Riptide

Chapter 22

The following day was cool and damp, but by the end of the afternoon the drizzle had lifted and low clouds were scudding across a freshening sky. Tomorrow will be crisp and windy, Hatch thought as he strode up the narrow, yellow-taped path behind Orthanc. This daily hike to the top of the island had become a closing ritual for him. Reaching the height of land, he walked around the edge of the southern bluffs until he had a good view of Streeter's crew, wrapping up the day's work on the offshore cofferdam.

As usual, Neidelman had come up with a simple, but elegant, plan. While the cargo vessel was dispatched to Portland for cement and building materials, Bonterre had mapped out the exact lie of the ancient pirate cofferdam, taking samples for later archaeological analysis. Next, divers had poured an underwater concrete footing directly atop the remains of the old foundation. This had been followed by the sinking of steel I-beams into the footing. Hatch stared at the enormous beams, rising vertically out of the water at ten-foot intervals, forming a narrow arc around the southern end of the island. From his vantage point, he could see Streeter in the cab of the floating crane, positioned near the barge and just outside the row of steel beams. A massive section of reinforced concrete dangled from the crane's sling. As Hatch watched, Streeter maneuvered the rectangle of concrete into the slot formed by two of the I-beams, then slid it home.

Once it was securely in place, two divers unhooked the slings. Then, Streeter deftly swung the crane around toward the barge, where more sections of concrete were waiting.

There was a flash of red hair: Hatch could see that one of the deckhands on the barge was Donny Truitt. Neidelman had found work for him despite the delay in draining the Pit, and Hatch was pleased that Donny seemed to be working efficiently.

There was a roar from the floating crane as Streeter swung it back toward the semicircle of beams, slotting a new piece of concrete into place beside the other.

When the cofferdam was finished, Hatch knew, it would completely enclose the southern end of the island and the flood tunnel exits. Then, the Water Pit and all its connected underwater works could be pumped dry, with the dam holding back the sea—just as the pirates' cofferdam had done 300 years before.

A whistle sounded, signaling quitting time; the crew on the barge began throwing tie-downs over the stacked sections of cofferdam, while the waiting tugboat came in out of the offshore mist to tow the crane toward the dock. Hatch took a final look around, and turned back down the trail toward Base Camp. He stopped in at his office, collected his bag and locked the door, then headed toward the dock. He'd have a simple dinner at home, he decided, then head into town and look up Bill Banns. The next issue of the Stormhaven Gazette was due out shortly, and Hatch wanted to make sure the old man had plenty of appropriate copy for the front page.

The mooring at the safest section of the reef had been enlarged and Hatch given a berth. As he started the engine of the Plain Jane and prepared to cast off, he heard a nearby voice cry, "Ahoy, the frigate!" Looking up, he saw Bonterre coming down the dock toward him, dressed in bib overalls and wearing a red bandanna around her neck. Mud was splashed generously across her clothes, hands, and face. She stopped at the foot of the dock, then stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker, impishly raising one pant leg to expose a foot or so of tan calf.

"Need a lift?" Hatch asked.

"How did you guess?" Bonterre replied, tossing her bag into the boat and jumping in. "I am already sick of your ugly old island."

Hatch cast off and heeled the boat around, easing it past the reefs and through the inlet. "Your tummy healing up?"

"There is a nasty scab on my otherwise beautiful stomach."

"Don't worry, it's nothing permanent." Hatch took another look at her dirty coveralls. "Making mud pies?"

Bonterre frowned. "Mud . . . pies?"

"You know. Playing in the mud."

She snorted a laugh. "Of course! It is what archaeologists do best."

"So I see." They were approaching the thin circle of mist, and Hatch throttled down until they were clear. "I didn't see you out among the divers."

Bonterre snorted again. "I am an archaeologist first, a diver second. I've done the important work, gridding out the old cofferdam. Sergio and his friends can do the labor of the beasts."

"I'll tell him you said that." Hatch brought the boat through Old Hump Channel and swung it around Hermit Island. Storm-haven harbor came into view, a shining strip of white and green against the dark blue of the ocean. Leaning against the fantail, Bonterre shook out her hair, a glossy cascade of black.

"So what is there to do in this one-horse town?" she said, nodding toward the mainland.

"Not much."

"No disco dancing until three? Merde, what is a single woman to do?"

"I admit, it's a difficult problem," Hatch replied, resisting the impulse to return her flirtations. Don't forget, this woman is trouble.

She looked at him, a tiny smile curling the corners of her lips. "Well, I could have dinner with the doctor."

"Doctor?" Hatch said, with mock surprise. "Why, I suppose Dr. Frazier would be delighted. For sixty, he's still pretty spry."

"You bad boy! I meant this doctor." She poked him playfully in the chest.

Hatch looked at her. Why not? he thought. What kind of trouble could I get into over dinner? "There are only two restaurants in town, you know. Both seafood places, naturally. Although one does a reasonable steak."

"Steak? That is for me. I am a strict carnivore. Vegetables are for pigs and monkeys. As for fish—" She made an elaborate gesture of retching over the side.

"I thought you grew up in the Caribbean."

"Yes, and my father was a fisherman, and that is all we ate, forever and ever. Except at Christmas, when we had chevre."

"Goat?" Hatch asked.

"Yes. I love goat. Cooked for eight hours in a hole on the beach, washed down with homemade Ponlac beer."

"Delectable," said Hatch, laughing. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Yes. Everything was booked up, so I placed a notice in the post office. The lady behind the counter saw it and offered me a room."

"You mean, upstairs? At the Poundcooks?"

"Naturellement."

"The postmistress and her husband. They're a nice quiet couple."

"Yes. Sometimes I think they might be dead, it's so quiet downstairs."

Wait and see what happens if you try to bring home a man, thought Hatch. Or even if you stay out after eleven.

They reached the harbor, and Hatch eased the boat up to its mooring. "I must change out of these dirty clothes," Bonterre said, leaping into the dinghy, "and of course you must put on something better than that boring old blazer."

"But I like this jacket," Hatch protested.

"You American men do not know how to dress at all. What you need is a good suit of Italian linen."

"I hate linen," Hatch said. "It's always wrinkled."

"That is the point!" Bonterre laughed. "What size are you? Forty-two long?"

"How did you know?"

"I am good at measuring a man."