Riptide

Hatch frowned. 'A what?'

'You know. A black lens of charcoal. The remains of an ancient fire. So we ran a metal detector across the site and right then began finding things. Grapeshot, a musket ball, and several horseshoe nails.' She ticked the items on her fingers.

'Horseshoe nails?'

'Yes. They used horses for the heavy work.'

'Where did they get them?'

'Are you so ignorant of naval history, monsieur le docteur? It was common to carry livestock on ships. Horses, goats, chickens, pigs.'

Their dinners arrived—steamers and lobsters for Hatch, a bloody top sirloin for Bonterre. The archaeologist tucked into the food at an alarming rate, and Hatch watched her eat with amusement: juice dripping from her chin, a furrowed, intent look in her face.

'Anyway,' she went on, spearing an extravagantly large morsel of steak with her fork, 'after those discoveries, we dug a test trench just behind the bluffs. And what do you think? More charcoal, a circular tent depression, a few broken turkey and deer bones. Rankin has some fancy sensors he wants to drag over to the site, in case we miss any spots. But meanwhile, we have gridded the camp and will start excavation tomorrow. My little Christophe is becoming an excellent digger.'

'St. John? Digging?'

'But of course. I made him get rid of those horrid shoes and jacket. Once he resigned himself to getting his hands dirty, he proved most able. Now he is my prime digger. He follows me everywhere and comes when I whistle.' She laughed in a kindly way.

'Don't be too hard on the poor man.'

'Au contraire, I am doing him good. He needs the fresh air and the exercise, or he will stay as white and fat as a grub. You wait. When I am through with him, he will be all wire and gristle, like le petit homme.'

'Who?'

'You know. The little man.' The corners of Bonterre's mouth turned down impishly. 'Streeter.'

'Ah.' The way Bonterre said it, Hatch could tell the nickname wasn't meant fondly. 'What's his story, anyway?'

Bonterre shrugged. 'One hears things. Hard to know what is the truth and what is not. He was under Neidelman in Vietnam. That is how you say it, non? Somebody told me that Neidelman once saved his life during combat. That story is one I believe. You see how devoted he is to the Captain? Like a dog to his master. He is the only one the Captain really trusts.' She stared at Hatch. 'Except for you, of course.'

Hatch frowned. 'Well, I suppose it's good the Captain cares about him. Somebody has to. I mean, the guy's not exactly Mr. Personality.'

Bonterre raised her eyebrows. 'Certainement. And I can sec that the two of you got off on the other foot.'

'The wrong foot,' Hatch corrected.

'Whatever. But you are wrong when you say that Captain Neidelman cares about Streeter. There's only one thing he cares about.' She gave the briefest of nods in the direction of Ragged Island. 'He does not talk about it much, but only an imbecile would not see. Do you know that, as long as I have known him, he has had a small photograph of your island, sitting on his desk at Thalassa?'

'No, I didn't.' Hatch's thoughts went back to the first trip out to the island with Neidelman. What was it the Captain had said? I didn't want to see it unless we'd have the chance to dig it.

Something seemed to have upset Bonterre. As Hatch opened his mouth to change the subject, he sensed something, someone—a presence across the room—and when he looked up there was Claire, coming around the corner. The intended remark died on his lips.

She was just as he'd imagined she would be: tall and willowy, with the same dash of freckles across the upturned nose. She saw him and stopped dead, her face wrinkling into that same funny frown of surprise he remembered.

'Hello, Claire,' Hatch said, standing up awkwardly and trying to keep his voice neutral.

She stepped forward. 'Hello,' she said, shaking his hand, and at the touch of his skin against hers a pink flush formed on her cheeks. 'I heard you were in town.' She gave a self-deprecating laugh. 'Of course, who hasn't. I mean, with all that—' and she made a vague gesture over her shoulder, as if to indicate the Water Pit.

'You look great,' Hatch said. And she did: the years had made her slender and turned her dark blue eyes a penetrating gray. The mischievous smile once etched permanently on her lips had given way to a more serious, introspective look. She smoothed her pleated skirt unconsciously as she felt his eyes on her.

There was movement at the restaurant entrance, then the minister, Woody Clay, stepped in. He looked around the room until his eyes landed on Hatch. A spasm of displeasure moved quickly across his sallow face, and he came forward. Not here, Hatch thought, bracing himself for another lecture about greed and the ethics of treasure hunting. Sure enough, the minister stopped at their table, glancing from Hatch to Bonterre and back. Hatch wondered if the man would actually have the gall to interrupt their dinner.

'Oh,' said Claire, looking at the minister and touching her long blond hair. 'Woody, this is Malin Hatch.'

'We've met,' Clay nodded.

With relief, Hatch realized it wasn't likely that Clay would launch into another tirade with the two women looking on. 'This is Dr. Isobel Bonterre,' he said, recovering his composure. 'May I introduce Claire Northcutt and —'