Riptide (56 page)

“Now you!” Hatch shouted to Clay.

The minister handed him the flashlight, then turned wearily to the ladder and began to climb. Hatch watched him for a moment.
Then, taking a careful grip, he leaned out over the edge of the platform and shone the flashlight down into the Pit.

He stared after the beam, almost dreading what he might see. But the sword—and Neidelman—were gone. Hatch could see a roiling
cloud of mist cloaking the roaring gulf far beneath.

There was another sickening lurch, and he turned back to the array and began to climb. All too soon he caught up with Clay;
the minister was clutching a titanium rung, gasping for breath. Another great wave shook the ladder, shivering the remaining
struts and filling the Pit with the protest of deforming metal.

“I can’t go any farther,” Clay gasped. “You go on ahead.”

“Take the light!” Hatch shouted. “Then wrap an arm around my neck.”

Clay began to shake his head in protest.

“Do it!”

Hatch started upward again, hauling the minister up each rung. In the gleam of the flashlight he could see Bonterre above
them, concern visible on her face as she looked down.

“Go, go!” he urged, willing himself upward, one rung at a time. He gained the fifty-foot platform and continued, not daring
to stop for a rest. Above, he could now make out the mouth of the Water Pit, dark black against the gray of the stormy sky.
His muscles screamed as he forced himself upward, lifting Clay with each step.

Then the array gave another great lurch, and a blast of wet air and spray burst up from below. With a high-pitched tearing
sound, a huge piece of the array came loose below them. Knocked against the metal railing, Hatch could see the cribbing on
either side of the shaft begin to split and unravel. Beside him, Clay gasped, fighting to hold on.

Hatch scrambled upward again, fear and adrenaline sending new strength coursing through him. Directly above now, Bonterre
was clambering up the array, her sides heaving. He followed, hoisting Clay along, sucking air into his lungs as fast as he
could.

The rungs of the ladder grew slicker. Here, nearer the surface, the roar and shriek of the collapsing Pit mingled with the
howl of the storm. Rain began to lash his face, warm after the foul chill of the tunnel. There was a violent tremor from deep
within the Pit, and the array gave an almost human shriek as countless supports gave way. Torn from its anchors, the ladder
swung violently from side to side, slashing through a forest of twisted metal.

“Go!” Hatch roared, pushing Bonterre in front of him. As he turned to follow he saw, with horror, the bolts along the central
spine of the ladder begin to burst, unzipping like a jacket. Another massive tremor and the anchor supports of Orthanc began
to buckle above their heads. There was a loud popping sound and one of the great observation windows dissolved into shards,
raining down into the Pit.

“Look out!” Hatch cried, closing his eyes as the rain of glass and debris came crashing past. He felt the world begin to tilt
and he opened them again to see the ladder array folding in on itself. With a lurch that brought his gut into his throat,
the entire structure dropped several feet, accompanied by a chorus of twisting and snapping. Clay almost broke free, his legs
swinging over the void.

“Onto the cribbing!” Hatch cried. He inched across a pair of struts, still supporting Clay. Bonterre followed. Grabbing Clay
around the middle, Hatch hoisted him onto a titanium anchor bolt, then onto the old wooden cribwork that braced the sides
of the Pit.

“Can you make it?” he asked.

Clay nodded.

Hatch clambered up below the minister, searching for handholds along the slimy, rotten face, urging Clay on. A piece of cribbing
gave way beneath Hatch’s feet, then another, and he scrabbled furiously for a moment before finding another purchase. He reached
up, grabbed the bottom of the staging platform, and with Bonterre’s help managed to haul the minister onto the platform and
then to the grassy bank beyond.

Hatch clambered to his feet. To the south, he could see the dim shape of the rising tide pouring through a gap in the cofferdam.
Bloated rainclouds scudded across the shrouded moon. All around the reefs the sea had been whipped white, the riptide carrying
the line of foam as far as the horizon.

A thunderous clang from above spun him around. Freed from its foundations, Orthanc was twisting around, folding in on itself.

“To the dock!” Hatch shouted.

He grabbed Bonterre and they ran, supporting Clay between them, down the muddy trail toward Island One. Hatch glanced back
to see the observation tower plunging downward, punching through the staging platform on its way into the Pit. Then the crash
of a freight train gusted up from below, followed by a roar of water and a strange crackling sound: the snapping of countless
wooden timbers as they pulled away from the loosening walls. A cloud of mist and water, mingled with yellow vapors and atomized
mud, shot from the Pit and billowed into the night sky.

They moved as quickly as they could down the maze of trails to the deserted Base Camp and the dock beyond. The pier, sheltered
by the lee of the island, was battered but intact. At its end, the launch from the
Cerberus
bobbed crazily in the waves.

In a moment they were aboard. Hatch felt for the key, turned it, and heard himself shout out loud as the engine roared to
life. He flicked on the bilge pump and heard its reassuring gurgle.

They cast off and headed out into the storm. “We’ll take the
Griffin!
” Hatch said, aiming for Neidelman’s command boat, still stubbornly riding its anchors out beyond the reefs. “The tide’s turned.
We’ll be going before the wind.”

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.

T
he North Coast Realty 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,
1½ 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. Sun-room, 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.