Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps her shrine
Sacred to Heaven; because, in short
She's not and never can be mine."
Neidelman turned to him. "I see you've had time to do a little extracurricular reading beyond Gray's Anatomy and the Merck manual. Not many bonecutters can quote Coventry Patmore."
Hatch shrugged. "I enjoy a bit of poetry, here and there. I sip it like a fine port. What's your excuse?"
Neidelman smiled briefly. "I spent more than ten years of my life at sea. Sometimes there's precious little else to do but read."
A coughing sound suddenly broke from the island. It grew louder, turning into a low rumble and finally breaking into a throaty heaving groan, like the dying sound of some deep-sea beast. Hatch felt his skin crawl.
"What in blazes is that noise?" Neidelman asked sharply.
"Tide's changing," Hatch replied, shivering slightly in the raw, wet air. "The Water Pit is apparently connected to the sea by a hidden flood tunnel. When the rip current changes and the flow in the tunnel reverses, you hear that noise. At least, that's one theory."
The moan continued, slowly subsiding into a wet stutter before dying away completely.
"You'll hear another theory from the local fishermen," Hatch said. "Maybe you noticed that there aren't any lobster pots around the island. Don't think that's from any lack of lobsters."
"The Ragged Island curse," Neidelman said, nodding, a sardonic look in his eyes. "I've heard of it." There was a long silence while Neidelman looked down at the deck. Then he slowly raised his head. "I can't bring your brother back to life," he said. "But I can promise you this: we will learn what happened to him."
Hatch waved his hand, made speechless by a sudden overflow of emotion. He turned his face to the open pilothouse window, grateful for the concealing presence of the rain. Quite suddenly, he realized he could not bear to spend any more time at the island. He nosed the boat westward without explanation, opening the throttle as they once again entered the encircling mantle of mist. He wanted to return to his motel room, order an early lunch, and wash it down with a pitcher of Bloody Marys.
They broke through the mist into the welcoming gleam of daylight. The wind picked up, and Hatch could feel the droplets of moisture begin to evaporate from his face and hands. He did not look back. But the simple knowledge that the fogbound island was quickly shrinking into the horizon eased the constricting feeling in his chest.
"You should know that we'll be working closely with a first-rate archaeologist and a historian," Neidelman said at his side. "The knowledge we'll gain about seventeenth-century engineering, high seas piracy, and naval technology—perhaps even about Red Ned Ockham's mysterious death—will be of incalculable value. This is as much an archaeological dig as a treasure reclamation."
There was a brief silence. "I'd want to reserve the right to stop the whole show if I felt conditions were growing too dangerous," Hatch said.
"Perfectly understandable. There are eighteen clauses in our boilerplate land-lease contract. We'll just add a nineteenth."
"And if I become part of this," Hatch said more slowly, "I don't want to be a silent partner, looking over anyone's shoulder."
Neidelman stirred the dead ashes of his pipe. "Salvage of this sort is an extremely risky business, especially for the layman. What role do you propose to play?"
Hatch shrugged. "You mentioned that you'd hired an expedition doctor."
Neidelman stopped stirring his pipe long enough to look up and raise his eyebrows. "As required by Maine law. Are you suggesting a change of personnel?"
"Yes."
Neidelman smiled. "And you're comfortable taking leave from Mount Auburn Hospital at such short notice?"
"My research can wait. Besides, we aren't talking about all that long. It's already the end of July. If you're going to do this, it'll have to be over and done within four weeks—for better or worse. The dig can't continue into storm season."
Neidelman leaned over the side of the boat and knocked the dottle from his pipe with a single hard stroke. He straightened up again, the long dark line of Burnt Head framing the horizon behind him.
"In four weeks, it will be over," he said. "Your struggle, and mine."
Chapter 5
Hatch parked the car in the dirt lot next to Bud's Superette. It was his own car this time, and it was strangely unsettling to be viewing his past life through the windshield of a vehicle so much a part of his present. He glanced at the cracked leather seats, at the faded coffee stains on the burled walnut of the gearbox. So familiar, and somehow so safe; it took a supreme effort to open the door. He plucked the sunglasses from the dash, then put them back. The time for dissembling was over.
He looked around the small square. More stone cobbles were peeping up through the worn asphalt of the street. The old newsstand at the corner, with its wobbly wire racks of comic books and magazines, had given way to an ice-cream shop. Beyond the square, the town fell away down the hill, as impossibly picturesque as ever, the slate and cedar-shingled roofs gleaming in the sunlight. A man walked up from the harbor in rubber boots, a slicker over his shoulder: a lobsterman coming back from work. The man glanced at Hatch as he passed, then disappeared down a side lane. He was young, no more than twenty, and Hatch realized the man wasn't even born when he had left town with his mother. An entire generation had grown up in his absence. And no doubt an entire generation had died, too. He suddenly wondered if Bud Rowell was still alive.
Superficially, Bud's Superette looked exactly as he remembered it: the green screen door that didn't shut properly, the ancient Coca-Cola sign, the weathered, tilting porch. He stepped inside, worn floorboards creaking under his feet, and pulled a cart from the small rack by the door, grateful for the emptiness of the place. Moving down the narrow aisles, he began picking up some food for the Plain Jane, where he'd decided to stay until the old family house could be readied for him. He poked around, dropping necessities into the cart here and there, until at last he realized he was just delaying the inevitable. With an effort he pushed the cart toward the front of the store and found himself face-to-face with Bud Rowelclass="underline" large, bald, and cheerful, in a crisp butcher's apron. Many times, Hatch remembered Bud slipping him and Johnny forbidden red licorice sticks under the counter. It drove their mother crazy.
"Afternoon," said Bud, his glance moving over Hatch's face and then drifting to the car parked outside, checking the plates. It wasn't often that a vintage Jaguar XKE pulled into the Superette's lot. "Up from Boston?"
Hatch nodded, still uncertain how best to do this. "Yup."
"Vacation?" Bud asked, carefully placing an artichoke into the bag, arranging it with deliberation, and ringing it up on the old brass machine with his usual glacial slowness. A second artichoke went into the bag.
"No," said Hatch. "Here on business."
The hand paused. Nobody ever came to Stormhaven on business. And Bud, being the professional gossip that he was, would now have to find out why.
The hand moved again. "Ayuh," said Bud. "Business."
Hatch nodded, struggling with a reluctance to drop his anonymity. Once Bud knew, the whole town would know. Shopping at Bud's Superette was the point of no return. It wasn't too late to just gather up his groceries and get out, leaving Bud none the wiser. The alternative was painful to contemplate: Hatch could hardly bear to think about the whispered revival of the old tragedy, the shaking of heads and pursing of lips. Small towns could be brutal in their sympathy.
The hand picked up a carton of milk and inserted it into the bag.
"Salesman?"