Riptide

'She passed away in 1985. Cancer.'

'Sorry to hear that.' Hatch could tell Bud meant it. 'She was a good woman, and she raised some fine ... a fine son.' After a short silence Bud rocked back in his chair and polished off his birch beer. 'Seen Claire yet?' he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

Hatch waited a moment. 'She still around?' he replied with equal nonchalance.

'Yup,' said Bud. 'Been some changes in her life. And how about you? Any family?'

Hatch smiled. 'No wife. Not yet, anyway.' He put down his empty bottle and stood. It was definitely time to go. 'Bud, it's been great visiting with you. I think I'll go and fix myself dinner.'

Bud nodded and clapped him on the back as Hatch pushed his way through into the store. He had his hand on the screen door when Bud cleared his throat.

'One other thing, Malin.'

Hatch froze. He knew he'd gotten off too easily. He waited, dreading the question he knew was coming.

'You watch out with that licorice,' Bud said with great solemnity. 'Those teeth won't last forever, you know.'

Chapter 7

Hatch emerged on the deck of the Plain Jane, stretched, then looked around the harbor through slitted eyes. The town of Stormhaven was quiet, almost torpid under the heavy light of the July afternoon, and he felt grateful for the silence. The night before, he'd washed down the steak with a little more Beefeater's than he'd intended, and he'd woken that morning to his first hangover in almost a decade.

It had been a day of several firsts. It was the first day he had spent in the cabin of a boat since his trip down the Amazon. He'd forgotten how peaceful it could be, alone with nothing but the gentle rocking of the waves for company. It was also the first day he could remember without having much of anything to do. His lab was now closed down for the month of August, and Bruce the bewildered lab assistant had been sent off to write up initial results under the care of a colleague. The Cambridge town house was locked up, with instructions to the housekeeper that he would not be back until September. And his Jaguar was parked, as discreetly as possible, in the vacant lot behind the old Coast to Coast hardware store.

Before checking out of the hotel in Southport the day before, he'd received a note from Neidelman: a single sentence, asking him to rendezvous off Ragged Island at sunset this evening. That gave Hatch an entire day to himself. At first, he'd been afraid this meant a day alone with his memories. He'd thought of dragging out the watercolors he dabbled with on weekends and hazarding a sketch of the shoreline. But the intention fell away unpursued. Somehow, here on the water, he felt a torpid kind of peace. He had come home to Stormhaven. He'd even approached Ragged Island. He had gazed upon the beast and survived.

He checked his watch: almost 7:30. Time to get started.

He cranked the engine and was pleased to hear the big diesel turn over obediently. The deep vibration underfoot, the blub-blub of exhaust fumes, was like a siren song out of the past, at once sweet and painful. He put the boat in gear with a thrust of his hand and pointed the big bow in the direction of Ragged Island.

The day was clear, and as the boat cut through the water Hatch watched its shadow flitting on ahead of him, draped across the water by the afternoon sun. The ocean was deserted except for a lone lobster boat, hauling traps off the coast of Hermit Island. He had come on deck a few times during the day to scan the horizon, half-expecting to see activity of some sort in the direction of Ragged Island. Seeing nothing but sea and sky each time, he hadn't been sure whether he was disappointed or relieved.

Past the harbor, the air turned cool. But instead of throttling down and grabbing his windbreaker, Hatch found himself cranking the boat faster, turning his face into the wind, opening his mouth to the occasional salt spray as the Plain Jane slapped through the chop. It was somehow cleansing, alone out here; he felt almost as if the wind and water might begin to shake loose the accumulated cobwebs and dirt of a quarter century.

Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared ahead, low on the eastern horizon. Hatch throttled back, feeling the old, familiar trepidation return. The fog around the island was thinner today, but the outlines were still vague and forbidding, the derricks and winches protruding dimly like the ruined minarets of some alien city. Hatch turned the boat to port, keeping his distance, preparing to circle.

Then, on the lee side of the island, he saw an unfamiliar boat, moored perhaps a quarter mile offshore. As he approached, he could see it was an antique fireboat, built of rich brown wood, mahogany or teak. The name GRIFFIN was painted across its stern in severe gold letters. And below, smaller: MYSTIC, CONNECTICUT.

Hatch considered coming alongside, then changed his mind and cut the Plain Jane's engine about a hundred yards off. The boat appeared empty. Nobody came on deck to acknowledge his arrival. For a moment he wondered if it belonged to some tourist or trophy hunter, but it was now almost sunset; the coincidence seemed too strong.

He stared curiously at the boat. If it was Neidelman's command craft, it was an unusual but practical choice. What the thing lacked in speed it made up for in stability: Hatch felt sure it would ride out any but the heaviest sea, and with fore-and-aft engines it would be highly maneuverable. The hose reels and monitors had been removed, freeing up a lot of deck space. The davits, tower, and searchlights had been retained, and a computer-controlled crane was retrofitted onto the stern. Hatch's eyes traveled up to the capacious pilothouse and flying bridge. Above, there was the usual cluster of electronic antennae, loran, and radar, along with additional gear not especially nautical: a microwave horn, satellite dish, air-search radar, and VLF antennae. Impressive rig, Hatch thought. He dropped one hand to the instrument panel, ready to give a blast of his air horn.

Then he hesitated. Beyond the silent boat, and beyond the mist-shrouded island, he could make out a deep throbbing sound, so low in pitch it was almost beneath the audible spectrum. His hand dropped away as he listened. In a minute, he was certain: a boat engine, distant but approaching fast. Hatch scanned the horizon until he picked up a smudge of gray to the south. As he watched, he saw a momentary flash as the setting sun hit some article of polished metal on the distant craft. Probably a Thalassa boat, he thought, swinging up from Portland.