Read Online Riptide by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online Page A

house could be readied for him. He poked around, dropping necessities into
     the cart here and there, until at last he realized he was just delaying the inevitable. With an effort he pushed the cart
     toward the front of the store and found himself face-to-face with Bud Rowell: large, bald, and cheerful, in a crisp butcher’s
     apron. Many times, Hatch remembered Bud slipping him and Johnny forbidden red licorice sticks under the counter. It drove
     their mother crazy.
    “Afternoon,” said Bud, his glance moving over Hatch’s face and then drifting to the car parked outside, checking the plates.
     It wasn’t often that a vintage Jaguar XKE pulled into the Superette’s lot. “Up from Boston?”
    Hatch nodded, still uncertain how best to do this. “Yup.”
    “Vacation?” Bud asked, carefully placing an artichoke into the bag, arranging it with deliberation, and ringing it up on the
     old brass machine with his usual glacial slowness. A second artichoke went into the bag.
    “No,” said Hatch. “Here on business.”
    The hand paused. Nobody ever came to Stormhaven on business. And Bud, being the professional gossip that he was, would now
     have to find out why.
    The hand moved again. “Ayuh,” said Bud. “Business.”
    Hatch nodded, struggling with a reluctance to drop his anonymity. Once Bud knew, the whole town would know. Shopping at Bud’s
     Superette was the point of no return. It wasn’t too late to just gather up his groceries and get out, leaving Bud none the
     wiser. The alternative was painful to contemplate: Hatch could hardly bear to think about the whispered revival of the old
     tragedy, the shaking of heads and pursing of lips. Small towns could be brutal in their sympathy.
    The hand picked up a carton of milk and inserted it into the bag.
    “Salesman?”
    “Nope.”
    There was a silence while Bud, going even slower now, placed the orange juice next to the milk. The machine jingled with the
     price.
    “Just passing through?” he ventured.
    “Got business right here in Stormhaven.”
    This was so unheard-of that Bud could stand it no more. “And what kind of business might that be?”
    “Business of a delicate nature,” Hatch said, lowering his voice. Despite his apprehensions, the consternation that gathered
     on Bud’s brow was so eloquent that Hatch had to hide a smile.
    “I see,” Bud said. “Staying in town?”
    “Nope,” Hatch said, taking a deep breath now. “I’ll be staying over across the harbor. In the old Hatch place.”
    At this Bud almost dropped a steak. The house had been shut up for twenty-five years. But the steak went in, the bags were
     finally filled, and Bud had run out of questions, at least polite ones.
    “Well,” said Hatch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. How much do I owe you?”
    “Thirty-one twenty-five,” Bud said miserably.
    Hatch gathered up the bags. This was it. If he was going to make a home in this town, even temporarily, he had to reveal himself.
    He stopped, opened one bag, and poked his hand in. “Excuse me,” he said, turning to the second bag and rummaging through it.
     “Haven’t you left something out?”
    “I don’t b’lieve so,” Bud said stolidly.
    “I’m sure you have,” Hatch repeated, taking things back out of the bags and laying them on the counter.
    “It’s all there,” Bud said, a shade of Maine truculence creeping into his voice.
    “No, it’s not.” Hatch pointed at a small drawer just below the countertop. “Where’s my free licorice stick?”
    Bud’s eyes went to the drawer, then followed Hatch’s arm back up to his face, and for the first time really looked at him.
     Then the color drained from his face, leaving it a pale gray.
    Just as Hatch tensed, wondering if he’d gone too far, the old grocer exhaled mightily. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll be
God
damned. It’s Malin Hatch.”
    The color in the grocer’s cheeks quickly returned to normal, but his expression remained that of a man who has