For a moment, Hatch considered telling her about Neidelman's worries of a traitor, then decided against it. He thought of mentioning the documents he'd found, but once again decided it could wait. It could all wait. Let Neidelman dig his damned fool ass off on a Sunday if he wanted to. It was Hatch's day off, and what he wanted to do was finish his painting.
"Time for me to add Mount Lovell," he said, nodding at the dark shape in the distance. As Bonterre watched, he dipped a brush in the Payne's gray, mixing it with a touch of cobalt blue, then laid down a heavy line, dragging it above the spot on the paper where the land met the sky. Then, taking the board off the easel, he turned the painting upside down, waiting until the fresh paint had flowed into the horizon. Then he righted the board and placed it back on the easel.
"Man dieu! Where did you learn that?"
"There's a trick in every trade," Hatch said, cleaning the bristles and replacing the tubes into the paintbox. He stood up. "It needs to dry a bit. Why don't we have a climb?"
They scrambled up the side of the tallest shell heap, oysters crunching beneath their feet. From the top, Hatch looked past their boats toward the river. Birds rustled in the spreading oaks. The air was warm and clear: if there was a storm gathering, it certainly wasn't evident. Upriver, there was no sigh of human habitation, just the blue twists of water and the tops of trees, broken here and there by meadows, stretching as far as the eyes could see.
"Magnifique," said Bonterre. "What a magical place."
"I used to come here with Johnny," Hatch said. "An old high school teacher of mine would bring us here, every now and then on Saturday afternoons. We were here the day before Johnny died."
"Tell me about him," Bonterre said simply.
Silently, Hatch took a seat, the oysters rustling and whispering under his weight. "Well, he was very bossy. There weren't that many kids in Stormhaven, so we did lots of things together. We were best friends, I guess—at least, when he wasn't busy beating me up."
Bonterre laughed.
"He loved everything to do with science—even more than me. He had incredible collections of butterflies, rocks, and fossils. He knew the names of all the constellations. He even built his own telescope."
Hatch leaned back on his elbows and looked through the trees. "Johnny would have done something amazing with his life. I think one of the reasons I worked so hard, got through Harvard Medical School, was to make up for what happened."
"What did you have to make up for?" Bonterre asked gently.
"It was my idea to go to Ragged Island that day," Hatch replied.
Bonterre repeated none of the usual platitudes, and again Hatch found himself feeling grateful. He fetched a deep breath, then another, letting them out slowly. It seemed that, with every breath, he was exhaling the pent-up poisons of many years.
"After Johnny disappeared in the tunnel," he went on, "it took me a while to find my way out. I don't remember how long. The fact is, I don't remember much of anything. I've tried, but there's a stretch of time that remains a complete blank. We were crawling down the shaft, and Johnny lit another match. . . . After that, the first thing I remember clearly is arriving at my parents' dock.
They were just getting home from lunch or something, and they raced out to Ragged Island, along with half the town. I'll never forget my father's face when he reappeared at the entrance to the tunnel. He was covered with Johnny's blood. He was yelling out, pounding on the beams, crying."
He paused a minute, replaying the scene in his mind.
"They couldn't find the body. They searched, dug holes in the walls and ceiling. The Coast Guard came out, and a mining engineer with listening equipment. They floated out a backhoe, but the ground was too unstable and they couldn't get into position."
Bonterre remained silent, listening.
"They spent all that night, and the next day, and the next. Then, when it became clear Johnny couldn't possibly be alive, people began to drop away. The medical team said the amount of blood in the tunnel meant Johnny must be dead, but Dad kept looking. He refused to leave. After a week people pretty much gave up, even Mom, but Dad stayed out there. The tragedy did something to his mind. He wandered around, climbed down into the shafts, dug holes with a pick and shovel, yelling until he was so hoarse he couldn't speak. He wouldn't leave the island. God, weeks went by. Mom begged him to leave, but he wouldn't. Then one day she came out with food and he wasn't there. There was another search, and this time they found a body. Dad was floating in one of the shafts. Drowned. Nobody said anything to us. But talk turned to suicide."
Hatch continued staring at the pattern of leaves against the blue sky. He had never told anyone this much of the story before, and he could never have imagined what a vast relief it was simply to talk: the lifting of a burden that had been with him so long he'd forgotten it was there.
"We stayed in Stormhaven for another six years. I think Mom hoped it would go away, somehow. But it never did. A little town like this never forgets. Everyone was so ... nice. But the talk never stopped. I didn't hear much of it, but I knew it was there, all the same. It went on and on. There was something about the body never being found that really preyed on people's minds.
And, you know, some of the fishermen's families believed in the curse. Later, I learned that some parents wouldn't let their kids play with me. Finally, when I was sixteen, my mother couldn't stand it any longer. She took me to Boston for the summer. We were only supposed to stay a few months, but then September came, and I had to start school, and a year went by, then another. And then I went off to college. And I never came back. Until now."
A great blue heron glided down the length of the river, then settled on a dead branch, waiting.
"And then?"
"Medical school, the Peace Corps, Medecins sans Frontieres, Mount Auburn Hospital. And then one day your Captain walked into my office. There you have it." Hatch paused. "You know, after the Pit was drained and they located the spot where the shore tunnel angled in, I kept quiet. I didn't insist they explore it right away. You'd have thought I would have been all over the Captain about it. But the fact was, now that we were this close, I was scared. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what really happened."
"So you're sorry you signed the Captain's agreement?" Bonterre asked.
"Actually, he signed my agreement." Hatch fell silent a moment. "But no, I'm not sorry. If I was, yesterday changed all that."
"And in a week or two, you can retire as one of the richest men in America."
Hatch laughed. "Isobel," he said, "I've decided to put the money into a foundation in my brother's name."
"All of it?"
"Yes." He hesitated. "Well, I'm still thinking about that."
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.