Riptide

waiting to be hauled out. The whitecaps flecked the bay as far as the eyes could see, and as the tide began to ebb a nasty cross-sea was developing.

He sighed and turned. 'I can't see it. What could streptococcal pneumonia and, say, candidiasis, have in common?'

The professor pursed his lips. 'Back in 1981 or '82, I remember reading a similar comment made by an epidemiologist at the National Institutes of Health.'

'And what was that?'

'He asked what Kaposi's sarcoma and Pneumocystis carinii could possibly have in common.'

Hatch turned sharply. 'Look, this couldn't possibly be HIV.' Then—before the professor had gathered himself for an acerbic reply—Hatch realized what the old man was getting at. 'HIV kills by exhausting the human immune system,' he went on. 'Letting in a host of opportunistic diseases.'

'Exactly. You have to filter out the pestilential noise, so to speak, and see what's left.'

'So maybe we're looking for something that degrades the human immune system.'

'I did not know we had so many sick on the island,' Bonterre said. 'None of my people are ill.'

Hatch turned toward her. 'None?'

Bonterre shook her head.

'There. You see?' Dr. Horn smiled and rapped his cane on the floor. 'You asked for a common thread. Now you have several leads to follow.'

He stood up and took Bonterre's hand. 'It was very charming to meet you, mademoiselle, and I wish I could stay. But it's coming on to blow and I want to get home to my sherry, slippers, dog, and fire.'

As the professor reached for his coat, there came the sound of heavy footsteps hurrying across the porch. The door was flung open in a gust of wind, and there was Donny Truitt, his slicker flapping open and rain running down his face in thick rivulets.

A flash of fire tore the sky, and the heavy boom of thunder echoed across the bay.

'Donny?' Hatch asked.

Truitt reached down to his damp shirt, tearing it open with both hands. Hatch heard the professor draw in a sharp breath.

'Grande merde du noir,' Bonterre whispered.

Truitt's armpits were spotted with large, weeping lesions. Rainwater ran from them, tinged pinkish-green. Truitt's eyes were puffy, the bags beneath blue-black. There was another flash of lightning, and in the dying echo of thunder Truitt cried out. He took a staggering step forward, pulling the sou'wester from his head as he did so.

For a moment, all inside the house were paralyzed. Then Hatch and Bonterre caught Truitt's arm and eased him toward the living room sofa.

'Help me, Mal,' Truitt gasped, grabbing his head with both hands. 'I've never been sick a day in my life.'

'I'll help,' said Hatch. 'But you need to lie down and let me examine your chest.'

'Forget my damn chest,' Donny gasped. 'I'm talking about this!'

And as he jerked his head away from his hands with a convulsive movement, Hatch could see, with cold horror, that each hand now held a mat of thick, carrot-colored hair.

Chapter 43

Clay stood at the stern rail of his single-diesel dragger, the megaphone upended in the fore cabin, drenched and useless, shorted out by the rain. He and the six remaining protestors had taken temporary shelter in the lee of the largest Thalassa ship—a ship they had originally tried to blockade.

Clay was wet to the bone, but a feeling of loss—of bitter, hollow loss—penetrated far deeper than the damp. The large ship, the Cerberus, was inexplicably vacant. Either that, or the people on board had orders not to show themselves: despite boat horns and shouts, not a single figure had come on deck. Perhaps it had been a mistake, he thought miserably, to target the largest ship. Perhaps they should have headed for the island itself and blockaded the piers. That, at least, was tenanted: about two hours before, a series of launches had left the island, loaded with passengers, angling directly away from the protest flotilla toward Stormhaven at high speed.

He looked toward the remnants of his protest flotilla. When they had left the harbor that morning, he'd felt empowered with the spirit: as full of conviction as he'd ever felt as a young man, maybe more. He had been certain that, finally, things would be different for him and the town. He could do something at last, make a difference to these good people. But as he gazed about at the six bedraggled boats heaving in the swell, he admitted to himself that the protest, like everything else he had tried to do in Stormhaven, seemed doomed to failure.

The head of the Lobsterman's Co-op, Lemuel Smith, threw out his fenders and brought his boat alongside Clay's. The two craft heaved and bumped against each other as the rain lashed the sea around them. Clay leaned over the gunwale. His hair was plastered to his angular skull, giving his already severe appearance a death's-head cast.

'It's time to head in, Reverend,' the lobsterman shouted, grasping the side of his boat. 'This is going to be one humdinger of a storm. Maybe when the mackerel run's over we can try again.'

'By then it'll be too late,' Clay cried over the wind and rain. 'The damage will be done.'

'We made our point,' said the lobsterman.

'Lem, it's not about making a point,' said Clay. 'I'm cold and wet, just like you. But we have to make this sacrifice. We have to stop them.'