He stepped into the kitchen. The professor had spread out a dozen arrowheads on the kitchen table and was describing coastal Indian sites to Bonterre. She looked up excitedly, but her face fell when she saw Hatch.
"Isobel," he said in a low voice, "I have to go to the island. Will you make sure Donny gets on the ambulance and goes to the hospital?"
"Going to the island?" Bonterre cried. "Are you mad?"
"No time to explain," Hatch said on his way to the hall closet. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of chairs being pushed back as Bonterre and the professor rose to follow him. Opening the closet door, he pulled out two woolen sweaters and began shrugging into them.
"Malin—"
"Sorry, Isobel. I'll explain later."
"I will come with you."
"Forget it," Hatch said. "Too dangerous. Anyway, you have to stay here and see that Donny gets to the hospital."
"I ain't going to no hospital," rose the voice from the sofa.
"See what I mean?" Hatch pulled on his oilskin and stuffed a sou'wester into one pocket.
"No. I know the sea. It will take two to get across in this weather, and you know it." Bonterre began pulling clothes out of the closet: heavy sweaters, his father's old slicker.
"Sorry," Hatch said, tugging into a pair of boots.
He felt a hand laid on his arm. "The lady is right," the professor said. "I don't know what this is all about. But I do know you can't steer, navigate, and land a boat in this weather by yourself. I can get Donny on the ambulance and to the hospital."
"Did you hear me?" Donny called. "I ain't getting in no ambulance."
The professor turned and fixed him with a stern look. "One more word out of you and you'll be clapped on a stretcher and strapped down like a madman. One way or another, you are going."
There was a brief pause. "Yes, sir," Truitt answered.
The professor turned back and winked.
Hatch grabbed a flashlight and turned to look at Bonterre, her determined black eyes peering out from under an oversized yellow sou'wester.
"She's as capable as you are," the professor said. "More so, if I were being honest."
"Why do you need to do this?" Hatch asked quietly.
In answer, Bonterre slipped her hand around his elbow. "Because you are special, monsieur le docteur. You are special to me. I would never forgive myself if I stayed behind and something bad happened to you."
Hatch paused a moment to whisper Truitt's 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.