Riptide (36 page)

Sure enough: beside the headboard was an ancient wardrobe. And behind the wardrobe he could make out the boxes of books, as
neatly stacked as when he and Johnny had put them there, under orders from his mother.

Hatch stepped up to the wardrobe and tried to force it aside. It moved an inch, perhaps a little more. He stepped back, contemplating
the hideous, solid, topheavy piece of Victoriana, an artifact from his grandfather’s day. He heaved at it with his shoulders
and it moved a few inches, wobbling unsteadily. Considering how much the wood must have dried over the years, it was still
damned heavy. Maybe some stuff remained inside. He sighed and wiped his brow.

The wardrobe’s upper doors were unlocked, and they swung open to reveal a musty, vacant interior. Hatch tried the drawers
at the bottom and found them empty as well. All except for the bottom drawer: stuffed in the back, torn and faded, was an
old T-shirt with an iron-on Led Zeppelin logo. Claire had bought this for him, he remembered, on a high-school outing to Bar
Harbor. He turned the shirt over in his hands for a moment, remembering the day she’d given it to him. Now it was just a two-decade-old
rag. He put it aside. She’d found her happiness now—or lost it, depending on whom you asked.

One more try.
He grabbed the wardrobe and wrestled with it, rocking it back and forth. Suddenly it shifted under his grasp, tilting forward
dangerously, and he leaped out of the way as the thing went plummeting to the floor with a terrific crash. He scrambled to
his feet as an enormous cloud of dust billowed up.

Then he bent down curiously, waving away the dust with an impatient hand.

The wooden backing of the wardrobe had broken apart in two places, revealing a narrow recess. Inside, he could make out the
faint lines of newspaper clippings and pages covered with loopy, narrow handwriting, their edges thin and brittle against
the old mahogany.

T
he long point of ochre-colored land called Burnt Head lay south of town, jutting out into the sea like a giant’s gnarled finger.
On the far side of this promontory, the cliff tumbled wooded and wild down to the bay known as Squeaker’s Cove. Countless
millions of mussel shells, rubbing against each other in the brittle surf, had given the deserted spot its name. The wooded
paths and hollows that lay in the shadow of the lighthouse had become known as Squeaker’s Glen. The name had a double meaning
for students at Stormhaven High School; the glen also functioned as the local lovers’ lane, and virginity had been lost there
on more than one occasion.

Twenty-odd years before, Malin Hatch had himself been one of those fumbling virgins. Now he found himself strolling the wooded
paths again, uncertain what impulse had brought him to this spot. He had recognized the handwriting on the sheets hidden in
the wardrobe as his grandfather’s. Unable to bring himself to read them right away, he’d left the house intent on strolling
down along the waterfront. But his feet had taken him back of the town, skirting the meadows around Fort Blacklock, and angling
at last toward the lighthouse and Squeaker’s Cove.

He veered off onto a rutted path, a thin pencil line of black dropping through the thick growth. After several yards, the
path opened into a small glade. On three sides, the rocky escarpment of Burnt Head rose steeply, covered in moss and creepers.
On the fourth side, dense foliage blocked any view of the water, though the strange whispering of the mussel shells in the
surf betrayed the nearness of the coast. Dim bars of light striped diagonally through the tree cover, highlighting ragged
patches of grass. Despite himself, Hatch smiled as Emily Dickinson came unbidden to mind. “‘There’s a certain Slant of light,’”
he murmured

Winter Afternoons—

Which oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes—

He looked around the secluded glade as the memories came charging back. Of one May afternoon in particular, full of nervous
roving hands and short, tentative gasps. The newness of it, the exotic sense of venturing into adult territory, had been intoxicating.
He shook the memory away, surprised at how the thought of something that had happened so long ago could still be so arousing.
That had been six months before his mother packed them off to Boston. Claire, more than anyone, had accepted his moods; accepted
all the baggage that had come with being Malin Hatch, the boy who’d lost the better part of his family.

I can’t believe the place is still here,
he thought to himself. His eyes caught a crumpled beer can peeping from beneath a rock; still here, and still apparently
used for the same purposes.

He sat down on the fragrant grass. A beautiful late summer afternoon, and he had the glen all to himself.

No, not quite to himself. Hatch became aware of a rustling on the path behind him. He turned suddenly, and to his surprise
saw Claire step out into the glade.

She stopped dead as she saw him, then flushed deeply. She was wearing a summery, low-cut print dress, and her long golden
hair was gathered in a French braid that reached down her freckled back. She hesitated a moment, then stepped forward resolutely.

“Hello again,” Hatch said, jumping to his feet. “Nice day to bump into you.” He tried to make his tone light and easy. He
wondered if he should shake her hand or kiss her cheek, and in the period of hesitation realized the time for doing either
had already passed.

She smiled briefly and nodded.

“How was your dinner?” he asked. The question sounded inane even as it left his lips.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must be intruding on your privacy.” She turned to go.

“Wait!” he cried, louder than he’d intended. “I mean, you don’t have to go. I was just out wandering. Besides, I’d like to
catch up.”

Claire looked around a little nervously. “You know how small towns are. If anyone were to find us here, they’d think—”

“Nobody’s going to find us,” he said. “This is Squeaker’s Glen, remember?” He sat down again and patted the ground next to
him.

She came forward and smoothed her dress with the self-conscious gesture he remembered.

“Funny we should meet here, of all places,” he said.

She nodded. “I remember the time you put oak leaves over your ears and stood on that stone over there, quoting the whole of
‘Lycidas.’”

Hatch was tempted to mention a few other things he remembered. “And now that I’m an old bonecutter, I throw medical metaphors
in with the obscure poetry.”

“What’s it been, twenty-five years?” she asked.

“Just about.” He paused for an awkward moment. “So what have you been doing all this time?”

“You know. Graduated from high school, planned to go to Orono and attend U Maine, but met Woody instead. Got married. No kids.”
She shrugged and took a seat on a nearby rock, hugging her knees. “That’s about it.”

“No kids?” Hatch asked. Even in high school, Claire had talked of her desire for children.

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “Low sperm count.”

There was a silence. And then Hatch—to his own horror, and for some reason he couldn’t begin to understand—felt an irresistible
wave of mirth sweep over him at the incongruous turn the stumbling conversation had taken. He snorted involuntarily, then
burst out laughing and continued laughing until his chest hurt and tears started. Dimly, he realized that Claire was laughing
as hard as he was.

“Oh, Lord,” she said, wiping her eyes at last, “what a relief it is to just laugh. Especially over this. Malin, you can’t
imagine what a terribly forbidden subject this is at home. Low sperm count.” And they broke once again into choking peals
of laughter.

As the laughter fell away, it seemed as if the years and the awkwardness fell with it. Hatch regaled her with stories of medical
school, gruesome pranks they played in human anatomy class, and his adventures in Suriname and Sierra Leone, while she told
him the various fates of their common friends. Almost all of them had moved to Bangor, Portland, or Manchester.

At last, she fell silent. “I have a confession, Malin,” she said. “This meeting wasn’t a complete accident.”

Hatch nodded.

“You see, I saw you walking past Fort Blacklock, and… well, I took a wild guess where you were headed.”

“Not so wild, it turns out.”

She looked at him. “I wanted to apologize. I mean, I don’t share Woody’s feelings about what you’re doing here. I know you’re
not in it for the money, and I wanted you to hear that from me. I hope you succeed.”

“No need to apologize.” He paused. “Tell me how you ended up marrying him.”

She sighed and averted her eyes. “Must I?”

“You must.”

“Oh, Malin, I was so… I don’t know. You left, and you never wrote. No, no,” she went on quickly, “I’m not blaming you. I know
I stopped going out with you before then.”

“That’s right. For Richard Moe, star quarterback. How is old Dick?”

“I don’t know. I broke up with him three weeks after you left Stormhaven. I never cared for him much, anyway. I was mad at
you, more than anything else. There was this part of you I could never reach, this hard place you kept from me. You had left
Stormhaven long before you really left, if you know what I mean. It got to me after a while.” She shrugged. “I kept hoping
you’d come after me. But then one day, you and your mother were gone.”

“Yup. Off to Boston. I guess I was a pretty gloomy kid.”

“After you left, it was all the same old guys in Stormhaven. God, they were so boring. I was all set to go to college. And
then this young minister came. He’d been to Woodstock, been tear-gassed at the ’68 Chicago convention. He seemed so fiery
and sincere. He’d inherited millions, you know—margarine—and he gave it all to the poor, every penny. Malin, I wish you’d
known him then. He was so different. Full of passion for the big causes, a man who really believed he could change the world.
He was so intense. I couldn’t believe that he could have any interest in
me.
And you know, he never talked God to me. He just tried to live by His example. I still remember how he couldn’t bear the
thought of being the reason I didn’t get my degree. He insisted I go to the Community College. He’s the only man I’ve ever
met who would never tell a lie, no matter how much the truth might hurt.”

“So what happened?”

Claire sighed and dropped her chin onto her knees. “I’m not sure, exactly. Over the years, he seemed to shrink somehow. Small
towns can be deadly, Malin, especially for someone like Woody. You know how it is. Stormhaven is its own little world. Nobody
cared about politics here, nobody cared about nuclear proliferation, about starving children in Biafra. I begged Woody to
leave, but he’s so stubborn. He’d come here to change this little town, and he wasn’t going to leave until he did. Oh, people
tolerated him, and looked on all his causes and fund-raisers with a kind of amusement. Nobody even got mad about his liberal
politics. They just ignored it. That was the worst for him—being politely ignored. He became more and more—” She paused, thinking.
“I don’t know how to say it, exactly. Rigid and moralistic. Even at home. He never learned to lighten up. And having no sense
of humor made it harder.”

“Well, Maine humor can take some getting used to,” Hatch said as charitably as he could.

“No, Malin, I mean it literally. Woody never laughs. He never finds anything funny. He just doesn’t get it. I don’t know if
it’s something in his background, or his genes, or what. We don’t talk about it. Maybe that’s one reason he’s so ardent, so
unmoving in the things he believes in.” She hesitated. “And now he has something to believe in, all right. With this crusade
against your treasure hunt, it’s like he has a new cause. Something he thinks Stormhaven
will
care about.”

“What is it about the dig, anyway?” Hatch asked. “Or is it the dig? Does he know about us?”

She turned to look at him. “Of course he knows about us. A long time ago, he demanded honesty, so I told him everything. Wasn’t
all that much to tell.” She gave a short laugh.

Serves me right for asking,
Hatch thought. “Well, he’d better start looking for another cause. We’re almost done.”

“Really? How can you be sure?”

“The crew historian made a discovery this morning. He learned that Macallan, the guy who built the Water Pit, designed it
as a kind of cathedral spire.”

Claire frowned. “A spire? There’s no spire on the island.”

“No, no, I mean an
upside-down
spire. It sounded crazy to me, too. But when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. He was explaining it to me.” It
felt good to talk. And Hatch somehow knew that he could trust Claire to keep a confidence. “See, Red Ned Ockham wanted this
Macallan to build something that would keep his treasure safe until he came back to retrieve it.”

“Retrieve it how?”

“Through a secret back door. But Macallan had other ideas. In revenge for being kidnapped, he designed the Pit so that
nobody,
not even Red Ned, could get at the treasure. He made sure that if Red Ned ever tried, he’d be killed. Of course, Red Ned
died before he could return to claim his hoard, and the Pit has resisted attack ever since. But we’re using technologies Macallan
never dreamed of. And now that the Pit is drained of water, we’ve been able to figure out exactly what he built. Macallan
designed
churches. And you know how churches have a complex internal and external buttressing to keep them from falling down, right?
Well, Macallan just inverted the whole scheme, and used it as the supports for his Pit during its construction. Then he secretly
removed the most important supports as the Pit was filled in. None of the pirates would have guessed anything was wrong. When
Ockham returned, he’d have rebuilt his cofferdam, sealed his flood tunnels and pumped out the Pit, if necessary. But when
he tried to actually retrieve the treasure, the whole Pit would have collapsed on him. That was Macallan’s trap. But, by re-creating
the cathedral braces, we can stabilize the Pit, extract the treasure without fear.”