Riptide

Hatch stepped out on the porch, far enough so that she would have to follow if she wanted to be heard. 'Real estate prices are up right now, Dr. Hatch,' she said as she appeared in the doorway. 'But like I've always said, you never know when they'll drop. Eight years ago—'

'Doris, you're a love, and I'll recommend you to all my many doctor friends who want to move to Stormhaven. Thanks again. I'll be expecting your bill.' Hatch quickly stepped back inside and shut the door quietly but firmly.

He waited in the parlor, wondering if the woman would have the audacity to ring the bell. But she only stood irresolutely on the porch for a long moment before returning to her car, the muumuu floating behind her, the irrepressible smile still plastered across her face. A six percent commission on two hundred and fifty thousand, Hatch thought, was quite a lot of money in Stormhaven. He vaguely remembered hearing that her husband was a drinker who'd lost his boat to the bank. She cant possibly know how I feel, he thought, managing to find some compassion in his heart for Doris Bowditch, Realtor.

He settled on the little stool in front of the piano and softly struck the first chord of Chopin's E-minor prelude. He was surprised and pleased to find the piano had been tuned. Doris had at least followed his instructions carefully: Clean the house, get everything ready, but don't touch or move anything. He played the prelude dreamily, pianissimo, trying to empty his mind. It was hard to comprehend that he had not touched these keys, sat on this stool, or even walked across these floorboards for twenty-five years. Everywhere he looked, the house eagerly offered up memories of a happy childhood. After all, it had been happy. It was only the end that was unendurable. If only . . .

He stepped down hard on this chill, persistent voice.

Two men dead, Doris had said. That was pretty imaginative, even for a small-town rumor mill. So far, the town seemed to be accepting the visitors with a kind of hospitable curiosity. Certainly it would be good for the merchants. But Hatch could see that someone would have to step in as community spokesman for Thalassa. Otherwise, there was no telling what bizarre stories might spring from Bud's Superette or Hilda's Hairstyling. With a sinking feeling, he realized that there was really only one person for the job.

He sat at the piano for another long minute. With any luck, old Bill Banns would still be editor in chief of the local paper. Sighing heavily, he stood up and headed for the kitchen, where a can of instant coffee and—if Doris hadn't forgotten—a live telephone were waiting.

Chapter 10

The group that gathered around the antique maple table in the pilothouse of the Griffin the following morning was a far cry from the noisy, eager crowd that had encircled the boat with their cheers three evenings before. As Hatch walked in for the scheduled meeting, he found most of the small group looking subdued, even demoralized, after the accident.

He looked around at the nerve center of Neidelman's boat. The curving sweep of windows gave an unimpeded view of island, sea, and land. The pilothouse was constructed of Brazilian rosewood and brass, beautifully restored, with intricate bead-board ceilings. What looked like an eighteenth-century Dutch sextant stood in a glass case next to the binnacle, and the wheel itself was carved of an exotic black wood. Rosewood cabinets on either side of the wheel held a discreet array of high-tech equipment, including loran and sonar screens and a geo-positioning satellite grid. The back wall of the pilothouse housed a massive array of unrecognizable electronics. The Captain himself had not yet emerged from his private quarters below: a low wooden door, set into the electronics of the back wall, was closed. An old horseshoe hung upside down on a nail above the doorway, and a brass plaque on the door itself read PRIVATE in discreet but unmistakable letters. The only sounds in the room were the creaking hawsers and the soft slap of water against the hull.

Taking a seat at the table, Hatch glanced at the people around him. He had met a few of them informally the first night, but others remained strangers. Lyle Streeter, the crew foreman, looked pointedly away from Hatch's smile of greeting. Obviously, he was not a man who enjoyed being yelled at. Hatch made a mental note to remember that although every first-year resident knew that yelling, screeching, and cursing during a medical emergency was standard procedure, the rest of humanity did not.

There was a sound from below, then the Captain stooped through the pilothouse door. All eyes shifted as he walked to the head of the table and leaned on it with both hands, looking into each person's face in turn. There was a noticeable decrease in tension, as if everyone was drawing strength and control from his arrival. When Neidelman's eyes landed on Hatch, he spoke. 'How is Ken?'

'Serious, but stable. There's a small chance of an embolism, but it's being monitored closely. I guess you know they couldn't recover the legs.'

'So I understand. Thank you, Dr. Hatch, for saving his life.'

'I couldn't have done it without the help of Mr. Streeter and his crew,' Hatch replied.

Neidelman nodded, letting a silence build. Then he spoke, quiet and assured. 'The survey crew was following my orders, taking every precaution I deemed necessary. If anyone is to blame for the accident, it is myself, and we have overhauled our safety procedures as a result. There can be sorrow at this unfortunate development. There can be sympathy for Ken and his family. But there are to be no recriminations.'

He stood up and placed his hands behind his back. 'Every day,' he said in a louder voice, 'we'll be taking risks. All of us. Tomorrow, you or I could lose our legs. Or worse. The risks are very real, and they are part of what we do. If it were easy to lift two billion from a watery grave, it would have been done years ago. Centuries ago. We are here because of the danger. And already, we've been dealt a blow. But we must not allow this to dampen our resolve. No treasure has ever been buried with such skill and cunning. It will take even more skill and cunning to retrieve it.'

He walked to the nearest window, gazed out for a moment, then turned. 'I'm sure most of you know the details of the accident by now. As his crew was moving across the island, Ken Field broke into a boarded-over shaft, probably dug in the mid-nineteenth century. His safety rope stopped his fall before he reached the bottom. But as he was being pulled out, his rope became caught in an exposed beam whose underpinnings were rotted by time. The tug of the rope dislodged the beam, triggering a cave-in and breaching the adjoining flooded shaft.'

He paused. 'We know what lessons can be learned from this. And I think we all know what our next duties must be. Tomorrow, we begin preparations for dye-testing the Water Pit in order to locate the hidden flood tunnel to the sea. We'll need to have the primary computer systems up and running by that point. The hardbody sonar array, the seismometers, tomographic systems, and the proton magnetometers must be assembled before work begins. The diving equipment should be inspected and ready to go by fifteen hundred hours. Most importantly, I want the tandem pumps up and ready for testing by end of day.'

Neidelman glanced briefly at each in turn. 'As my core team, each person at this table will receive a share in the treasure instead of salary. You know that if we succeed, each of you will become enormously wealthy. That may