Riptide (48 page)

Streeter.

He sat up.

Isobel had been on the boat.

He tottered to his feet, fell back, then rose again, determined now. He’d fallen out the bow end of the dinghy, and the freakish
riptide had pulled him to this rocky shore around the end of the island. Ahead, dark against the angry sky, he saw the low
bluffs that guarded the pirate encampment. Bonterre would have landed nearer the beach. If she landed at all.

Suddenly, he could not bear the thought of her being dead.

He moved forward unsteadily, croaking Bonterre’s name. After a moment he stopped to look about, realizing that, in his confusion,
he was walking away from the beach toward the low bluffs. He staggered partway up the rise, then turned seaward. There was
no sign of Bonterre, or of the dinghy’s remains. Beyond the shore, the ocean was pounding the cofferdam relentlessly, every
blow sending seawater shooting at high pressure through a web of cracks.

There was a brief flicker of light, fingering its way along the dark shore. He looked again, and it was gone: a flash of lightning,
reflected off the rocks. He began to climb back down the bluff.

Suddenly the light was back again, closer this time, bobbing along the shoulder of the island. Then it swung upward, the powerful
pale light of a halogen beam stabbing into the dark. It moved back and forth along the shore, then raked inland past him.
Instinctively, Hatch began backing up the slope.

Then it was flaring in his eyes, blinding him. He dropped and turned, scrabbling up the bluff. The light licked the ground
around him, searching. There was a glare, and he saw his shadow rise away up the hill in front of him. He’d been targeted.

The strange, stuttering sound he’d heard from the
Cerberus
came again, rattling over the roar of the surf and the howl of the wind: the clatter of giant knitting needles. To his right,
small puffs of dirt and mud rose madly into the air in a jagged line. Streeter was behind him, in the dark, shooting at him
with the fléchette.

Quickly, Hatch rolled to his left, angling desperately for the top of the bluff. There was another demonic clatter as the
weapon tore into the spot where he’d lain a few seconds before, a hundred tungsten nails stitching ruin into the earth.

Half crawling, half rolling, Hatch crossed the top of the bluff and tumbled down the embankment on the far side, slipping
on the wet grass. He righted himself and glanced around wildly. There was no tree cover, just a long exposed run across the
meadow and up the rise of land toward Orthanc. Ahead, he could see the small equipment shed Bonterre used for fieldwork, and
beside it a precise dark rectangle cut into the ground: the pirate grave.

His glance settled on the equipment shed. He could hide inside, or perhaps beneath. But that would be the first place Streeter
looked.

Hatch hesitated another second. Then he sprinted down the meadow and leaped into the grave.

He staggered under the impact of the three-foot drop, then steadied himself. A tongue of lightning briefly illuminated the
pit around him. Some of the pirate skeletons had been removed from the mass grave. But most remained
in situ,
covered with tarps. The excavation was scheduled to be filled in the following week; Bonterre, he knew, had removed only
enough skeletons to get a unique cross section.

A shattering clap of thunder galvanized him into action. Quickly, he crawled beneath one of the tarps. There was something
sharp and uncomfortable beneath him: he reached into the dirt and plucked out a large section of crushed cranium. Brushing
it to one side, he lay still, waiting.

Beneath the tarp the dirt was damp but not muddy, and out of the rain and wind Hatch felt warmth begin to creep back into
his frozen limbs.

There was the sound of a foot being pulled from sucking mud.

Hatch held his breath. He heard a sharp squeal of metal as the door to the equipment shed was torn open. Then, silence.

Footsteps again, farther, then closer. Heavy, regular breathing, perhaps ten feet away. Hatch heard the mechanical
snick
of a weapon being readied. And he knew that Streeter hadn’t been fooled.

The fléchette barked, and suddenly the floor of the grave became alive, writhing with miniature clouds of dirt and sand and
bone fragments. From the corner of his eye, Hatch could see the tarp rearing and bucking, lifted into the air by the impact
of hundreds of tiny nails, the bones beneath collapsing into mud and powder. The frantic, deadly trails of needles came toward
him, and Hatch realized he had a second, maybe two, to decide what, if any, options remained.

The weapon coughed, then fell silent. There was a clattering of metal. Taking a desperate chance, Hatch rose from the ground
and jumped blindly from the grave in the direction of the sound, the tarp stretched wide before him. He slammed into Streeter,
toppling him backward into the mud. The fléchette fell to the ground, a fresh ammo canister beside it, and the flashlight
was knocked several feet into the grass. Streeter struggled wildly beneath the tarp, arms and legs flailing. Hatch brought
his knee up into what he guessed to be Streeter’s groin, and was rewarded by a gasp of pain.

“Bastard!” Hatch cried, smothering the figure with his own large body, battering and pounding through the tarp. “Runt
bastard!
”

There was a sudden blow to his chin and Hatch felt his teeth grind together. He staggered backward, head suddenly light; Streeter
must have butted him with his head. Hatch fell heavily back onto the tarp but Streeter was wiry and strong for his size, and
Hatch could feel him begin to twist free. Quickly, he leapt for the fresh canister and flung it far into the darkness. Then
he moved toward the flashlight as Streeter jumped to his feet, tearing free of the muddy tarp. Streeter’s hand reached toward
his own belt and came away with a small automatic weapon. Making an instant decision, Hatch brought his foot down on the light.

Darkness clapped down as a shot rang out. Hatch ran blindly then, zigzagging through the meadow, heading for the central rise
of land and the maze of trails beyond. A tongue of lightning illuminated Streeter, a hundred yards below; the man caught sight
of him, turned, and approached at a dead run. Hatch dashed toward the main workings, moving first up one path, then another,
relying on feel to keep within the borders of yellow tape. Behind, he could hear pounding tread and heavy breathing.

As he topped the rise he saw the glow of Orthanc, lancing through the mists. He started toward it, then shrank away again:
even to go near the light, he realized, would give Streeter a clear shot.

Hatch thought quickly. He could head down to the Base Camp, try and lose Streeter in the cluster of buildings. But he could
easily be trapped there. Besides, he had to shake Streeter soon.

He realized he wasn’t going to do it on the surface of the island.

There was one tunnel, the Boston Shaft, that led down into the earth at a gentle angle. If he remembered correctly, it connected
with the Water Pit at a great depth. Neidelman had pointed it out to him on the morning—just a few weeks before, was it possible?—when
they’d first located the site of the original Pit.

There was no more time. He glanced up at the glow of Orthanc, oriented himself, then turned down another trail. There it was:
a dark hole yawning behind safety tape, fringed with ragged weeds.

He slipped under the tape and stood at the edge of the Boston Shaft. It was very dark, and the wind blew the rain horizontally
into his eyes.
Gentle angle?
In the blackness, the shaft looked like a vertical drop to him. He hesitated, peering downward. Then there was the sound
of footsteps clattering over a metal walkway. He grabbed the slender trunk of a chokecherry bush, swung himself over the edge,
and scrabbled on the slippery walls of the shaft, trying to find a purchase with his feet. But there was none; the roots came
out with a tearing sound and Hatch felt himself falling through empty space.

A short, terrifying drop, and he hit muddy bottom with a jolt. He scrambled to his feet, shaken but unhurt. There was only
the faintest square of sky visible above him, a blurred patch that was a lighter shade of black. But he saw, or thought he
saw, a shape moving along its edge…

There was a deafening roar, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. A second roar followed almost immediately, and something
smacked into the muddy shaft inches from his head.

Hatch twisted out of the shaft and began running down the tunnel. He knew what Streeter was doing: using the muzzle flash
from his first shot to aim a second.

The incline of the tunnel floor was steep, and Hatch found himself slipping. He began to lose his balance as he ran, and he
fought to keep from plunging, out of control, into absolute darkness. After several terrifying seconds, the incline leveled
out enough for him to gain a purchase and come to a stop.

He stood in the humid chill of the tunnel, listening, trying to control his gasping breath. To run blindly ahead was suicide.
The tunnel could well be honeycombed with pits or shafts—

There was a wet thump behind him, followed by the sound of footsteps slapping against mud.

Hatch felt for the side of the tunnel. His hand closed over the slimy cribwork and he began descending again as quickly as
he dared, trying to stay rational. Streeter would no doubt shoot again. He’d probably try another pair of shots. But Streeter’s
strategy could also be useful to Hatch: the light from the first shot might give him an idea of what lay ahead.

It was the second shot that would be deadly.

The first shot came almost in answer to his thought, echoing deafeningly within the narrow confines of the tunnel. As Hatch
threw himself sideways into the mud, the second shot ripped into the cribbing directly behind him.

In the muzzle flash, he saw that the tunnel continued downward uninterrupted.

Pushing himself to his feet, he ran ahead blindly, arms outstretched, half stumbling, half sliding, as far as he dared and
then farther. At last he stopped, felt for the wall again, and listened. Streeter would still be behind him, proceeding more
cautiously. If Hatch could lose him somehow in the tunnel, maybe he could reach the point, deep beneath the ground, where
the Boston Shaft intersected the Water Pit. Neidelman would be there. He couldn’t possibly know what Streeter was up to; Streeter
must have suffered a psychotic break, nothing else made sense. If he could just reach the main shaft…

Another shot came, much closer than he’d expected. He swung desperately away, the second barely missing him. Ahead, he saw
that the tunnel branched, a narrow passage to his left ending in what appeared to be a gaping hole. There was a third shot,
then a fourth, and something ripped through his ear with a tearing sting.

He’d been hit. Running now, he grabbed wildly at his face, feeling for the blood that trickled from his torn ear. He ducked
down the narrow branch and went as far toward the hole as he dared. Then he flattened himself against the wall and waited
in the close blackness, muscles tensed. At the next muzzle flash, he’d spring back, grab Streeter, and toss him down. It was
even possible that Streeter, in his haste, might run right into the hole himself.

In the intense, listening dark he heard a faint pattering, barely louder than the pounding of his own heart. It was Streeter,
feeling his way along the wall. Hatch waited. Now he could hear the faint rasp of breath. Streeter was being careful with
his rounds. No doubt he had a limited supply. Perhaps he would be forced to…

Suddenly, there was the flash and roar of a shot. Hatch lunged, trying desperately to beat the second shot, and as he closed
on Streeter there was an immense blow to his head. A stunning light filled his eyes, blotting out thought, blotting out everything.

K
eeping as much as possible to the shelter of the rocks, Bonterre hiked inland from Base Camp to the narrow marked trail that
mounted the rise of the island. She began ascending stealthily, pausing every few moments to listen. Away from the lights
of the camp it was dark, so dark that at times she had to feel for the lines of yellow tape, broken and fluttering wildly
in the gale. The muddy trail rose, then dipped again, following the contour of the island. She was soaked to the skin, rain
running in thin rivulets from her chin, elbows, and hands.

The path climbed once again and she topped a rise. The skeletal structure of Orthanc lay several hundred yards ahead a trio
of lights winking atop its superstructure, the windows brilliant squares of light etched against the night. The ATV was there,
its bulbous tires slick with rain. Two large, empty metal containers were in tow. Below the tower, the mouth of the Pit was
dark. But a ghostly light shimmered up from below, as if from a great depth. She could hear the clank of machinery, the rumble
of the air pumps, even over the howl of the storm.

Through the glass windows of Orthanc, she could make out a dark shape moving slowly.