Riptide

'Did your grandfather leave any records?' Neidelman asked.

'My father destroyed them.' Hatch swallowed hard. 'My grandfather bankrupted the family with this island, and my father always hated the place and everything about it. Even before the accident.' His voice trailed off and he gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead.

'I'm sorry,' Neidelman said, his face softening. 'I've been so wrapped up in all this that I sometimes forget your personal tragedy. Forgive me if I've asked any insensitive questions.'

Hatch continued gazing over the ship's bow. 'It's all right.'

Neidelman fell silent, for which Hatch was grateful. Nothing was more painful than hearing the usual platitudes from well-meaning people, especially the one that went Don't blame yourself, it wasn't your fault.

The Plain Jane rounded the southern end of the island and went broadside to the swell. Hatch gave it a little more throttle and plunged ahead.

'Amazing,' Neidelman muttered. 'To think that only this small island of sand and rocks separates us from the largest fortune ever buried.'

'Careful, Captain,' Hatch replied, putting what he hoped was a playful tone on the warning. 'That's the kind of rapturous thinking that bankrupted a dozen companies. Better to remember the old poem:

Because, though free of the outer court

I am, this Temple keeps her shrine

Sacred to Heaven; because, in short

She's not and never can be mine.'

Neidelman turned to him. 'I see you've had time to do a little extracurricular reading beyond Gray's Anatomy and the Merck manual. Not many bonecutters can quote Coventry Patmore.'

Hatch shrugged. 'I enjoy a bit of poetry, here and there. I sip it like a fine port. What's your excuse?'

Neidelman smiled briefly. 'I spent more than ten years of my life at sea. Sometimes there's precious little else to do but read.'

A coughing sound suddenly broke from the island. It grew louder, turning into a low rumble and finally breaking into a throaty heaving groan, like the dying sound of some deep-sea beast. Hatch felt his skin crawl.

'What in blazes is that noise?' Neidelman asked sharply.

'Tide's changing,' Hatch replied, shivering slightly in the raw, wet air. 'The Water Pit is apparently connected to the sea by a hidden flood tunnel. When the rip current changes and the flow in the tunnel reverses, you hear that noise. At least, that's one theory.'

The moan continued, slowly subsiding into a wet stutter before dying away completely.

'You'll hear another theory from the local fishermen,' Hatch said. 'Maybe you noticed that there aren't any lobster pots around the island. Don't think that's from any lack of lobsters.'

'The Ragged Island curse,' Neidelman said, nodding, a sardonic look in his eyes. 'I've heard of it.' There was a long silence while Neidelman looked down at the deck. Then he slowly raised his head. 'I can't bring your brother back to life,' he said. 'But I can promise you this: we will learn what happened to him.'

Hatch waved his hand, made speechless by a sudden overflow of emotion. He turned his face to the open pilothouse window, grateful for the concealing presence of the rain. Quite suddenly, he realized he could not bear to spend any more time at the island. He nosed the boat westward without explanation, opening the throttle as they once again entered the encircling mantle of mist. He wanted to return to his motel room, order an early lunch, and wash it down with a pitcher of Bloody Marys.

They broke through the mist into the welcoming gleam of daylight. The wind picked up, and Hatch could feel the droplets of moisture begin to evaporate from his face and hands. He did not look back. But the simple knowledge that the fogbound island was quickly shrinking into the horizon eased the constricting feeling in his chest.

'You should know that we'll be working closely with a first-rate archaeologist and a historian,' Neidelman said at his side. 'The knowledge we'll gain about seventeenth-century engineering, high seas piracy, and naval technology—perhaps even about Red Ned Ockham's mysterious death—will be of incalculable value. This is as much an archaeological dig as a treasure reclamation.'

There was a brief silence. 'I'd want to reserve the right to stop the whole show if I felt conditions were growing too dangerous,' Hatch said.

'Perfectly understandable. There are eighteen clauses in our boilerplate land-lease contract. We'll just add a nineteenth.'

'And if I become part of this,' Hatch said more slowly, 'I don't want to be a silent partner, looking over anyone's shoulder.'

Neidelman stirred the dead ashes of his pipe. 'Salvage of this sort is an extremely risky business, especially for the layman. What role do you propose to play?'

Hatch shrugged. 'You mentioned that you'd hired an expedition doctor.'

Neidelman stopped stirring his pipe long enough to look up and raise his eyebrows. 'As required by Maine law. Are you suggesting a change of personnel?'

'Yes.'

Neidelman smiled. 'And you're comfortable taking leave from Mount Auburn Hospital at such short notice?'

'My research can wait. Besides, we aren't talking about all that long. It's already the end of July. If you're going to do this, it'll have to be over and done within four weeks—for better or worse. The dig can't continue into storm season.'

Neidelman leaned over the side of the boat and knocked the dottle from his pipe with a single hard stroke. He