Free Riptide by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

with Dr. Frazier.” He reminded himself
     that his particular brand of wit wasn’t especially common in rural Maine.
    “That’s good.” Bud gave his guest a sidelong look. “Then maybe it’s got to do with those helicopters.”
    Hatch looked at him quizzically.
    “Just yesterday it was. Nice, sharp, clear day. Two helicopters came by. Big things they were, too. Went right over town and
     headed out toward the islands. Seen them hovering over Ragged Island for quite a spell. I thought they were from the army
     base.” Bud’s look turned speculative. “But then again, maybe not.”
    Hatch was spared having to reply by the creak of the screen door. He waited while Bud lumbered inside to attend to the customer.
     “Business seems good,” he replied when Bud returned.
    “Can’t hardly say that,” Bud replied. “Out of season, population’s down to eight hundred.”
    Hatch thought to himself that this was about the size Stormhaven had always been.
    “Ayuh,” Bud went on, “kids just up and leave now when they finish high school. Don’t want to stay in town. They go off to
     the big cities, Bangor, Augusta. One even went so far as Boston. We’ve had five kids leave town in the last three years. If
     it weren’t for the summerpeople, or that nudist camp on Pine Neck, I don’t think I’d have two extra pennies to rub together.”
    Hatch merely nodded. Bud was obviously prospering, but it would have been impolite to disagree with him in his own store.
     The “nudist camp” he referred to was actually an artists’ colony, located on an old estate in a pine forest some ten miles
     up the coast. Hatch remembered that thirty years before, a lobsterman pulling traps had seen a nude sunbather on their beach.
     The memory of a Maine seacoast town was long indeed.
    “And how’s your mother?” Bud asked.
    “She passed away in 1985. Cancer.”
    “Sorry to hear that.” Hatch could tell Bud meant it. “She was a good woman, and she raised some fine… a fine son.” After a
     short silence Bud rocked back in his chair and polished off his birch beer. “Seen Claire yet?” he asked, as nonchalantly as
     possible.
    Hatch waited a moment. “She still around?” he replied with equal nonchalance.
    “Yup,” said Bud. “Been some changes in her life. And how about you? Any family?”
    Hatch smiled. “No wife. Not yet, anyway.” He put down his empty bottle and stood. It was definitely time to go. “Bud, it’s
     been great visiting with you. I think I’ll go and fix myself dinner.”
    Bud nodded and clapped him on the back as Hatch pushed his way through into the store. He had his hand on the screen door
     when Bud cleared his throat.
    “One other thing, Malin.”
    Hatch froze. He knew he’d gotten off too easily. He waited, dreading the question he knew was coming.
    “You watch out with that licorice,” Bud said with great solemnity. “Those teeth won’t last forever, you know.”

7

    H atch emerged on the deck of the
Plain Jane,
stretched, then looked around the harbor through slitted eyes. The town of Stormhaven was quiet, almost torpid under the heavy
     light of the July afternoon, and he felt grateful for the silence. The night before, he’d washed down the steak with a little
     more Beefeater’s than he’d intended, and he’d woken that morning to his first hangover in almost a decade.
    It had been a day of several firsts. It was the first day he had spent in the cabin of a boat since his trip down the Amazon.
     He’d forgotten how peaceful it could be, alone with nothing but the gentle rocking of the waves for company. It was also the
     first day he could remember without having much of anything to do. His lab was now closed down for the month of August, and
     Bruce the bewildered lab assistant had been sent off to write up initial results under the care of a colleague. The Cambridge
     town house was locked up, with instructions to the housekeeper that he would not be back until September.