He didn't invent this code out of thin air; there must be a historical precedent. We already know it's not a variant of the Shakespeare cipher, or the Rosicrucian cipher, but I'm convinced some lesser-known code in these books will give us the key that we need. It should be obvious to the meanest intelligence—'
'Put a sock in it, willya?' Wopner said. 'Face it, Chris old girl, no amount of hitting the history books is gonna break
'Anybody want a BigOne?' he asked, waving it around.
'I'd as soon eat takeaway tandoori from a motor stop on the M-l,' St. John replied with a disgusted expression.
'You Brits should talk,' Wopner mumbled through a mouthful of ice cream. 'You put meat in your pies, for Chrissake.' He brandished the sandwich like a weapon. 'You're looking at the perfect food here. Fat, protein, sugar, and carbohydrates. Did I mention fat? You could live on this stuff forever.'
'And he probably will, too,' St. John said, turning to Hatch. 'You should see how many cartons he has stored away in the ship's kitchen.'
Wopner frowned. 'What, you think I could find enough BigOnes in this jerkwater town to satisfy my habit? Not likely. The skidmarks in my underwear are longer than the whole main street.'
'Perhaps you should see a proctologist about that,' said Hatch, causing St. John to erupt in a string of grateful barks. The Englishman seemed glad to find an ally.
'Feel free to take a crack, doc.' Wopner stood up and, twitching his behind invitingly, made a gesture as if to drop his trousers.
'I would, but I've got a weak stomach,' said Hatch. 'So you don't care for rural Maine?'
'Kerry won't even take rooms in town,' St. John said. 'He prefers sleeping on board.'
'Believe you me,' Wopner said, finishing the ice-cream sandwich, 'I don't like boats any more than I like the damn hinterland. But there are things here I need. Electricity, for example. Running water. And AC. As in air- conditioning.' He leaned forward, the anemic goatee quivering on his chin as if struggling to retain a foothold. 'AC.
Hatch thought privately that it was probably a good thing Wopner, with his Brooklyn accent and flowered shirts, had little reason to visit the town. The moment he set foot in Stormhaven he would become an object of wonder, like the stuffed, two-headed calf brought out every year at the county fair. He decided it was time to change the subject. 'This may sound like a stupid question. But what, exactly, is St. Michael's Sword?'
There was an awkward silence.
'Well, let's see,' said St. John, pursing his lips. 'I've always assumed it had a jeweled hilt, of course, with chased silver and parcel-gilt, perhaps a multifullered blade, that sort of thing.'
'But why would Ockham say it was the greatest prize in the Indies?'
St. John looked a little flummoxed. 'I hadn't really thought in those terms. I suppose I don't know, really. Perhaps it has some kind of spiritual or mythical significance. You know, like a Spanish Excalibur.'
'But if Ockham had as much treasure as you say, why would he place such an inordinate value on the sword?'
St. John turned a pair of watery eyes on Hatch. 'The truth is, Dr. Hatch, nothing in my documentation gives any indication of
'
'What?' asked St. John, falling into the trap.
'You know how men get, so long at sea, no women around, St. Michael's
Chapter 12
Hatch opened the door on the far side of his parents' bedroom and stepped out onto the small porch beyond. It was only half past nine, but Stormhaven was already asleep. A delightful late summer breeze had gathered in the trees that framed the old house, cooling his cheek, teasing the hairs on the back of his neck. He placed two black folders on the weather-scarred rocker and stepped forward to the railing.
Across the harbor, the town dropped away, a bracelet of lights, tumbling down the hill in streets and squares to the water. It was so still he could hear the pebbles grating in the surf, the clink of mast lines along the pier. A single pale bulb shone from above the front door of Bud's Superette. In the streets, cobbles shone with reflected moonlight. Farther away, the tall narrow form of Burnt Head Light blinked its warning from the head of the bluff.
He had almost forgotten about this narrow second-story porch, tucked away under the front gable of the old Second Empire house. But now, from its railing, a host of memories crowded back. Playing poker with Johnny at midnight when his parents had gone to Bar Harbor to celebrate an anniversary, watching out for the lights of the returning car, feeling naughty and grown up at the same time. And later, looking down at the Northcutt house, waiting for a glimpse of Claire in her bedroom window.
There was laughter, and a brief, quiet babble of voices. Hatch's eye came back to the present and traveled down to the town's bed-and-breakfast. A couple of Thalassa employees stepped inside, the parlor door closed, and all was silent again.
His eyes made a leisurely stroll up the rows of buildings. The library, its red-brick facade a dusky rose in the cool nocturnal light. Bill Banns's house sprawling and sagging delightfully, one of the oldest in town. And at the top, the large, shingled house reserved for the Congregational minister, a study in shadow, the only example of stick- style architecture in the county.
