If Clay was amused, he didn't show it. "This operation must be costing somebody a good deal," he said, raising his eyebrows to make it a question.
"We've got investors," Hatch said.
"Investors," Clay repeated. "That's when somebody gives you ten dollars and hopes you'll give back twenty."
"You could put it that way."
Clay nodded. "My father loved money, too. Not that it made him a happier man, or prolonged his life by even an hour. When he died, I inherited his stocks and bonds. The accountant called it a portfolio. When I got to looking into it, I found tobacco companies, mining companies tearing open whole mountains, timber companies that were clear-cutting virgin forests."
As he spoke, his eyes never strayed from Hatch's. "I see," Hatch said at last.
"Here my father had given money to these people, hoping they'd give back twice as much. And that's just what had happened. They'd given back two, three, or four times more. And now all these immoral gains were mine."
Hatch nodded.
Clay lowered his head and his voice. "May I ask how much wealth, exactly, you and your investors hope to gain from all this?"
Something in the way the minister pronounced wealth made Hatch more wary. But to refuse to answer the question would be a mistake. "Let's just say it's well into seven figures," he replied.
Clay nodded slowly. "I'm a direct man," he began. "And I'm not good at small talk. I never learned how to say things gracefully, so I just say them the best way I can. I don't like this treasure hunt."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Hatch replied.
Clay blinked back at him intently. "I don't like all these people coming into our town and throwing their money around."
From the beginning, Hatch had steeled himself against the possibility of such a response. Now that he was hearing it at last, he felt strangely relaxed. "I'm not sure that the other townspeople share your disdain of money," he said evenly. "Many of these people have been poor all their lives. They didn't have the luxury of choosing poverty, as you did."
Clay's face tightened, and Hatch could see he'd hit a nerve. "Money isn't the panacea people think it is," the minister continued. "You know that as well as I. These people have their dignity. Money will ruin this town. It'll spoil the lobstering, spoil the tranquility, spoil everything. And the poorest people won't see any of that money, anyway. They'll be pushed out by development. By progress."
Hatch did not reply. On one level, he understood what Clay was saying. It would be a tragedy if Stormhaven turned into another overdeveloped, overpriced summer playground like Booth-bay Harbor, down the coast. But that didn't seem likely, whether or not Thalassa succeeded.
"There's not much I can say," Hatch said. "The operation will be over in a matter of weeks."
"How long it takes isn't the point," Clay said, a strident note entering his voice. "The point is the motivation behind it. This treasure hunt is about greed—pure, naked greed. Already, a man lost his legs. No good will come of this. That island is a bad place, cursed, if you care to call it that. I'm not superstitious, but God has a way of punishing those with impure motives."
Hatch's feeling of calm suddenly dissolved in a flood of anger. Our town? Impure motives? "If you'd grown up in this town, you'd know why I'm doing this," he snapped. "Don't presume to know what my motives are."
"I don't presume anything," Clay said, his lanky body stiffening like a spring. "I know. I may not have grown up in this town, but I at least know what's in its best interests. Everyone here's been seduced by this treasure hunt, by the promise of easy money. But not me, by the Lord God, not me. I'm going to protect this town. Protect it from you, and from itself."
"Reverend Clay, I think you should read your Bible before you start throwing around accusations like that: Judge not, that ye he not judged."
Hatch realized he was shouting, voice shaking with anger. The surrounding tables had fallen silent, the people staring down at their plates. Abruptly he rose, strode past the silent, white-faced Clay, and made for the dark ruins of the fort across the meadow.
Chapter 17
The fort was dark and chill with damp. Swallows flitted about the interior of the granite tower, whipping back and forth like bullets in the sunlight that angled sharply through the ancient gunports.
Hatch entered through the stone archway and paused, breathing heavily, trying to recover his composure. Despite himself, he'd allowed the minister to provoke him. Half the town had seen it, and the half that hadn't would soon know about it.
He took a seat on an outcropping of the stone foundation. No doubt Clay had been talking to others. Hatch doubted most people would listen, except perhaps the lobstermen. They could be a superstitious lot, and talk about curses might weigh heavily. And then that remark about the dig ruining the lobstering... Hatch just hoped it was going to be a good season.
Slowly he calmed down, letting the peace of the fort wash away his anger, listening to the faint clamor of the festival across the meadow. He really had to control himself better. The man was an obnoxious prig, but he wasn't worth flying off the handle over.
It was a tranquil, womblike space, and Hatch felt he could stay there, enjoying the coolness, for hours. But he knew he should be returning to the festival, putting up a nonchalant front, smoothing things over. In any case, he needed to be back before the inevitable speeches began. He stood up and turned to go, and saw with surprise a stooped figure waiting in the shadows of the archway. It stepped forward into a shaft of light.
"Professor Horn!" Hatch cried.
The man's canny old face crinkled with delight. "I wondered when you'd notice me," he said, advancing with his cane. He shook Hatch's hand warmly. "That was quite a little scene back there."
Hatch shook his head. "I lost my temper, like an idiot. What is it about that man that gets my goat?"
"No mystery there. Clay is awkward, socially inept, morally rigid. But beneath that bitter exterior there beats a heart as big and generous as the ocean. As violent and unknowable, too, I'll bet. He's a complex man, Malin; don't underestimate him." The professor grasped Hatch's shoulder. "Enough about the reverend. By God, Malin, you're looking well. I'm prodigiously proud of you. Harvard Medical School, research position at Mount Auburn. You were always a smart boy. Too bad it didn't always equate to being a good student."
"I owe a lot of it to you," Hatch said. He remembered afternoons in the professor's huge Victorian house in the back meadows—poring over his collections of rocks, beetles, and butterflies—in those last years before leaving Stormhaven.
"Nonsense. I still have your bird nest collection, by the way. Never knew where to send it after you left."
Hatch felt a twinge of guilt. It had never occurred to him that the august professor would have wanted to hear from him. "I'm surprised you didn't throw that junk away."
"Actually, it was a remarkably good collection." He shifted his hand to Hatch's arm and held it in a bony clasp. "See me out the fort and across the meadow, would you? I'm a little shaky on my wheels these days."
"I would have gotten in touch . . ." Hatch's voice trailed away.
"Not a word, not even a forwarding address," the professor said acidly. "Then I read about you in the Globe last year."
Hatch turned away, feeling shame burning his face.
The professor gave a gruff snort. "No matter. According to the actuarial tables I should be dead. I'll be eighty-nine next Thursday, and damn you if you don't bring me a present."
They emerged into the sunlight of the meadow. Voices raised in laughter drifted toward them on the breeze.
"You must have heard why I came back," Hatch said tentatively.
"Who hasn't?" was the tart reply. The professor offered nothing further, and they walked on in silence for a moment.