Riptide

Chapter 36

The following day was Saturday, but there was little rest on Ragged Island. Hatch, uncharacteristically oversleeping, dashed out the door of 5 Ocean Lane and hurried down the front walk, stopping only to grab Friday's neglected mail from the box before heading for the pier.

Heading out through Old Hump Channel, he frowned at the lead-gray sky. There was talk on the radio of an atmospheric disturbance forming over the Grand Banks. And it was already August 28, just days away from his self-imposed deadline; from now on, the weather could only get worse.

The accumulated equipment failures and computer problems had put work seriously behind schedule, and the recent rash of illnesses and accidents among the crew only added to the delays: when Hatch showed up at the medical office around quarter to ten, two people were already waiting to see him. One had developed an unusual bacterial infection of the teeth; it would take blood work to determine exactly what kind. The other, alarmingly, had come down with viral pneumonia.

As Hatch arranged transportation to a mainland hospital for the second patient and prepared blood work on the first for testing on the Cerberus, a third showed up; a ventilation pump operator who had lacerated his shin on a servo motor. It wasn't until almost noon that Hatch had time to boot up his computer, access the Internet, and e-mail his friend the marquesa in Cadiz.

Sketching out the background in two or three brief paragraphs, he attached transcripts of a few of his grandfather's most obscure documents, asking her to search for any additional material on St. Michael's Sword she could find.

He signed off, then turned to the small packet he'd grabbed from his mailbox that morning: the September issue of JAMA; a flyer advertising a spaghetti dinner at the firehouse; the latest issue of the Gazette; a small cream-colored envelope, without name or stamp.

He opened the envelope and recognized the handwriting instantly.

Dear Malin, I don't quite know how to say these things to you, and sometimes I'm not so good at expressing myself, so I will just write them as plainly as I can.

I've decided to leave Clay. It's something I can't avoid any longer. I don't want to stay here, growing more bitter and resentful. That would be wrong for both of us. I'll tell him after the protest ends. Maybe then it will be a little easier for him to take. No matter what, it's going to hurt him terribly. But I know it's the right thing to do.

I also know that you and I are not for each other. I have some wonderful memories, and I hope you do, too. But this thing we almost started is a way of clinging to that past. It will end up hurting us both.

What almost happened at Squeaker's Glen—what I almost allowed to happen—scared me. But it also clarified a lot of vague ideas, feelings, that had been knocking around in my head. So I thank you for that.

I guess I owe you an explanation of what I plan to do. I'm going to New York. I called an old friend from the Community College who runs a small architectural firm down there. She offered me a secretarial job and promised to train me in drafting. It's a new start in a city I've always longed to see.

Please do not answer this letter or try to change my mind. Let's not spoil the past by something stupid we might do in the present.

Love, Claire

The interisland telephone rang. Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Hatch picked up the receiver.

"It's Streeter," came the brusque voice.

"What?" said Hatch, still in shock.

"The Captain wants to see you in Orthanc. Right away."

"Tell him I'll—" Hatch began. But Streeter had hung up and there was nothing, not even a dial tone, on the line.