Riptide

Bonterre settled back on the shells, squinting at him skeptically. 'I am a good judge of character, monsieur le docteur. You may put most of the money into this foundation. But I will be skinned alive if you do not keep a tidy little sum back for yourself. You would not be human otherwise. And I am sure I would not like you so much if you were not human.'

Automatically, Hatch opened his mouth to protest. Then he relaxed again.

'Either way, you are a saint,' said Bonterre. 'I have more venal things planned for my share. Like buying a very fast car—and of course, I will send a large sum to my family in Martinique.' She looked over at him, and he was surprised to see that she seemed to be seeking his approval.

'That's fine,' he said. 'For you, it's a professional thing. For me, it was personal.'

'You and Gerard Neidelman both,' Bonterre replied. 'You may have exorcised your demons, but I think he is still summoning his, n'est-ce pas? The Ragged Island treasure has always held a special spell for him. But all this obsession with Macallan, c'est incroyable! Everything is now like a personal affront, a direct challenge. I do not think he will be happy until he wrangs that old architect's neck.'

'Wrings,' Hatch corrected lazily.

'Whatever.' Bonterre shifted, searching for a more comfortable position. 'A plague on both their houses.'

They fell silent, lying on their backs in the late morning sun. A squirrel edged out on a branch above their heads, gathering acorns, chattering softly. Hatch closed his eyes. Vaguely, he realized that he'd have to tell Bill Banns at the paper about the discovery of Johnny's body. Bonterre was saying something, but he was growing too drowsy to listen. And then he drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 39

It was the following afternoon that Hatch heard from the marquesa.

The small icon of a closed airmail envelope had appeared in the lower right corner of his laptop, indicating new e-mail. But when he'd tried to access it, Hatch found his Internet connection kept dropping. Deciding to take a short break, he trotted down to the pier and motored the Plain Jane away from her berth. Clear of the island and its perpetual fog bank, he connected the laptop's modem to his cell phone and retrieved the marquesa's message without difficulty. What is it with computers and this island? he thought.

Firing up the diesels again, he swung the Plain Jane back toward Ragged Island. The prow of the boat cut through the glassy swell, startling a cormorant, who disappeared into the water. It reappeared several dozen yards farther off, paddling furiously.

A weather report crackled on the marine radio: The disturbance over the Grand Banks had developed into a strong low-pressure system, currently headed toward the coast of northern Maine. If the storm kept to its present course, a small craft advisory would go into effect at noon the next day. A classic Nor'easter, thought Hatch grimly.

He could see an unusual number of lobster boats spread along the horizon, pulling their traps. Perhaps it was in preparation for the storm. Or perhaps there was another reason. Though he had not seen Claire since Squeaker's Cove, Bill Banns had called Sunday evening to let him know that Clay had scheduled the protest for the last day of August.

Back in his office, he drained the dregs of his coffee and turned to his laptop, eager to read the marquesa's message. In typical fashion, the wicked old lady began by talking about her latest young conquest.

He is terribly shy, but so sweet and eager to please that I find myself just doting upon him. His hair lies across his forehead in small brown ringlets that turn black from sweat when he has been exerting himself. And there is much to be said for enthusiasm, is there not?

She went on to discuss past lovers and husbands, and to more specific details of her anatomical preferences in men. The marquesa always approached electronic mail as if it were a medium for gossipy confessions. If the woman held true to form, her message would turn next to her chronic shortage of ready money, and to a family ancestry that dated back through the Holy Roman emperors to Aleric the Visigoth himself. This time, however, she proceeded with uncharacteristic speed to the information she had unearthed in the archives of Cadiz Cathedral. Reading, then rereading her message, Hatch felt a chill course through him.

There was a knock on the door. 'Come in,' Hatch said as he sent the marquesa's message to the nearby printer. He glanced up at the workman who stood in the doorway, then froze.

'My God,' he breathed, pushing back from his desk. 'What the hell happened to you?'

Chapter 40

Fifty minutes later, Hatch was quickly climbing the path toward the Water Pit. The rays of the lowering sun blazed over the water, turning the island's fogbank into a fiery swirl.

Orthanc was empty save for Magnusen and a technician operating the winch. There was a grinding noise, and a massive bucket emerged from the Water Pit, hooked to a thick steel cable. As Hatch watched through the glass porthole, a crew at the edge of the Pit swung the bucket off to one side and tilted it into one of the abandoned tunnels. There was a loud sucking sound, and countless gallons of mud and dirt poured out in a rush. The crew righted the now-empty bucket and swung it back toward the mouth of the Water Pit, where it once again descended out of sight.

'Where's Gerard?' Hatch asked.

Magnusen was monitoring a wireframe grid of the base of the Water Pit. She turned to look at him for a moment, then returned to her screen. 'With the digging team,' she replied.

On the wall near the winch technician was a bank of six red phones, hardwired to various points on the island network. Hatch picked up the phone labeled WATER PIT, FORWARD TEAM.

He heard three quick beeps. In a moment, Neidelman's voice came over the channel. 'Yes?' Hatch could hear loud hammering in the background.

'I need to speak with you,' Hatch said.

'Is it important?' Neidelman asked, irritation in his voice.

'Yes, it's important. I have some new information about St. Michael's Sword.'