Riptide

treatment instructions to the professor, then they raced out into the driving rain. In the last hour the storm had picked up dramatically, and above the howling wind and lashing trees Hatch could hear the boom of Atlantic rollers pounding the headland, so low and powerful it registered more in the gut than in the ear.

They dashed through streaming streets full of shuttered houses, lights gleaming in the premature dark. Within a minute Hatch was drenched despite the slicker. As they neared the wharf there was an immense flash of blue light, followed immediately by a thunderous crash. In the aftermath, Hatch could hear the pop of a transformer failing at the head of the harbor. Instantly, the town was plunged into blackness.

They made their way along the wharf, carefully stepping down the slick gangplank to the floating dock. All the dinghies had been lashed to the shaking structure. Pulling his knife from a pocket, Hatch cut the Plain Jane's dinghy loose, and with Bonterre's help slid it into the water.

'It might swamp with two,' said Hatch, stepping in. 'I'll come back and pick you up.'

'You had better,' Bonterre said, comic in the oversized sweater and slicker.

Not bothering to start the dinghy's engine, Hatch ran the oars through the oarlocks and rowed out to the Plain Jane. The harbor waters were still relatively calm, but the wind had raised a steep chop. The dinghy was flung up and down, slapping the troughs with unwholesome shudders. As he rowed, his back to the sea, Hatch could see the outlines of the town, dim against the dark sky. He found his eyes drawn toward the narrow, tall structure of the rectory, a wooden finger of blackness. There was a flash of livid lightning, and in the brief glare Hatch saw, or thought he saw, Claire—dressed in a yellow skirt, one hand on the open doorframe of the house, staring out to sea toward him—before darkness descended once again.

There was a thump as the dinghy nudged alongside his boat. Clipping it to a sternbolt, Hatch clambered aboard, primed the engine, then said a brief prayer and cranked the starter. The Plain Jane sprang to life. As he drew the anchor chain up through the hawsehole, Hatch was once again grateful to have secured such a weatherly craft.

He goosed the engine and made a passing swipe at the dock, pleased to see Bonterre leap aboard with a seaman's agility despite the bulky clothing. She strapped on the life jacket Hatch tossed her, then tucked her hair under the sou'wester. Hatch checked the binnacle and turned his gaze seaward, toward the two light buoys midchannel and the peppercan bell buoy at the mouth of the bay.

'When we hit the open ocean,' he said, 'I'm going to head diagonally into the sea at half throttle. It's going to buck like hell, so keep hold of something. Stay close by, in case I need your help with the wheel.'

'You are foolish,' said Bonterre, nerves turning her good humor testy. 'Do you think storms are found only off Maine? What I want to know is what this insane trip is all about.'

'I'll tell you,' Hatch said, staring out to sea. 'But you're not going to like it.'

Chapter 45

Clay peered through the screaming murk, gripping the wheel with aching arms. The boat struck each towering wave with a crashing shudder, water bursting over the bows, wind tearing foam from the crests. Every wave smothered the pilothouse windows in white as the dragger tipped and began its sickening descent into the trough. For a moment there would be sudden, windless silence; then the craft would lift with, a sickening lurch and begin the cycle over again.

Ten minutes earlier, when he'd tried the forward searchlight, he learned the boat had blown some fuses and lost most of its electrical power. The backup batteries were dead, too—he hadn't checked them, as he knew he should. But he'd been busy with other things: Earlier, without warning, the Cerberus had raised anchor and gotten underway, ignoring his horn, the vast white bulk moving inexorably into the black, lashing sea. Alone, violently tossed, he had followed it for a time, fruitlessly hailing, until it disappeared into the furious darkness.

He looked around the cabin, trying to assess the situation. It had been a serious mistake to follow the Cerberus, he realized that now. If they had not heeded him before, they certainly would not stop to heed him now. Besides, out of the lee of Ragged Island, the ocean was literally boiling: the eastbound swell was beating against the outbound tide, creating a viciously steep cross-sea. The Loran was dead, leaving him with the compass in the binnacle as his only navigational tool. He was trying to steer by the compass, using dead reckoning. But Clay knew he was no navigator, and with no light he could read the compass only by lightning flashes. There was a flashlight in his pocket, but Clay desperately needed both hands to steer.

Burnt Head Light was socked in, and the screaming wind and surf were so loud he'd practically have to run over the bell buoy to hear it. Clay wrapped both elbows around the wheel and leaned against it, trying desperately to think. The island was less than a half mile away. Clay knew even a superb mariner would have a difficult job bringing the boat in through the reefs to Thalassa's dock in this weather. But—even if his fierce determination to land on Ragged Island had wavered—it would have been more difficult still to cross the six miles of hell to Stormhaven.

Twice, he thought he heard the deep-throated sound of the Cerberus's engines. But it made no sense: first it was heading east, later heading west, as if searching—or waiting—for something.

He checked the compass in a flash of lightning, holding the wheel with weakening arms, while the boat sagged into yet another trough. He made a slight correction to his course, heading now almost directly into the sea. The boat shuddered its way into another comber and a sheer wall of black-and-gray water rose off the bows, higher and higher, and he realized that the correction was in fact a mistake. As the wave toppled back down upon the pilothouse, the entire boat was jammed downward with a wrenching twist. The tremendous force of the water popped one of the windows from its frame and seawater slammed into Clay. He had just enough time to brace against the wheel and cling with all his might against the blast.

The boat shuddered, pressing lower and lower into the boiling sea, and just when he thought she would founder he again felt the grateful surge of buoyancy. The boat rose until the seas parted and rolled off the deck. As the boat crested and the lightning flashed, he had a brief glimpse of a heaving, storm-flecked ocean. Ahead lay a shadow of calmer water: the lee of Ragged Island.

Clay looked up into the black sky and a few words escaped his lips: Oh Lord, if it be Thy will—and then he was fighting the sea again, turning the boat diagonally and leaning against the wheel as another surge of water came crashing through the open window. He rode the swell down, the boat shuddering as it slid into calmer water.

Before Clay had time to draw a relieved breath, he realized that the water was calm only in comparison to the tempest that raged beyond. A heavy swell warped around the island from both sides, making a confused sea, but at least now he could turn directly toward the mooring. He pushed the throttle up a tick and listened to the responding rumble of the engine.