Riptide

Chapter 12

Hatch opened the door on the far side of his parents' bedroom and stepped out onto the small porch beyond. It was only half past nine, but Stormhaven was already asleep. A delightful late summer breeze had gathered in the trees that framed the old house, cooling his cheek, teasing the hairs on the back of his neck. He placed two black folders on the weather-scarred rocker and stepped forward to the railing.

Across the harbor, the town dropped away, a bracelet of lights, tumbling down the hill in streets and squares to the water. It was so still he could hear the pebbles grating in the surf, the clink of mast lines along the pier. A single pale bulb shone from above the front door of Bud's Superette. In the streets, cobbles shone with reflected moonlight. Farther away, the tall narrow form of Burnt Head Light blinked its warning from the head of the bluff.

He had almost forgotten about this narrow second-story porch, tucked away under the front gable of the old Second Empire house. But now, from its railing, a host of memories crowded back. Playing poker with Johnny at midnight when his parents had gone to Bar Harbor to celebrate an anniversary, watching out for the lights of the returning car, feeling naughty and grown up at the same time. And later, looking down at the Northcutt house, waiting for a glimpse of Claire in her bedroom window.

Claire. . .

There was laughter, and a brief, quiet babble of voices. Hatch's eye came back to the present and traveled down to the town's bed-and-breakfast. A couple of Thalassa employees stepped inside, the parlor door closed, and all was silent again.

His eyes made a leisurely stroll up the rows of buildings. The library, its red-brick facade a dusky rose in the cool nocturnal light. Bill Banns's house sprawling and sagging delightfully, one of the oldest in town. And at the top, the large, shingled house reserved for the Congregational minister, a study in shadow, the only example of stick-style architecture in the county.

He lingered a moment longer, his gaze wandering out to sea and the veiled darkness where Ragged Island lay. Then, with a sigh, he returned to the chair, sat down, and picked up the black folders.

First came the printout of the decrypted portion of Macallan's journal. As St. John had said, it described in terse terms the architect's capture and forced labor, designing a hiding place for Ockham's loot that would allow only the pirate to retrieve the gold. Macallan's contempt for the pirate captain, his dislike of the barbarous crew, his dismay at the rough and dissolute conditions, came through clearly in every line.

The journal was brief, and he soon laid it aside, curious now about its second half and wondering how soon Wopner would have it cracked. Before Hatch left his cabin, the programmer had complained bitterly about having to do double duty as the computer technician. "Goddamn network setup, a job for plumbers, not programmers. But the Captain won't be happy until he whittles the crew down to just himself and Streeter. Security concerns, my left nut. Nobody's gonna steal the treasure. But you watch. By tomorrow, once the physical plant is in place, all the surveyors and assistant engineers will be gone. History."

"Makes sense," Hatch had replied. "Why keep unnecessary staff around? Besides, I'd rather treat a bad case of necrifying madura foot than sit in a cabin like this, staring at a jumble of letters."

Hatch remembered how Wopner's lip had curled in scorn. "Shows how much you know. A jumble of letters to you, maybe.

Listen: On the other side of that jumble is the person who encrypted it, looking back, giving you the finger. It's the ultimate contest. You get his algorithm, you get his crown jewels. Maybe it's access to a credit card database. Or the firing sequences for a nuclear attack. Or the key to how a treasure is buried. There's no rush like cracking a code. Cryptanalysis is the only game worthy of a truly intelligent being. Which makes me feel mighty lonely in present company, believe you me."

Hatch sighed, returning his attention to the black folders. The second contained the brief biography of Ockham, given him by St. John. Leaning back once again to let the moonlight catch the pages, he began to read.