the boat parallel to the reef. In the stern, Neidelman kept the binoculars glued to his face, forgotten pipe
clenched between his teeth, his shoulders darkening in the rain. Bringing the bow into the sea, Hatch threw the boat into
neutral and let it drift. Then at last he turned toward the island to face it himself.
4
T he dark, terrible outline of the island, so persistent in memory and nightmare, was now once again before him in reality.
It was little more than a black silhouette etched hard against the gray of sea and sky: shaped like a peculiar, tilted table,
a gradual incline rising from the leeward to sharp bluffs on the seaward coast, punctuated by a hump of land in the center.
The surf pounded the bluffs and boiled over the sunken ledges that ringed the island, leaving a scurf of foam that trailed
like the wake of a boat. It was, if anything, even bleaker than he remembered: windswept, barren, a mile long and eight hundred
yards wide. A single deformed spruce stood above the cobbled beach at the lee end of the island, its top exploded by an old
lightning strike, its crabbed branches raised like a witch’s hand against the sky.
Everywhere, great ruined hulks of infernal machines rose from the waving sawgrass and tea roses: ancient steam-driven compressors,
winches, chains, boilers. A cluster of weather-beaten shacks sat to one side of the old spruce, listing and roofless. At the
far end of the beach, Hatch could make out the smooth rounded forms of the Whalebacks that he and Johnny had clambered over,
more than twenty-five years before. Along the nearest rocks lay the shattered carcasses of several large boats, dashed and
battered by countless storms, their decks and ribbing split and scattered among the granite boulders. Weather-beaten signs,
posted every 100 feet above the high water mark, read:
WARNING!
EXTREME DANGER
NO LANDING
For a moment Neidelman was speechless. “At last,” he breathed.
The moment stretched into minutes as the boat drifted. Neidelman lowered his binoculars and turned toward Hatch. “Doctor?”
he inquired.
Hatch was bracing himself on the wheel, riding out the memory. Horror washed over him like seasickness as the drizzle splattered
the pilothouse windows and the bell buoy tolled mournfully in the mists. But mingled with the horror was something else, something
new: the realization that there
was
a vast treasure down there—that his grandfather had not been a complete fool who destroyed three generations of his family
for nothing. In a moment, he knew what his decision had to be: the final answer that was owed to his grandfather, his father,
and his brother.
“Dr. Hatch?” Neidelman asked again, the hollows of his face glistening with the damp.
Hatch took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax his desperate grip on the wheel. “Circle the island?” he asked
managing to keep his voice even.
Neidelman stared at him another moment. Then he simply nodded and raised the binoculars again.
Easing the throttle open, Hatch swung seaward coming out of the lee and turning into the wind. He proceeded under low engine,
keeping the boat at three knots, looking away from the Whalebacks and the other, more dreadful landmarks he knew would lie
just beyond.
“It’s a hard-looking place,” Neidelman said. “Harder than I’d ever imagined.”
“There’s no natural harbor,” Hatch replied. “The place is surrounded by reefs, and there’s a wicked tiderip. The island’s
exposed to the open ocean, and it gets hammered by Nor’easters every fall. So many tunnels were dug that a good part of the
island is waterlogged and unstable. Even worse, some of the companies brought in explosives. There’s unexploded dynamite,
blasting caps, and God knows what else beneath the surface, just waiting to go off.”
“What’s that wreck?” Neidelman said, pointing at a massive, twisted metal structure rearing above the seaweed-slick
clenched between his teeth, his shoulders darkening in the rain. Bringing the bow into the sea, Hatch threw the boat into
neutral and let it drift. Then at last he turned toward the island to face it himself.
4
T he dark, terrible outline of the island, so persistent in memory and nightmare, was now once again before him in reality.
It was little more than a black silhouette etched hard against the gray of sea and sky: shaped like a peculiar, tilted table,
a gradual incline rising from the leeward to sharp bluffs on the seaward coast, punctuated by a hump of land in the center.
The surf pounded the bluffs and boiled over the sunken ledges that ringed the island, leaving a scurf of foam that trailed
like the wake of a boat. It was, if anything, even bleaker than he remembered: windswept, barren, a mile long and eight hundred
yards wide. A single deformed spruce stood above the cobbled beach at the lee end of the island, its top exploded by an old
lightning strike, its crabbed branches raised like a witch’s hand against the sky.
Everywhere, great ruined hulks of infernal machines rose from the waving sawgrass and tea roses: ancient steam-driven compressors,
winches, chains, boilers. A cluster of weather-beaten shacks sat to one side of the old spruce, listing and roofless. At the
far end of the beach, Hatch could make out the smooth rounded forms of the Whalebacks that he and Johnny had clambered over,
more than twenty-five years before. Along the nearest rocks lay the shattered carcasses of several large boats, dashed and
battered by countless storms, their decks and ribbing split and scattered among the granite boulders. Weather-beaten signs,
posted every 100 feet above the high water mark, read:
WARNING!
EXTREME DANGER
NO LANDING
For a moment Neidelman was speechless. “At last,” he breathed.
The moment stretched into minutes as the boat drifted. Neidelman lowered his binoculars and turned toward Hatch. “Doctor?”
he inquired.
Hatch was bracing himself on the wheel, riding out the memory. Horror washed over him like seasickness as the drizzle splattered
the pilothouse windows and the bell buoy tolled mournfully in the mists. But mingled with the horror was something else, something
new: the realization that there
was
a vast treasure down there—that his grandfather had not been a complete fool who destroyed three generations of his family
for nothing. In a moment, he knew what his decision had to be: the final answer that was owed to his grandfather, his father,
and his brother.
“Dr. Hatch?” Neidelman asked again, the hollows of his face glistening with the damp.
Hatch took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax his desperate grip on the wheel. “Circle the island?” he asked
managing to keep his voice even.
Neidelman stared at him another moment. Then he simply nodded and raised the binoculars again.
Easing the throttle open, Hatch swung seaward coming out of the lee and turning into the wind. He proceeded under low engine,
keeping the boat at three knots, looking away from the Whalebacks and the other, more dreadful landmarks he knew would lie
just beyond.
“It’s a hard-looking place,” Neidelman said. “Harder than I’d ever imagined.”
“There’s no natural harbor,” Hatch replied. “The place is surrounded by reefs, and there’s a wicked tiderip. The island’s
exposed to the open ocean, and it gets hammered by Nor’easters every fall. So many tunnels were dug that a good part of the
island is waterlogged and unstable. Even worse, some of the companies brought in explosives. There’s unexploded dynamite,
blasting caps, and God knows what else beneath the surface, just waiting to go off.”
“What’s that wreck?” Neidelman said, pointing at a massive, twisted metal structure rearing above the seaweed-slick
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