Riptide (29 page)

“What surprises me most,” Hatch concluded, “is the sheer body count. The teams had identified eighty individuals by the end
of this afternoon, and the site isn’t fully excavated yet.”

“Indeed.” The professor fell into silence, his gaze resting vaguely in the middle distance. Then he roused himself, put down
his cup, brushed the lapels of his jacket with a curiously delicate gesture, and stood up. “Scurvy,” he repeated, almost to
himself, and followed with a snort of derision. “Walk me to the door, will you? I’ve taken up enough of your time for one
evening.”

At the door the professor paused, and turned. He gave Hatch a steady look, his eyes dancing with veiled interest. “Tell me,
Malin, what are the dominant flora of Ragged Island? I’ve never been there.”

“Well,” said Hatch, “it’s a typical outer island, no trees to speak of, covered with sawgrass, chokecherries, burdock, and
tea roses.”

“Ah. Chokecherry pie—delicious. And have you ever experienced the pleasure of rose hip tea?”

“Of course,” said Malin. “My mother drank lots of rose hip tea—for her health, she said. Hated the stuff myself.”

Professor Horn coughed into his hand, a gesture that Hatch remembered as one of disapproval. “What?” he asked defensively.

“Chokecherries and rose hips,” the professor said, “were a staple part of the diet along this coast in centuries past. Both
are very good for you, extremely high in vitamin C.”

There was a silence. “Oh,” said Hatch. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“Seventeenth-century sailors may not have known what caused scurvy, but they
did
know that almost any fresh berries, fruits, roots, or vegetables cured it.” The professor looked searchingly at Hatch. “And
there’s another problem with our hasty diagnosis.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the
way
those bodies were buried.” The old man rapped his cane on the floor for emphasis. “Malin, scurvy doesn’t make you toss fourscore
people into a common grave and skedaddle in such a hurry that you leave gold and emeralds behind.”

There was a distant flash, then a roll of thunder far to the south. “But what would?” Hatch asked.

Dr. Horn’s only answer was an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Then he turned, limped down the steps, and hobbled away, the
faint tapping of his cane sounding long after his form had disappeared into the warm enveloping darkness of Ocean Lane.

E
arly the next morning, Hatch entered Island One to find the small command-and-control center jammed with an unusually large
gathering. Bonterre, Kerry Wopner, and St. John were all talking at once. Only Magnusen and Captain Neidelman were silent:
Magnusen quietly running diagnostics, and Neidelman standing in the center, lighting his pipe, calm as the eye of a hurricane.

“Are you nuts or something?” Wopner was saying. “I should be back on the
Cerberus,
decrypting that journal, not frigging spelunking. I’m a programmer, not a sewer worker.”

“There’s no other choice,” Neidelman said, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking at Wopner. “You saw the numbers.”

“Yeah, yeah. What did you expect? Nothing works right on this damn island.”

“Did I miss something?” Hatch said, coming forward.

“Ah. Good morning, Malin,” Neidelman said, giving him a brief smile. “Nothing major. We’ve had a few problems with the electronics
on the ladder array.”

“A few,” Wopner scoffed.

“The upshot is that we’ll have to take Kerry along with us this morning on our exploration of the Pit.”

“The hell with that!” Wopner said petulantly. “I keep telling you, the last domino has fallen. That code is mine, believe
you me. Scylla’ll have the bad boy fully deciphered in a couple of hours.”

“If the last domino has fallen, then Christopher here can do the monitoring,” Neidelman said, a little more sharply.

“That’s correct,” St. John replied, his chest swelling slightly. “It’s just a question of taking the output and making some
character substitutions.”

Wopner looked from one to the other, his lower lip projecting in an exaggerated pout.

“It’s a simple matter of where you’re most needed,” Neidelman said. “And you’re most needed on our team.” He turned to Hatch.
“It’s imperative that we get these piezoelectric sensors in place throughout the Pit. Once they’re linked to the computer
network, they’ll serve as an early warning system in case of structural failure anywhere underground. But so far, Kerry’s
been unsuccessful at calibrating the sensors remotely from Island One.” He glanced at Wopner. “With the network acting flaky,
that means he’s going to have to come along with us and calibrate them manually, using a palmtop computer. Then he can download
the information into the computer’s registry. It’s a nuisance, but there’s nothing else for it.”

“A nuisance?” Wopner said. “A major pain in the ass is more like it.”

“Most of the crew would give half their shares to be along on the first penetration,” St. John said.

“Penetrate this,” Wopner muttered as he turned away. Bonterre giggled.

Neidelman turned to the historian. “Tell Dr. Hatch about the sentence you just deciphered from the second half of the journal.”

St. John cleared his throat self-importantly. “It’s not a sentence, really,” he said. “More of a sentence fragment:
Ye who luste after the key to the,
some word or other,
Pitt shall find….
”

Hatch looked at the Captain in amazement. “So there
is
a secret key to the Water Pit.”

Neidelman smiled, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. “It’s almost eight,” he said. “Assemble your gear and let’s
get started.”

Hatch returned to his office for his medical field kit, then met up with the group as they were trekking up the rise of the
island toward Orthanc. “
Merde,
it’s cold,” Bonterre said, blowing on her hands and hugging herself. “What kind of a summer morning do you call this?”

“A summer morning in Maine,” Hatch replied. “Enjoy it. The air will put hair on your chest.”

“That is something I have little need of,
monsieur le docteur.
” She jogged ahead, trying to keep warm, and as Hatch followed he realized that he, too, was shivering slightly; whether from
the cold or the anticipation of the coming descent he wasn’t sure. The tattered edge of a front had at last begun to cast
a long shadow across the island, swiftly followed by ranks of piling thunderheads.

As he reached the crest of the island, Hatch could see the tall form of Orthanc, bundles of multicolored cable streaming from
its dark underbelly down into the maw of the Water Pit. Only it was no longer the Water Pit: Now it was drained, accessible,
its innermost secrets waiting to be plumbed.

Hatch shivered again and moved forward. From this vantage point, he could see the gray crescent of the cofferdam, tracing
an arc into the sea around the southern end of the island. It was a bizarre sight. On the far side of the cofferdam lay the
dark blue expanse of ocean, disappearing into the perpetual veiling mist; on the closer side, the stony seabed lay exposed
almost obscenely, scattered with pools of stagnant water. Here and there on the dry ocean floor, Hatch could see markers placed
in rocky outcroppings: the flood tunnel entrances, tagged for later examination and analysis. On the beach beside the cofferdam
there were several piles of rusted junk, waterlogged wood, and other debris grappled up from the depths of the Pit, cleared
for their expedition.

Streeter and his crew were standing at the staging area beside the mouth of the Pit, pulling up some cables, dropping others.
Approaching, Hatch saw what looked like the end of a massive ladder peering over the top of the Pit. The siderails of the
ladder were made from thick gleaming tubes of metal, with two sets of rubber-covered rungs in between. Hatch knew it had taken
the team much of the night to bolt the sections together and work them down, maneuvering past invisible obstacles and the
remaining snarls of junk caught on the bracing timbers that crisscrossed the shaft.

“That’s what I call a ladder on steroids,” he said, whistling.

“It’s more than a ladder,” Neidelman replied. “It’s a ladder array. Those tubular siderails are made from a titanium alloy.
It’ll serve as the backbone for the Pit’s support structure. In time, we’ll build a radiating web of titanium struts from
the array, which will brace the walls and timbers and keep the Pit stable while we dig. And we’ll attach a platform lift to
the ladder, like an elevator.”

He pointed toward the ladder struts. “Each tube is wired with fiber-optic, coax, and electrical cable, and every rung has
a kick light. Eventually, every part of the structure will be computer controlled, from the servos to the monitoring cameras.
But so far, friend Wopner has not been entirely successful in bringing the installation under remote control. Hence, his invitation
to join us.” He tapped the upper works with one foot. “Built to Thalassa specifications at a cost of nearly two hundred thousand
dollars.”

Wopner, overhearing, came over with a grin. “Hey, Captain,” he said. “I know where you can pick up some really nice $600 toilet
seats, too.”

Neidelman smiled. “Glad to see your mood improving, Mr. Wopner. Let’s get geared up.”

He turned to the group. “Our most important task today is to attach these piezoelectric stress sensors into the cribbing and
shoring beams of the Pit.” He pulled one from his pack and handed it around. It was a small strip of metal, with a computer
chip in its center, sealed in hard, clear plastic. At each end, sticking out at right angles, was a half-inch tack. “Just
tap or press it into the wood. Mr. Wopner will calibrate and register it into his palmtop database.”

While Neidelman talked, a technician approached Hatch and helped him shrug into a harness. Then the man handed him a helmet
and showed him how to use the intercom and halogen headlamp. Next, he was handed a satchel containing a quantity of the piezoelectric
sensors.

As he arranged his medical kit, Hatch saw Neidelman motioning him toward the railing. He stepped forward, and the Captain
spoke into the mike attached to his helmet. “Magnusen, restore power to the array.”

As Hatch watched, a string of lights snapped on along the ladder, illuminating in a brilliant yellow light the entire ghastly
length of the Water Pit. The triple row of glowing struts descended into the earth like some pathway to hell.

For the first time, Hatch could see just what the Pit looked like. It was a ragged square, perhaps ten feet across, cribbed
on all four sides with heavy logs, which were notched and mortised into massive vertical beams at each corner. Every ten feet,
the shaft was crisscrossed by four smaller beams that met in the middle of the Pit, evidently bracing the sides and preventing
them from collapsing inward. Hatch was struck by how overengineered the Pit seemed to be: It was as if Macallan had built
it to last a millennium, instead of the few years it would take for Ockham to return and retrieve his treasure.

Staring down the descending rows of lights, Hatch finally realized, in his gut, just how deep the Pit was. The lights seemed
to stretch toward a pinpoint of darkness, so far below that the rails of the ladder almost converged in the murky depths.
The Pit was alive, rustling with the sounds of ticking, dripping, and creaking, along with indeterminate whispers and moans.

A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the island, and a sudden wind pressed down the sawgrass around the Pit. Then a hard
rain followed, drowning bracken and machine alike. Hatch stood where he was, partly sheltered by the massive bulk of Orthanc.
Within a matter of minutes, he thought, they would simply mount the ladder and climb to the bottom. Once again, the perverse
feeling returned that everything was too easy—until he felt the Pit exhale the cold odor of the mudflat: a powerful smell
of saltwater mingled with suppuration and decay, the outgassing of dead fish, and rotting seaweed. A sudden thought rushed
into his mind:
Somewhere in that warren of tunnels is Johnny’s body.
It was a discovery he both wanted and dreaded with all his soul.

A technician handed Neidelman a small gas-monitoring meter, and he slipped it around his neck. “Remember, we’re not going
down for a leisurely stroll,” Neidelman said, glancing at the team. “The only time you are to be unclipped from the array
is when it becomes necessary to place a sensor. We’ll set them, calibrate them, and get out quickly. But while we’re at it,
I want everyone to make as many observations as possible: the condition of the cribbing, the size and number of the tunnels,
anything that seems pertinent. The bottom itself is still deep in mud, so we’ll be concentrating on the walls and the mouths
of the side tunnels.” He paused, adjusting his helmet. “Okay. Clip on your lifelines and let’s go.”

The lifelines were snapped onto their harnesses. Neidelman moved among them, double-checking the karabiners and testing each
line.

“I feel like a frigging telephone repairman,” Wopner complained. Hatch glanced over at the programmer, who, in addition to
his satchel of piezoelectric sensors, had two palmtop computers dangling from his belt.