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  Chapter 2

  Cambridge, Massachusetts Present Day

  The small laboratory looked out from the Mount Auburn Hospital annex across the leafy tops of the maple trees to the slow, sullen waters of the Charles River. A rower in a needlelike shell was cutting through the dark water with powerful strokes, peeling back a glittering wake. Malin Hatch watched, momentarily entranced by the perfect synchronicity of body, boat, and water.

  "Dr. Hatch?" came the voice of his lab assistant. "The colonies are ready." He pointed toward a beeping incubator.

  Hatch turned from the window, reverie broken, suppressing a surge of irritation at his well-meaning assistant. "Let's take out the first tier and have a look at the little buggers," he said.

  In his usual nervous way, Bruce opened the incubator and removed a large tray of agar plates, bacterial colonies growing like glossy pennies in their centers. These were relatively harmless bacteria—they didn't need special precautions beyond the usual sterile procedures—but Hatch watched with alarm as the assistant swung the rattling tray around, bumping it on the autoclave.

  "Careful, there," said Hatch. "Or there'll be no joy in Whoville tonight."

  The assistant brought the tray to an uneasy rest on the glove box. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, standing back and wiping his hands on his lab coat.

  Hatch gave the tray a practiced sweep with his eyes. Rows two and three showed good growth, rows one and four were variable, and row five was sterile. In an instant he realized the experiment would be a success. Everything was working out as hypothesized; in a month he'd have published another impressive paper in the New England Journal of Medicine, and everyone would be talking yet again about what a rising star he was in the department.

  The prospect filled him with a huge feeling of emptiness.

  Absently, he swiveled a magnifying lens over to make a gross examination of the colonies. He'd done this so often that he could identify the strains just by looking at them, by comparing their surface textures and growth patterns. After a few moments he turned toward his desk, pushed aside a computer keyboard, and began jotting notes into his lab notebook.

  The intercom chimed.

  "Bruce?" Hatch murmured as he scribbled.

  Bruce jumped up, sending his notebook clattering to the floor. A minute later he returned. "Visitor," he said simply.

  Hatch straightened up his large frame. Visitors to the lab were rare. Like most doctors, he kept his lab location and telephone number under wraps to all but a select few.

  "Would you mind seeing what he wants?" Hatch asked. "Unless it's urgent, refer him to my office. Dr. Winslow's on call today."

  Bruce went off again and the lab fell back into silence. Hatch's gaze drifted once again toward the window. The afternoon light was streaming in, sending a shower of gold through the test tubes and lab apparatus. With an effort, he forced his concentration back to his notes.

  "He's not a patient," Bruce said, bustling back into the lab. "Says you'll want to see him."

  Hatch looked up. Probably a researcher from the hospital, he thought. He took a deep breath. "Okay. Show him in."

  A minute later, footsteps sounded in the outer lab. Malin looked up to see a spare figure gazing at him from the far side of the doorframe. The setting sun was striking the man full force, modeling the sunburnt skin drawn tight across a handsome face, refracting light deep within a pair of gray eyes.

  "Gerard Neidelman," the stranger said in a low, gravelly voice.

  Couldn't spend much time in a lab or the OR with a tan like that, Hatch thought to himself. Must be a specialist, getting in a lot of golf time. "Please come in, Dr. Neidelman," he said.

  "Captain," the man replied. "Not Doctor." He passed through the doorway and straightened up, and Hatch immediately knew it wasn't just an honorary title. Simply by the way he stepped through the door, head bent, hand on the upper frame, it was clear the man had spent time at sea. Hatch guessed he was not old—perhaps forty-five—but he had the narrow eyes and roughened skin of a sailor. There was something different about him— something almost otherworldly, an air of ascetic intensity—that Hatch found intriguing.

  Hatch introduced himself as his visitor stepped forward and offered his hand. The hand was dry and light, the handshake short and to the point.

  "Could we speak in private?" the man asked quietly.

  Bruce spoke up again. "What should I do about these colonies, Dr. Hatch? They shouldn't be left out too long in—"

  "Why don't you put them back in the refrigerator? They won't be growing legs for at least a few billion more years." Hatch glanced at his watch, then back into the man's steady gaze. He made a quick decision. "And then you might as well head home, Bruce. I'll put you down for five. Just don't tell Professor Alvarez."

  Bruce flashed a brief smile. "Okay, Dr. Hatch. Thanks."

  In a moment Bruce and the colonies were gone, and Hatch turned back to his curious visitor, who had strolled toward the window.

  "Is this where you do most of your work, Doctor?" he asked, shifting a leather portfolio from one hand to the other. He was so thin he would have seemed spectral, were it not for the intensity of calm assurance he radiated.

  "It's where I do just about all of it."

  "Lovely view," Neidelman murmured, gazing out the window.

  Hatch looked at the man's back, mildly surprised that he felt unoffended by the interruption. He thought of asking the man his business but decided against it. Somehow, he knew Neidelman had not come on a trivial matter.

  "The water of the Charles is so dark," the Captain said. "'Far off from these a slow and silent stream/Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.'" He turned. "Rivers are a symbol of forgetfulness, are they not?"

  "I can't remember," Hatch said lightly, but growing a little wary now, waiting.

  The Captain smiled and withdrew from the window. "You must be wondering why I've barged into your laboratory. May I ask a few minutes of your indulgence?"

  "Haven't you already?" Hatch indicated a vacant chair. "Have a seat. I'm about finished for the day here, and this important experiment I've been working on"—he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the incubator—"is, how shall I put it? Boring."

  Neidelman raised an eyebrow. "Not as exciting as fighting an eruption of breakbone fever in the swamps of Amazonia, I imagine."

  "Not quite," Hatch said after a moment.

  The man smiled. "I read the article in the Globe"

  "Reporters never let the facts stand in the way of a story. It wasn't nearly as exciting as it seems."

  "Which is why you returned?"

  "I got tired of watching my patients die for lack of a fifty-cent shot of amoxycillin." Hatch spread his hands fatalistically. "So isn't it odd that I wish I were back there? Life on Memorial Drive seems rather tepid by comparison." He shut up abruptly and glanced at Neidelman, wondering what it was about the man that had gotten him talking.

  "The article went on to talk about your travels in Sierra Leone, Madagascar, and the Comoros," Neidelman continued. "But perhaps your life could use some excitement right now?"

  "Pay no attention to my grousing," Hatch replied with what he hoped was a light tone. "A little boredom now and then can be tonic for the soul." He glanced at Neidelman's portfolio. There was some kind of insignia embossed into the leather that he couldn't quite make out.

  "Perhaps," came the reply. "In any case, it seems you've hit every spot on the globe over the last twenty-five years. Except Stormhaven, Maine."

  Hatch froze. He felt a numbness begin in his fingers and move up his arms. Suddenly it all made sense: the roundabout questions, the seafaring background, the intense look in the man's eyes.

  Neidelman stood very still, his eyes steady on Hatch, saying nothing.

  "Ah," Hatch said, fighting to recover his composure. "And you, Captain, have just the thing to cure my ennui."

  Neidelman inclined his head.

  "Let me guess. Does this, by any freak of chance,
have to do with Ragged Island?" A flicker in Neidelman's face showed that he had guessed right. "And you, Captain, are a treasure hunter. Am I right?"

  The equanimity, the sense of quiet self-confidence, never left Neidelman's face. "We prefer the term 'recovery specialist.'"

  "Everyone has a euphemism these days. Recovery specialist. Sort of like 'sanitary engineer.' You want to dig on Ragged Island. And let me guess: Now, you're about to tell me that you, and only you, hold the secret to the Water Pit."

  Neidelman stood quietly, saying nothing.

  "No doubt you also have a high-tech gizmo that will show you the location of the treasure. Or perhaps you've enlisted the help of Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyant?"

  Neidelman remained standing. "I know you've been approached before," he said.

  "Then you'll know the common fate of those who've approached me. Dowsers, psychics, oil barons, engineers, everybody with a foolproof scheme."

  "Their schemes may have been flawed," Neidelman replied, "but their dreams were not. I know about the tragedies that befell your family after your grandfather bought the island. But his heart was in the right place. There is a vast treasure down there. I know it."

  "Of course you do. They all do. But if you think you're the reincarnation of Red Ned himself, it's only fair to warn you that I've heard from several others who already claim that distinction. Or perhaps you purchased one of those old-looking treasure maps that occasionally come up for sale in Portland. Captain Neidelman, faith won't make it true. There never was, and there never will be, any Ragged Island treasure. I feel sorry for you, I really do. Now, perhaps you should leave before I call the guard—I beg your pardon, I mean the security specialist— to escort you to the door."

  Ignoring this, Neidelman shrugged, then leaned toward the desk. "I don't ask you to take it on faith."

  There was something so self-confident, so utterly detached, about the Captain's shrug that a fresh flood of anger swept Hatch. "If you had any idea how many times I've heard this same story, you'd be ashamed for coming here. What makes you any different from the rest?"

  Reaching inside the leather portfolio, Neidelman withdrew a single sheet of paper and wordlessly pushed it across the desk.

  Hatch looked at the document without touching it. It was a simplified financial report, notarized, indicating that a company named Thalassa Holdings Ltd. had raised a sum of money to form the Ragged Island Reclamation Corporation. The sum was twenty-two million dollars.

  Hatch glanced from the paper back to Neidelman, then began to laugh. "You mean you actually had the nerve to raise this money before even asking my permission? You must have some pretty pliant investors."

  Once again, Neidelman broke into what seemed to be his trademark smile: reserved, self-confident, remote without arrogance. "Dr. Hatch, you've had every right to show treasure hunters the door for the last twenty years. I perfectly understand your reaction. They were underfunded and underprepared. But they weren't the only problem. The problem was also you." He leaned away again. "Obviously, I don't know you well. But I sense that, after more than a quarter century of uncertainty, maybe at last you're ready to learn what really happened to your brother."

  Neidelman paused for a moment, his eyes still on Hatch. Then he began again, in a tone so low it was barely audible. "I know that your interest is not the financial reward. And I understand how your grief has made you hate that island. That is why I come to you with everything prepared. Thalassa is the best in the world at this kind of work. And we have equipment at our disposal that your grandfather could only have dreamed of. We've chartered the ships. We have divers, archaeologists, engineers, an expedition doctor, all ready to go at a moment's notice. One word from you, and I promise you that within a month the Water Pit will have yielded up its secrets. We will know everything about it." He whispered the word "everything" with peculiar force.

  "Why not just leave it be?" Hatch murmured. "Why not let it keep its secrets?"

  "That, Dr. Hatch, is not within my nature. Is it within yours?"

  In the ensuing silence, the distant bells of Trinity Church tolled five o'clock. The silence stretched on into a minute, then two, and then five.

  At last, Neidelman removed the paper from the desk and placed it back in his portfolio. "Your silence is sufficiently eloquent," he said quietly, no trace of rancor in his voice. "I've taken enough of your time. Tomorrow, I'll inform our partners that you have declined our offer. Good day, Dr. Hatch." He rose to go, and then just before the door he stopped, half turning. "There is one other thing. To answer your question, there is something that makes us different from all the rest. We've uncovered a small piece of information about the Water Pit that nobody else knows. Not even you."

  Hatch's chuckle died in his throat when he saw Neidelman's face.

  "We know who designed it," the Captain said quietly.

  Involuntarily, Hatch felt his fingers stiffen and curl in toward his palms. "What?" he croaked.

  "Yes. And there's something more. We have the journal he kept during its construction."

  In the sudden silence, Hatch fetched a deep breath, then another. He looked down at his desk and shook his head. "That's beautiful," he managed to say. "Just beautiful. I guess I underestimated you. After all these years, I've heard something original. You've made my day, Captain Neidelman."

  But Neidelman had gone, and Hatch realized he was talking to an empty room.

  It was several minutes before he could bring himself to rise from the desk. As he shoved the last of his papers into his briefcase, hands still trembling a little, he noticed that Neidelman had left his card behind. A telephone number had been scribbled across the top, presumably the hotel he was staying in. Hatch brushed the card into the wastebasket, picked up his briefcase, left the lab, and briskly walked back to his town house through the dusky summer streets.

  At two o'clock that morning, he found himself back in the laboratory, pacing before the darkened window, Neidelman's card grasped in one hand. It was three before he finally picked up the phone.

  Chapter 3

  Hatch parked in the dirt lot above the pier and stepped slowly from the rented car. He closed the door, then paused to look over the harbor, hand still grasping the handle. His eyes took in the long, narrow cove, bound by a granite shore, dotted with lobster boats and draggers, bathed in a cold silver light. Even twenty-five years later, Hatch recognized many of the names: the Lola B, the Maybelle W.

  The little town of Stormhaven struggled up the hill, narrow clapboard houses following a zigzag of cobblestone lanes. Toward the top the houses thinned out, replaced by stands of black spruce and small meadows enclosed by stone walls. At the very top of the hill stood the Congregational church, its severe white steeple rising into the gray sky. On the far side of the cove he glimpsed his own boyhood home, its four gables and widow's walk poking above the treeline, the long meadow sloping to the shore and a small dock. He quickly turned away, feeling almost as if some stranger was standing in his shoes, and that he was seeing everything through that stranger's eyes.

  He headed for the pier, slipping on a pair of sunglasses as he did so. The sunglasses, and his own inner turmoil, made him feel a little foolish. Yet he felt more apprehension now than he'd felt even in a Raruana village, piled with corpses infected with dengue fever, or during the outbreak of bubonic plague in the Sierra Madre Occidental.

  The pier was one of two commercial wharfs that projected into the harbor. One side of the wharf was lined with small wooden shacks: the Lobsterman's Co-op, a snack bar called Red Ned's Eats, a bait shack, and an equipment shed. At the end of the pier stood a rusting gas pump, loading winches, and stacks of drying lobster pots. Beyond the harbor mouth there was a low fog bank, where the sea merged imperceptibly with sky. It was almost as if the world ended a hundred yards offshore.

  The shingle-sided Co-op was the first building on the pier. A merry plume of steam, issuing from a tin pipe, hinted at the lobsters that were boiling w
ithin. Hatch stopped at the chalkboard, scanning the prices for the various grades of lobster: shedders, hard-shelled, chickens, selects, and culls. He peered through the rippled glass of the window at the row of tanks, teeming with indignant lobsters only hours removed from the deep. In a separate tank was a single blue lobster, very rare, put up for show.

  Malin stepped away from the window as a lobsterman in high boots and a slicker rumbled a barrel of rotten bait down the pier. He brought it to rest under a quayside winch, strapped it on, and swung it out to a boat waiting below, in an action that Malin had watched countless times in his childhood. There were shouts and the sudden throb of a diesel, and the boat pulled away, heading out to sea, followed by a raucous crowd of seagulls. He watched the boat dissolve, spectrally, into the lifting fog. Soon, the inner islands would be visible. Already, Burnt Head was emerging from the mists, a great brow of granite rock that leaned into the sea south of town. Surf snarled and worried about its base, carrying to Hatch the faint whisper of waves. On the crown of the bluff, a lighthouse of dressed stone stood among the gorse and low bush blueberries, its red and white stripes and copper cupola adding a cheerful note of color to the monochromatic fog.

  As Malin stood at the end of the pier, smelling the mixture of redfish bait, salt air, and diesel fumes, his defenses—carefully shored up for a quarter of a century—began to crumble. The years dropped away and a powerful bittersweet feeling constricted his chest. Here he was, back in a place he had never expected to see again. So much had changed in him, and so little had changed here. It was all he could do to hold back tears.