Clay paused to draw breath. Bud glanced across the congregation. The fishermen and lobstermen were murmuring among themselves. Claire was looking away from the minister, down at her hands.
Clay began again. "What about all the others who have died, or been crippled, or bankrupted, by this accursed hoard? This treasure hunt is evil incarnate. And all who profit from it, directly or indirectly, must expect to be held accountable. You see, in the final reckoning, it will not matter whether or not treasure is found. The mere search is a sin, abhorrent to God. And the more Stormhaven follows that path of sin, the more penance we can expect to pay. Penance in ruined livelihood. Penance in ruined fishing. Penance in ruined lives."
He cleared his throat. "Over the years, there's been a great deal of talk about a curse on Ragged Island and the Water Pit. Now, a lot of people will dismiss such talk. They'll tell you that only ignorant, uneducated folk believe that kind of superstition." He pointed toward the stone. "Tell that to Simon Rutter. Tell that to Ezekiel Harris. Tell that to John Hatch."
Clay's voice fell almost to a whisper. "There have been some strange doings on the island. Doings they're not telling you about. Equipment is malfunctioning mysteriously. Unexplained events are throwing things off schedule. And just a few days ago, they uncovered a mass grave on the island. A grave hastily filled with the bones of pirates. Eighty, perhaps one hundred people. There were no marks of violence. Nobody knows how they died. The beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them. And their dead bodies shall lie in the streets.
"How did these men die?" Clay suddenly thundered. "It was the hand of God. Because do you know what else was found with the dead?"
The room fell so silent that Bud could hear the brushing of a twig against a nearby window.
"Gold," Clay said in a harsh whisper.
Chapter 32
As site doctor for the Ragged Island venture, Hatch was required to handle the red tape relating to Wopner's death. So, bringing in a registered nurse from downcoast to watch the medical hut, he locked up the big house on Ocean Lane and drove to Machiasport, where a formal inquest was held. The following morning, he left for Bangor. By the time he finished filling out the reams of archaic paperwork and returned home to Stormhaven, three working days had passed.
Heading to the island that same afternoon, he soon felt more confident he'd made the right decision in not challenging Neidelman's decision to press on. Though the Captain had been driving the crews hard over the last several days, the effort—and the exhaustive new precautions the teams had been taking since Wopner's death—seemed to have dispelled much of the gloom. Still, the pace was taking its tolclass="underline" Hatch found himself attending to almost half a dozen minor injuries during the course of the afternoon. And in addition to the injuries, the nurse had referred three cases of illness among the crew to him: a fairly high count, considering that the total personnel on the island had now dropped to half the original number. One complained of apathy and nausea, while another had developed a bacterial infection Hatch had read about but never seen. Yet another had a simple, nonspecific viral infection: not serious, but the man was running a pretty good fever. At least Neidelman can't accuse him of malingering, Hatch thought as he drew blood for later testing on the Cerberus.
Early the next morning, he wandered up the trail to the mouth of the Water Pit. The pace was obviously frantic—even Bonterre, emerging from the Pit with a handheld laser for measuring distances, barely had time for more than a nod and a smile. But a remarkable amount of work had been accomplished. The ladder array was now fully braced from top to bottom, and a small lift had been attached to one side for quick transport into the depths. A technician told him that the soundings and measurements of the Pit's interior were now almost complete. Neidelman was nowhere to be found, but the technician said the Captain had gone practically without sleep for the last three days, closeted in Orthanc, directing the gridding-out of the Pit.
Hatch found himself speculating on what the Captain would do next. It wasn't surprising, his throwing himself into his work in the wake of Wopner's death. But now the obvious tasks were almost done: the ladder array was complete, and the Pit would soon be fully mapped. Nothing remained except to descend the Pit and dig—with extreme caution—for the gold.
Hatch stood silently for a minute, thinking about the gold and what he would do with his share. A billion dollars was a stupendous amount of money. Perhaps it was unnecessary to put the entire sum into the Johnny Hatch Foundation. It would be hard even to give away such a sum. Besides, it would be nice to have a new boat for his berth in Lynn. And he found himself recalling a beautiful, secluded house on Brattle Street, close to the hospital, that was for sale. He also shouldn't forget that someday he would have children. Was it right to deprive them of a generous inheritance? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to keep back a few million, perhaps as much as five, for personal use. Maybe even ten, as a cushion. Nobody would object to that.
He stared down into the Pit a moment longer, wondering if his old friend Donny Truitt was on one of the teams working somewhere in the dark spaces beneath his feet. Then he turned and headed back down the path.
Entering Island One, he found Magnusen in front of the computer, her fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard, mouth set in a disapproving line. The ice-cream sandwich wrappers and discarded circuit boards were gone, and the crowded racks of computer equipment, along with their fat looping cables and multicolored ribbons, had been placed in severe order. All traces of Wopner had vanished. Looking around, Hatch had the illogical feeling that the rapid cleanup was, in some strange way, a slight against the programmer's memory. As usual, Magnusen continued her work, completely ignoring Hatch.
He looked around another minute. "Excuse me!" he barked at last, feeling unaccountably gratified at the slight jump she gave. "I wanted to pick up a plaintext transcript of the journal," he explained as Magnusen stopped typing and turned to look at him with her curiously empty face.
"Of course," she said evenly. Then she sat, waiting expectantly.
"Well?"
"Where is it?" she replied.
This made no sense. "Where is what?" Hatch asked.
For a moment, Hatch was certain a look of triumph flitted over the engineer's face before the mask descended once again. "You mean you don't have the Captain's permission?"
His look of surprise was answer enough. "New rules," she went on. "Only one hardcopy of the decrypted journal is to be kept in Stores, not to be signed out without written authorization from the Captain."
Momentarily, Hatch found himself left without a response. "Dr. Magnusen," he said as calmly as possible, "that rule can't apply to me."
"The Captain didn't mention any exceptions."
Without a word, Hatch stepped over to the telephone. Accessing the island's phone network, he dialed the number for Orthanc and asked for the Captain.
"Malin!" came the strong voice of Neidelman. "I've been meaning to drop by to find out how everything went on the mainland."
"Captain, I'm here in Island One with Dr. Magnusen. What's this about me needing authorization to access the Macallan journal?"
"It's just a security formality," came the reply. "A way to keep the plaintext accounted for. You and I talked about the need for that. Don't take it personally."