Riptide by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

rocks.
    “A barge left over from my grandfather’s day. It was anchored offshore with a floating crane, got caught in a Nor’easter,
     and was thrown on the rocks. After the ocean got through with it, there wasn’t anything left to salvage. That was the end
     of my grandfather’s effort.”
    “Did your grandfather leave any records?” Neidelman asked.
    “My father destroyed them.” Hatch swallowed hard. “My grandfather bankrupted the family with this island, and my father always
     hated the place and everything about it. Even before the accident.” His voice trailed off and he gripped the wheel, staring
     straight ahead.
    “I’m sorry,” Neidelman said, his face softening. “I’ve been so wrapped up in all this that I sometimes forget your personal
     tragedy. Forgive me if I’ve asked any insensitive questions.”
    Hatch continued gazing over the ship’s bow. “It’s all right.”
    Neidelman fell silent, for which Hatch was grateful. Nothing was more painful than hearing the usual platitudes from well-meaning
     people, especially the one that went
Don’t blame yourself, it wasn’t your fault.
    The
Plain Jane
rounded the southern end of the island and went broadside to the swell. Hatch gave it a little more throttle and plunged
     ahead.
    “Amazing,” Neidelman muttered. “To think that only this small island of sand and rocks separates us from the largest fortune
     ever buried.”
    “Careful, Captain,” Hatch replied putting what he hoped was a playful tone on the warning. “That’s the kind of rapturous thinking
     that bankrupted a dozen companies. Better to remember the old poem:
    Because, though free of the outer court
    I am, this Temple keeps her shrine
    Sacred to Heaven; because, in short
    She’s not and never can be mine.”
    Neidelman turned to him. “I see you’ve had time to do a little extracurricular reading beyond
Gray’s Anatomy
and the Merck manual. Not many bonecutters can quote Coventry Patmore.”
    Hatch shrugged. “I enjoy a bit of poetry, here and there. I sip it like a fine port. What’s your excuse?”
    Neidelman smiled briefly. “I spent more than ten years of my life at sea. Sometimes there’s precious little else to do but
     read.”
    A coughing sound suddenly broke from the island. It grew louder, turning into a low rumble and finally breaking into a throaty
     heaving groan, like the dying sound of some deep-sea beast. Hatch felt his skin crawl.
    “What in blazes is that noise?” Neidelman asked sharply.
    “Tide’s changing,” Hatch replied, shivering slightly in the raw, wet air. “The Water Pit is apparently connected to the sea
     by a hidden flood tunnel. When the rip current changes and the flow in the tunnel reverses, you hear that noise. At least,
     that’s one theory.”
    The moan continued, slowly subsiding into a wet stutter before dying away completely.
    “You’ll hear another theory from the local fishermen,” Hatch said. “Maybe you noticed that there aren’t any lobster pots around
     the island. Don’t think that’s from any lack of lobsters.”
    “The Ragged Island curse,” Neidelman said, nodding, a sardonic look in his eyes. “I’ve heard of it.” There was a long silence
     while Neidelman looked down at the deck. Then he slowly raised his head. “I can’t bring your brother back to life,” he said.
     “But I can promise you this: we will learn what happened to him.”
    Hatch waved his hand, made speechless by a sudden overflow of emotion. He turned his face to the open pilothouse window, grateful
     for the concealing presence of the rain. Quite suddenly, he realized he could not bear to spend any more time at the island.
     He nosed the boat westward without explanation, opening the throttle as they once again entered the encircling mantle of mist.
     He wanted to return to his motel room, order an early lunch, and wash it down with a pitcher of Bloody Marys.
    They broke through the mist into the welcoming gleam of daylight. The