Riptide

Chapter 63

The North Coast Really Company had its offices in a small yellow cape across the square from the Stormhaven Gazette. Hatch sat at a desk in the front window, drinking weak coffee and staring idly at a bulletin board littered with photographs of properties. Under the headline "Great Fixer-Upper," he saw what could only be the old Haigler place: broken-backed and listing gently, but still quaint. "$129,500 steals it," he read off the card. "Built 1872. Four acres, oil heat, 3 bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths." Should have mentioned central air, he thought wryly as he stared at the gaping chinks between the boards, the sagging sills. Beside it was a photo of a prim old clapboard on Sandpiper Lane, set between giant rock maples. Owned these fifty years by Mrs. Lyons, now deceased. "Not just a piece of property," read the accompanying card, "but a piece of history." Hatch smiled as he remembered the painstaking care with which he and Johnny had festooned those maples with toilet paper one Halloween more than thirty years ago.

His eyes traveled down to the next column of photos. "Maine dream house!" read the nearest card, burbling with enthusiasm. "Authentic Second Empire in every detail. Sunroom, bow windows, ocean views, wraparound terrace, waterfront dock. Original fixtures. $329,000." Underneath was a snapshot of his own house.

"Oh!" Doris Bowditch came bustling up. "There's no reason that should still be up there." She plucked the photo from the board and dropped it on a nearby desk. "Course, I didn't want to say anything, but I thought you'd made a mistake, not budging from a price as high as all that. But that couple from Manchester didn't bat an eye."

"So you told me," Hatch said, surprised by the regret in his voice. There was no reason for him to stay now, no reason at all. But despite the fact he hadn't even left town yet, he already found himself missing the weathered shingles, the clank of steel cable on mast, the resolute insularity of the town. Yet his was now a completely different kind of regret: a bittersweet nostalgia, better left to fond memory. He glanced out the window, past the bay, toward the few jagged upthrusts of rock that marked the remains of Ragged Island. His business—three generations of his family's business—was finished in Stormhaven.

"The closing will be in Manchester," the bright voice of Doris intruded. "Their bank wanted it that way. I'll see you there next week?"

Hatch rose, shaking his head. "I think I'll send my lawyer. You'll see that everything's crated and sent to this address?"

Doris took the proffered card and peered at it through rhinestoned glasses. "Yes, Dr. Hatch, of course."

Saying good-bye, Hatch stepped outside and walked slowly down the steps to the worn cobbles. This had been the last piece of business; he'd already shared a bottle of pop with Bud the grocer and called ahead to his housekeeper in Cambridge. He paused a moment, then stepped around his car and pulled open the door.

"Malin!" came a familiar plummy cry.

Turning, Hatch saw St. John lurching toward him at an uneven trot, trying to keep numerous folders beneath his arms while maintaining his balance on the cobbles.

"Christopher!" he said with real pleasure. "I telephoned the inn this morning to say good-bye, but they told me you'd already left."

"I was killing the last few hours at the library," St. John replied, blinking in the sunlight. "Thalassa's sending a boat to take the last half dozen of us down to Portland. It should be here in the next half hour." He clutched the folders more tightly as a playful sea breeze threatened to spill his precious papers across the square.

"The Stormhaven Library?" Hatch said with a smile. "You have my sympathy."

"Actually, I found the place rather useful. It had just the kind of local history I'll need."

"For what?"

St. John gave his folders a pat. "Why, my monograph on Sir William Macallan, of course. We've opened up a whole new page in Stuart history here. And, you know, his intelligence work alone will merit at least two papers for the Journal of the International Cryptographic Association—"

The basso profundo blast of an air horn shivered the windows of the square, and Hatch looked in time to see a sleek white yacht turn into the channel and approach the pier. "They're early," St. John said. He balanced the folders awkwardly as he held out his hand. "Thank you again, Malin."

"There's nothing to thank me for," Hatch replied, returning the limp shake. "Best of luck to you, Christopher." He watched the historian teeter down the hill toward the dock. Then he stepped into the Jaguar, closed the door, and cranked the motor.

He pulled out into the square and pointed the car's nose south, toward Coastal Route 1A and Massachusetts. He drove slowly, enjoying the salt air, the play of sun and shade across his face as he passed beneath the ancient oaks that lined the quiet streets.

He approached the Stormhaven Post Office and pulled over to the curb. There, balanced on the endpost of a white picket fence, sat Isobel Bonterre. She was wearing a thin leather jacket and a short ivory skirt. A large duffel lay on the sidewalk beside her. She turned toward him, stuck out a thumb, and crossed one leg over the other, exposing a shocking length of skin in the process.

"Ca va, sailor?" she called out.

"I'm fine. But I'd watch out if I were you." He nodded toward her tanned thighs. "They still burn scarlet women around here, you know."

She laughed out loud. "Let them try! Your town fathers are fat, fat to the last man. I could outrun them all. Even in these heels." She lifted herself from the post, walked over, and kneeled by the car, resting her elbows on the passenger window. "What took you so long?"

"Blame Doris the Realtor. She wanted to enjoy every last hard-earned minute of the sale."

"It made no difference." Bonterre pretended to pout. "I was busy anyway. Very busy, trying to decide what to do with my share of the treasure."

Hatch smiled. They both knew that nothing had been salvaged from the island; that the treasure could never, ever be reclaimed.

She sighed extravagantly. "Anyway, are you at last ready to drive me out of this ville horrible? I am looking forward to noise, dirt, panhandlers, daily newspapers, and Harvard Square."

"Then get in." Hatch reached over and opened the door.

But she remained leaning on the windowframe, staring at him quizzically. "You will allow me to buy dinner, yes?"

"Of course."

"And then we shall finally see how you Yankee doctors say good night to young ladies."

Hatch grinned. "I thought we already answered that."

"Ah, but this evening shall be different. This evening will not be spent in Stormhaven. And this evening, I am buying." With a smile, she dug her hand into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a massive gold doubloon.

Hatch stared in amazement at the oversized coin that filled her palm. "Where the hell did you get that?"

Bonterre's smile widened. "From your medical hut, naturellement. I found it there when I was rooting around for the Radmeter. The first—and last—of the Ragged Island treasure."

"Hand it over."

"Desolee, my friend," Bonterre laughed, holding it away from his reaching fingers. "But finders are keepers. Remember, it was I who dug it up in the first place. Do not worry yourself. It should buy us a great many dinners." She threw her duffel in the back seat, then leaned toward him again. "Now, back to tonight. I shall give you a choice. Head or tail?" And she flipped the thick coin into the air. It caught the sun as it turned, flashing brilliantly against the post office windows.

"You mean, heads or tails," Hatch corrected.

"No," Bonterre said as she slapped the coin against her forearm. "Head, or tail? Those are the correct terms, non?" She lifted her fingers and peeked at the coin, eyes widening salaciously.

"Get in here before they burn both of us at the stake," Hatch laughed, dragging her inside the car.

In a moment, the Jaguar's eager engine brought them to the outskirts of town. It was the work of two minutes more to reach the bluffs behind Burnt Head. Just as the car topped the brow of the hill, Hatch had one last glimpse of Stormhaven, a picture postcard of memory, caught in his rearview mirror: the harbor, the boats swaying at anchor, the white clapboard houses winking on the hill.

And then, in a flash of reflected sunlight, they were all gone.