Riptide (25 page)

“But I like this jacket,” Hatch protested.

“You American men do not know how to dress at all. What you need is a good suit of Italian linen.”

“I hate linen,” Hatch said. “It’s always wrinkled.”

“That is the point!” Bonterre laughed. “What size are you? Forty-two long?”

“How did you know?”

“I am good at measuring a man.”

H
atch picked her up outside the post office, and they walked down the steep cobbled streets toward The Landing. It was a beautiful,
cool evening; the clouds had blown away, and a vast bowl of stars hung over the harbor. In the clear evening light, with the
little yellow lights of the town twinkling in windows and above doorways, Stormhaven seemed to Hatch like a place from a remote
and friendlier past.

“This is truly a charming place,” Bonterre said as she took his arm. “Saint Pierre, where I grew up on Martinique, is also
beautiful, but
alors,
such a difference! It is all lights and colors. Not like here, where everything is black and white. And there is much to
do there, very good nightclubs for wild times.”

“I don’t like nightclubs,” said Hatch.

“How boring,” said Bonterre, good-naturedly.

They arrived at the restaurant, and the waiter, recognizing Hatch, seated them immediately. It was a cozy place: two rambling
rooms and a bar, decorated with nets, wooden lobster pots, and glass floats. Taking a seat, Hatch looked around. Fully a third
of the patrons were Thalassa employees.

“Que de monde!”
Bonterre whispered. “One cannot get away from company people. I cannot wait for Gerard to send them all home.”

“It’s like that in a small town. The only way you can get away is to go out on the water. And even then, there’s always someone
in the town looking at you with a telescope.”

“No sex on deck, then,” said Bonterre.

“No,” said Hatch. “We New Englanders always have sex below.” He watched her break into a delighted smile, and he wondered
what kind of havoc she’d wreak among the male crew in the days to come. “So what was it you did today that made you so dirty?”

“What is this obsession with dirt?” she frowned. “Mud is the archaeologist’s friend.” She leaned across the table. “As it
happens, I made a little discovery on your muddy old island.”

“Tell me about it.”

She took a sip from her water glass. “We discovered the pirate encampment.”

Hatch looked at her. “You’re kidding.”

“
Mais non!
This morning, we set out to examine the windward side of the island. You know that spot where a large bluff stands off by
itself, maybe ten meters down the rocks?”

“Yes.”

“Right there, where the bluff was eroding, there was a perfect soil profile. A vertical cut, very convenient to the archaeologist.
I was able to locate a lens of charcoal.”

Hatch frowned. “A what?”

“You know. A black lens of charcoal. The remains of an ancient fire. So we ran a metal detector across the site and right
then began finding things. Grapeshot, a musket ball, and several horseshoe nails.” She ticked the items on her fingers.

“Horseshoe nails?”

“Yes. They used horses for the heavy work.”

“Where did they get them?”

“Are you so ignorant of naval history,
monsieur le docteur?
It was common to carry livestock on ships. Horses, goats, chickens, pigs.”

Their dinners arrived—steamers and lobsters for Hatch, a bloody top sirloin for Bonterre. The archaeologist tucked into the
food at an alarming rate, and Hatch watched her eat with amusement: juice dripping from her chin, a furrowed, intent look
in her face.

“Anyway,” she went on, spearing an extravagantly large morsel of steak with her fork, “after those discoveries, we dug a test
trench just behind the bluffs. And what do you think? More charcoal, a circular tent depression, a few broken turkey and deer
bones. Rankin has some fancy sensors he wants to drag over to the site, in case we miss any spots. But meanwhile, we have
gridded the camp and will start excavation tomorrow. My little Christophe is becoming an excellent digger.”

“St. John? Digging?”

“But of course. I made him get rid of those horrid shoes and jacket. Once he resigned himself to getting his hands dirty,
he proved most able. Now he is my prime digger. He follows me everywhere and comes when I whistle.” She laughed in a kindly
way.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor man.”

“
Au contraire,
I am doing him good. He needs the fresh air and the exercise, or he will stay as white and fat as a grub. You wait. When
I am through with him, he will be all wire and gristle, like
le petit homme.
”

“Who?”

“You know. The little man.” The corners of Bonterre’s mouth turned down impishly. “Streeter.”

“Ah.” The way Bonterre said it, Hatch could tell the nickname wasn’t meant fondly. “What’s his story, anyway?”

Bonterre shrugged. “One hears things. Hard to know what is the truth and what is not. He was under Neidelman in Vietnam. That
is how you say it,
non?
Somebody told me that Neidelman once saved his life during combat. That story is one I believe. You see how devoted he is
to the Captain? Like a dog to his master. He is the only one the Captain really trusts.” She stared at Hatch. “Except for
you, of course.”

Hatch frowned. “Well, I suppose it’s good the Captain cares about him. Somebody has to. I mean, the guy’s not exactly Mr.
Personality.”

Bonterre raised her eyebrows. “
Certainement.
And I can see that the two of you got off on the other foot.”

“The wrong foot,” Hatch corrected.

“Whatever. But you are wrong when you say that Captain Neidelman cares about Streeter. There’s only one thing he cares about.”
She gave the briefest of nods in the direction of Ragged Island. “He does not talk about it much, but only an
imbécile
would not see. Do you know that, as long as I have known him, he has had a small photograph of your island, sitting on his
desk at Thalassa?”

“No, I didn’t.” Hatch’s thoughts went back to the first trip out to the island with Neidelman. What was it the Captain had
said?
I didn’t want to see it unless we’d have the chance to dig it.

Something seemed to have upset Bonterre. As Hatch opened his mouth to change the subject, he sensed something, someone—a presence
across the room—and when he looked up there was Claire, coming around the corner. The intended remark died on his lips.

She was just as he’d imagined she would be: tall and willowy, with the same dash of freckles across the upturned nose. She
saw him and stopped dead, her face wrinkling into that same funny frown of surprise he remembered.

“Hello, Claire,” Hatch said, standing up awkwardly and trying to keep his voice neutral.

She stepped forward. “Hello,” she said, shaking his hand, and at the touch of his skin against hers a pink flush formed on
her cheeks. “I heard you were in town.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Of course, who hasn’t. I mean, with all that—”
and she made a vague gesture over her shoulder, as if to indicate the Water Pit.

“You look great,” Hatch said. And she did: the years had made her slender and turned her dark blue eyes a penetrating gray.
The mischievous smile once etched permanently on her lips had given way to a more serious, introspective look. She smoothed
her pleated skirt unconsciously as she felt his eyes on her.

There was movement at the restaurant entrance, then the minister, Woody Clay, stepped in. He looked around the room until
his eyes landed on Hatch. A spasm of displeasure moved quickly across his sallow face, and he came forward.
Not here,
Hatch thought, bracing himself for another lecture about greed and the ethics of treasure hunting. Sure enough, the minister
stopped at their table, glancing from Hatch to Bon-terre and back. Hatch wondered if the man would actually have the gall
to interrupt their dinner.

“Oh,” said Claire, looking at the minister and touching her long blond hair. “Woody, this is Malin Hatch.”

“We’ve met,” Clay nodded.

With relief, Hatch realized it wasn’t likely that Clay would launch into another tirade with the two women looking on. “This
is Dr. Isobel Bonterre,” he said, recovering his composure. “May I introduce Claire Northcutt and—”

“Reverend and Mrs. Woodruff Clay,” said the minister crisply, extending his hand to Bonterre.

Hatch was stunned, his mind almost refusing to accept this fresh surprise.

Bonterre dabbed at her lips with a napkin and stood up with a languid motion, giving Claire and Woody each a hearty handshake,
exposing a row of dazzling teeth. There was an awkward pause, and then Clay ushered his wife away with a curt nod to Hatch.

Bonterre glanced at the retreating figure of Claire, then back at Hatch. “Old friends?” she asked.

“What?” Hatch murmured. He was staring at Clay’s left hand, possessively placed in the small of Claire’s back.

An arch smile formed on Bonterre’s face. “No, I can see I am wrong,” she said, leaning over the table. “Old
lovers.
How awkward it is to meet again! And yet how sweet.”

“You have a keen eye,” mumbled Hatch, still too off balance from the encounter—and the revelation that followed—to make any
kind of denial.

“But you and the husband, you are
not
old friends. In fact, it seemed to me that he does not like you at all. That tiresome frown, and those big black bags under
his eyes. He looks like he had a
nuit blanche.
”

“A what?”

“A
nuit blanche.
A—how do you say it?—a sleepless night. For one reason or another.” She smiled wickedly.

Instead of replying, Hatch picked up his fork and tried to busy himself with his lobster.

“I can see you still carry her torch,” Bonterre purred, with a cheerful smile. “Someday you must tell me of her. But first,
let me hear about
you.
The Captain’s mentioned your travels. So tell me all about your adventures in Suriname.”

Almost two hours later, Hatch forced himself to his feet and followed Bonterre out of the restaurant. He had overindulged
ridiculously, obscenely: two desserts, two pots of coffee, several brandies. Bonterre had matched him enthusiastically, order
for order, yet she did not seem any worse for wear as she threw open her arms and breathed in the crisp night breeze.

“How refreshing this air is!” she cried. “I could almost learn to love a place like this.”

“Just wait,” Hatch replied. “Another two weeks, and you won’t be able to leave. It gets in your blood.”

“Another two weeks, and you will not be able to get out of my way fast enough,
monsieur le docteur.
” She looked at him appraisingly. “So what do we do now?”

Hatch hesitated a moment. He’d never thought about what might happen after dinner. He returned the gaze, warning bells once
again sounding faintly in his head. Silhouetted in the yellow glow of the streetlamps, the archaeologist looked captivatingly
beautiful, her tawny skin and almond eyes bewitchingly exotic in the small Maine village.
Careful,
the voice said.

“I think we say good night,” he managed to say. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Immediately, her eyebrows creased in an exaggerated frown.
“C’est tout!”
she pouted. “You Yankees have had all the marrow sucked from your bones. I should have gone out with Sergio. He at least
has the fire in the belly, even if his body odor could kill a goat.” She squinted up at him. “So how exactly
do
you say good night in Stormhaven, Doctor Hatch?”

“Like this.” Hatch stepped forward and gave her hand a shake.

“Ah.” Bonterre nodded slowly, as if comprehending. “I see.” Then, quickly, she took his face in her hands and pulled it toward
her, letting her lips graze his. As her hands dropped away from his face caressingly, Hatch could feel the tip of her tongue
flick teasingly against his for the briefest of moments.

“And that is how we say good night in Martinique,” she murmured. Then she turned in the direction of the post office and,
without glancing back, walked into the night.