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hard-shelled, chickens, selects, and culls. He peered through the rippled glass of the window at the row of tanks,
     teeming with indignant lobsters only hours removed from the deep. In a separate tank was a single blue lobster, very rare,
     put up for show.
    Malin stepped away from the window as a lobsterman in high boots and a slicker rumbled a barrel of rotten bait down the pier.
     He brought it to rest under a quayside winch, strapped it on, and swung it out to a boat waiting below, in an action that
     Malin had watched countless times in his childhood. There were shouts and the sudden throb of a diesel, and the boat pulled
     away, heading out to sea, followed by a raucous crowd of seagulls. He watched the boat dissolve, spectrally, into the lifting
     fog. Soon, the inner islands would be visible. Already, Burnt Head was emerging from the mists, a great brow of granite rock
     that leaned into the sea south of town. Surf snarled and worried about its base, carrying to Hatch the faint whisper of waves.
     On the crown of the bluff, a lighthouse of dressed stone stood among the gorse and low bush blueberries, its red and white
     stripes and copper cupola adding a cheerful note of color to the monochromatic fog.
    As Malin stood at the end of the pier, smelling the mixture of redfish bait, salt air, and diesel fumes, his defenses—carefully
     shored up for a quarter of a century—began to crumble. The years dropped away and a powerful bittersweet feeling constricted
     his chest. Here he was, back in a place he had never expected to see again. So much had changed in him, and so little had
     changed here. It was all he could do to hold back tears.
    A car door slammed behind him, and he glanced back to see Gerard Neidelman emerge from an International Scout and stride down
     the pier, erect, brimming with high spirits, a spring of steel in his step. Smoke wafted from a briar pipe clamped between
     his teeth, and his eyes glimmered with a carefully guarded but unmistakable excitement.
    “Good of you to meet me here,” he said, removing the pipe and grasping Hatch’s hand. “I hope this hasn’t been too much trouble.”
    He hesitated slightly before saying the last word, and Hatch wondered if the Captain had guessed his own private reasons for
     wanting to see the town—and the island—before making any commitment. “No trouble,” Hatch replied coolly, accepting the brisk
     handshake.
    “And where is our good boat?” Neidelman said, squinting out at the harbor, sweeping it appraisingly with his eyes.
    “It’s the
Plain Jane,
over there.”
    Neidelman looked. “Ah. A stout lobster boat.” Then he frowned. “I don’t see a dinghy in tow. How will we land on Ragged Island?”
    “The dinghy’s at the dock,” Hatch said. “But we’re not going to land. There’s no natural harbor. Most of the island is ringed
     with high bluffs, so we wouldn’t be able to see much from the rocks anyway. And the bulk of the island is too dangerous to
     walk on. You’ll get a better sense of the place from the water.”
Besides,
he thought,
I for one am not ready to set foot on that island.
    “Understood,” said Neidelman, placing the pipe back in his mouth. He gazed up at the sky. “The fog will lift shortly. Wind
     quartering to the southwest, a light sea. The worst we can expect is some rain. Excellent. I’m looking forward to this first
     look, Dr. Hatch.”
    Hatch glanced at him sharply. “You mean you’ve never seen it before?”
    “I’ve restricted myself to maps and surveys.”
    “I’d have thought a man like you would make the pilgrimage long ago. In days past, we used to get crackpots sightseeing around
     the island, even some attempts to land. I’m sure that hasn’t changed.”
    Neidelman turned his cool gaze back to Hatch. “I didn’t want to see it unless we’d have the chance to dig it.” A quiet force
     lay beneath his words.
    At the end of the pier, a wobbly gangplank led down to a floating dock.