came up against the plate of iron that had defeated Parkhurst's drill fifty years before. A new diamond bit was fitted and the boilers were stoked to a full head of steam. This time the drill bored through the iron and into a solid block of a softer metal. When the corer was extracted, a long, heavy curl of pure gold was found inside its grooves, along with a rotten piece of parchment with two broken phrases: 'silks, canary wine, ivory' and 'John Hyde rotting on the Deptford gibbet.'
Half an hour after the discovery was made, one of the massive boilers exploded, killing an Irish stoker and leveling many of the company's structures. Thirteen were injured and one of the principals, Ezekiel Harris, was left blinded. Gold Seekers Ltd. followed its predecessors into bankruptcy.
The years immediately before and after 1900 saw three more companies try their luck at the Water Pit. Unsuccessful in duplicating the discovery of Gold Seekers Ltd., these companies used newly designed pumps in concert with randomly placed underwater charges in an attempt to seal and drain the waterlogged island. Working at their utmost capacity, the pumps were able to lower the water level in several of the central shafts by about twenty feet at low tide. Excavators sent down to examine the condition of the pits complained of noxious gases; several fainted and had to be hauled to the surface. While the last of the three companies was at work in early September 1907, a man lost one arm and both legs when an explosive charge went off prematurely. Two days later, a vicious Nor'easter howled up the coast and wrecked the primary pump. Work was abandoned.
Although no more companies came forward, individual diggers and enthusiasts still occasionally dared to try their hands at exploratory tunnels. By this time, the original location of the Water Pit had been lost among the countless flooded side shafts, holes, and tunnels that riddled the heart of the island. At last the island was abandoned to the ospreys and the chokecherry bushes, its very surface unstable and dangerous, shunned by the mainland townspeople. It was in 1940 that Alfred Westgate Hatch, Sr., a young, wealthy New York financier, brought his family to Maine for the summer. He learned of the island and, growing intrigued, researched its history. Documentation was spotty: none of the previous companies had bothered to keep careful records. Six years later, Hatch purchased the island from a land speculator and moved his family to Stormhaven.
As had so many others before him, A. W. Hatch, Sr., became obsessed with the Water Pit and was ruined by it. Within two years the family s finances had been drained and Hatch was forced to declare personal bankruptcy; he turned to drink and died soon after, leaving A. W. Hatch, Jr., at nineteen, the sole support for his family.
Chapter 1
July 1971
Malin Hatch was bored with summer. He and Johnny had spent the early part of the morning throwing rocks at the hornet's nest in the old well-house. That had been fun. But now there was nothing else to do. It was just past eleven, but he'd already eaten the two peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches his mother had made him for lunch. Now he sat crosslegged on the floating dock in front of their house, looking out to sea, hoping to spot a battleship steaming over the horizon. Even a big oil tanker would do. Maybe it would head for one of the outer islands, run aground, and blow up. Now that would be something.
His brother came out of the house and rattled down the wooden ramp leading to the dock. He was holding a piece of ice on his neck.
'Got you good,' Malin said, secretly satisfied that he had escaped stinging and that his older, supposedly wiser, brother had not.
'You just didn't get close enough,' Johnny said through his last mouthful of sandwich. 'Chicken.'
'I got as close as you.'
'Yeah, sure. All those bees could see was your skinny butt running away.' He snorted and winged the piece of ice into the water.
'No, sir. I was right there.'
Johnny plopped down beside him on the dock, dropping his satchel next to him. 'We fixed those bees pretty good though, huh, Mal?' he said, testing the fiery patch on his neck with one forefinger.
'Sure did.'
They fell silent. Malin looked out across the little cove toward the islands in the bay: Hermit Island, Wreck Island, Old Hump, Killick Stone. And far beyond, the blue outline of Ragged Island, appearing and disappearing in the stubborn mist that refused to lift even on this beautiful midsummer day. Beyond the islands, the open ocean was, as his father often said, as calm as a millpond.
Languidly, he tossed a rock into the water and watched the spreading ripples without interest. He almost regretted not going into town with his parents. At least it would be something to do. He wished he could be anywhere else in the world—Boston, New York—anywhere but Maine.
'Ever been to New York, Johnny?' he asked.
Johnny nodded solemnly. 'Once. Before you were born.'
What a lie, Malin thought. As if Johnny would remember anything that had happened when he was less than two years old. But saying so out loud would be to risk a swift punch in the arm.
Malin's eye fell on the small outboard tied at the end of the dock. And he suddenly had an idea. A really good idea.
'Let's take it out,' he said, lowering his voice and nodding at the skiff.
'You're crazy,' Johnny said. 'Dad would whip us good.'
'Come on,' Malin said. 'They're having lunch at the Hastings after they finish shopping. They won't be back until three, maybe four. Who's gonna know?'
'Just the whole town, that's all, seeing us going out there.'
'Nobody's gonna be watching,' said Malin. Then, recklessly, he added, 'Who's chicken now?'
But Johnny did not seem to notice this liberty. His eyes were on the boat. 'So where do you want to go that's so great, anyway?' he asked.
Despite their solitude, Malin lowered his voice further. 'Ragged Island.'
Johnny turned toward him. 'Dad'll kill us,' he whispered.
