘I’m no Mother Teresa,’ he told me. Now, that man has
died. Died in the
worst
way, the very life crushed out of him by a great stone.
Worst must ye Die.
‘Verily, I tell you, he hath his reward.’”

Clay paused to draw breath. Bud glanced across the congregation. The fishermen and lobstermen were murmuring among themselves.
Claire was looking away from the minister, down at her hands.

Clay began again. “What about all the others who have died, or been crippled, or bankrupted, by this accursed hoard? This
treasure hunt is evil incarnate. And all who profit from it, directly or indirectly, must expect to be held accountable. You
see, in the final reckoning, it will not matter whether or not treasure is found. The mere
search
is a sin, abhorrent to God. And the more Stormhaven follows that path of sin, the more penance we can expect to pay. Penance
in ruined livelihood. Penance in ruined fishing. Penance in ruined
lives.”

He cleared his throat. “Over the years, there’s been a great deal of talk about a curse on Ragged Island and the Water Pit.
Now, a lot of people will dismiss such talk. They’ll tell you that only ignorant, uneducated folk believe that kind of superstition.”
He pointed toward the stone. “Tell that to Simon Rutter. Tell that to Ezekiel Harris.
Tell that to John Hatch.
”

Clay’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “There have been some strange doings on the island. Doings they’re not telling you
about. Equipment is malfunctioning mysteriously. Unexplained events are throwing things off schedule. And just a few days
ago, they uncovered a mass grave on the island. A grave hastily filled with the bones of pirates. Eighty, perhaps one hundred
people. There were no marks of violence. Nobody knows how they died.
The beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them. And their dead bodies shall lie in the streets.

“How did these men die?” Clay suddenly thundered. “It was the hand of God. Because do you know what else was found with the
dead?”

The room fell so silent that Bud could hear the brushing of a twig against a nearby window.

“Gold,”
Clay said in a harsh whisper.

A
s site doctor for the Ragged Island venture, Hatch was required to handle the red tape relating to Wopner’s death. So, bringing
in a registered nurse from downcoast to watch the medical hut, he locked up the big house on Ocean Lane and drove to Machiasport,
where a formal inquest was held. The following morning, he left for Bangor. By the time he finished filling out the reams
of archaic paperwork and returned home to Stormhaven, three working days had passed.

Heading to the island that same afternoon, he soon felt more confident he’d made the right decision in not challenging Neidelman’s
decision to press on. Though the Captain had been driving the crews hard over the last several days, the effort—and the exhaustive
new precautions the teams had been taking since Wopner’s death—seemed to have dispelled much of the gloom. Still, the pace
was taking its toll: Hatch found himself attending to almost half a dozen minor injuries during the course of the afternoon.
And in addition to the injuries, the nurse had referred three cases of illness among the crew to him: a fairly high count,
considering that the total personnel on the island had now dropped to half the original number. One complained of apathy and
nausea, while another had developed a bacterial infection Hatch had read about but never seen. Yet another had a simple, nonspecific
viral infection: not serious, but the man was running a pretty good fever.
At least Neidelman can’t accuse him of malingering,
Hatch thought as he drew blood for later testing on the
Cerberus.

Early the next morning, he wandered up the trail to the mouth of the Water Pit. The pace was obviously frantic—even Bonterre,
emerging from the Pit with a handheld laser for measuring distances, barely had time for more than a nod and a smile. But
a remarkable amount of work had been accomplished. The ladder array was now fully braced from top to bottom, and a small lift
had been attached to one side for quick transport into the depths. A technician told him that the soundings and measurements
of the Pit’s interior were now almost complete. Neidelman was nowhere to be found, but the technician said the Captain had
gone practically without sleep for the last three days, closeted in Orthanc, directing the gridding-out of the Pit.

Hatch found himself speculating on what the Captain would do next. It wasn’t surprising, his throwing himself into his work
in the wake of Wopner’s death. But now the obvious tasks were almost done: the ladder array was complete, and the Pit would
soon be fully mapped. Nothing remained except to descend the Pit and dig—with extreme caution—for the gold.

Hatch stood silently for a minute, thinking about the gold and what he would do with his share. A billion dollars was a stupendous
amount of money. Perhaps it was unnecessary to put the entire sum into the Johnny Hatch Foundation. It would be hard even
to
give
away such a sum. Besides, it would be nice to have a new boat for his berth in Lynn. And he found himself recalling a beautiful,
secluded house on Brattle Street, close to the hospital, that was for sale. He also shouldn’t forget that someday he would
have children. Was it right to deprive them of a generous inheritance? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense
to keep back a few million, perhaps as much as five, for personal use. Maybe even ten, as a cushion. Nobody would object to
that.

He stared down into the Pit a moment longer, wondering if his old friend Donny Truitt was on one of the teams working somewhere
in the dark spaces beneath his feet. Then he turned and headed back down the path.

Entering Island One, he found Magnusen in front of the computer, her fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard, mouth set in
a disapproving line. The ice-cream sandwich wrappers and discarded circuit boards were gone, and the crowded racks of computer
equipment, along with their fat looping cables and multicolored ribbons, had been placed in severe order. All traces of Wopner
had vanished. Looking around, Hatch had the illogical feeling that the rapid cleanup was, in some strange way, a slight against
the programmer’s memory. As usual, Magnusen continued her work, completely ignoring Hatch.

He looked around another minute. “Excuse me!” he barked at last, feeling unaccountably gratified at the slight jump she gave.
“I wanted to pick up a plaintext transcript of the journal,” he explained as Magnusen stopped typing and turned to look at
him with her curiously empty face.

“Of course,” she said evenly. Then she sat, waiting expectantly.

“Well?”

“Where is it?” she replied.

This made no sense. “Where is what?” Hatch asked.

For a moment, Hatch was certain a look of triumph flitted over the engineer’s face before the mask descended once again. “You
mean you don’t have the Captain’s permission?”

His look of surprise was answer enough. “New rules,” she went on. “Only one hardcopy of the decrypted journal is to be kept
in Stores, not to be signed out without written authorization from the Captain.”

Momentarily, Hatch found himself left without a response. “Dr. Magnusen,” he said as calmly as possible, “that rule can’t
apply to me.”

“The Captain didn’t mention any exceptions.”

Without a word, Hatch stepped over to the telephone. Accessing the island’s phone network, he dialed the number for Orthanc
and asked for the Captain.

“Malin!” came the strong voice of Neidelman. “I’ve been meaning to drop by to find out how everything went on the mainland.”

“Captain, I’m here in Island One with Dr. Magnusen. What’s this about me needing authorization to access the Macallan journal?”

“It’s just a security formality,” came the reply. “A way to keep the plaintext accounted for. You and I talked about the need
for that. Don’t take it personally.”

“I’m afraid I do take it personally.”

“Malin, even
I
am signing out the journal text. It’s to protect your interests as much as Thalassa’s. Now, if you’d put Sandra on, I’ll
explain to her that you have permission.”

Hatch handed the phone to Magnusen, who listened for a long moment without comment or change of expression. Wordlessly she
hung up the phone, then reached into a drawer and filled out a small yellow-colored chit.

“Hand this to the duty guard over in Stores,” she said. “You’ll need to put your name, signature, date, and time in the book.”

Hatch placed the chit in his pocket, wondering at Neidelman’s choice of guardian. Wasn’t Magnusen on the Captain’s shortlist
of saboteur suspects?

But in any case, in the cold light of day the whole idea of a saboteur seemed very far-fetched. Everyone on the island was
being extremely well paid. Some stood to gain millions. Would some saboteur jeopardize a sure fortune over a larger, but very
uncertain one? It made no sense.

The door swung open again and the tall, stooped form of St. John entered the command center. “Good morning,” he said with
a nod.

Hatch nodded back, surprised at the change that had come over the historian since Wopner’s death. The plump white cheeks and
the cheerful, smug look had given way to slack skin and bags beneath reddened eyes. The requisite tweed jacket was unusually
rumpled.

St. John turned to Magnusen. “Is it ready yet?”

“Just about,” she said. “We’re waiting for one more set of readings. Your friend Wopner made rather a mess of the system,
and it’s taken time to straighten everything out.”

A look of displeasure, even pain, crossed St. John’s face.

Magnusen nodded at the screen. “I’m correlating the mapping team’s data with the latest satellite images.”

Hatch’s eyes traveled to the large monitor in front of Magnusen. It was covered with an impossible tangle of interconnected
lines, in various lengths and colors. A message appeared along the bottom of the screen:

Restricted video feed commencing 11:23 EDT on Telstar 704
Transponder 8Z (KU Band) Downlink frequency 14,044 MHZ
Receiving and Integrating

The complex tangle on the screen refreshed itself. For a moment, St. John stared at the screen wordlessly. “I’d like to work
with it for a while,” he said at last.

Magnusen nodded.

“Alone, if you don’t mind.”

Magnusen stood up. “The three-button mouse operates the three axes. Or you can—”

“I’m aware of how the program works.”