Free Bonefish Blues by Steven Becker

down all building for a while, especially the homesteaders. Now there is some, but the number of permits is limited by the ordinance.”
    He took the offered papers. There was nothing visible on the arial photo except the clearing and several paths. The second page was folded in half. When he opened the larger page, it revealed a hand-drawn site plan, which showed the island mostly cleared, with a dock running through the mangroves on the east side and a cluster of small buildings connected by paths that looked wide enough for a golf cart. Two lines were drawn toward the mainland; one marked sewer and the other water. The date was 1988. There was another, older page, also hand drawn, that showed a septic tank and water cistern in a much smaller clearing, with only a single building shown.
    “Looks like someone started to permit this as a compound or something, and then bailed on it. They had permits for the septic and water tanks, and apparently finished that, because there was a final inspection.” She removed a permit card and handed it to him. “Later, someone else saw a loophole and permitted the upgrade to city sewer and water, without the building even permitted, thinking it would be easier to get a building permit with a sewer in place. At that time, there were so many applications coming in that all they looked for was a permitted septic system before issuing a sewer connection. No one noticed that the house had never been built.”
    “And then it dropped off the radar until a couple days ago?”
    “With all the budget cuts we’ve had, there is no one to check on expired permits, especially the ones out here.”
    They both turned as a boat pulled up a quarter mile away and dropped anchor. Will squinted at the boat outlined in the setting sun, thinking it looked familiar, and could hear the voices as they pulled out fishing poles and started to fish. Someone screamed as they hooked up right away. Unusual, he thought; usually you had to set up a chum bag and wait a while for the fish to find you. Another scream indicated one of the other anglers was hooked up as well. He shook his head and focused on Sheryl.
    “Want to go have a look?”
    “I would. Some of these Keys have some interesting stories to be told.” 
    He idled the boat closer to the beach, raising the engine as he went. The bow touched sand just as the propeller cleared the water. The engine off, he went forward and grabbed the anchor line, pulling about twenty feet out. He tossed the anchor onto the beach, pulled the line tight, and looped it around a cleat.
    “Unusual way to anchor.”
    “It’s slack tide, and we won’t be long. I imagine the mosquitos will eat us alive before we get too far.”
    She reached into her bag and brought out some repellent, which she quickly rubbed into her exposed skin. 
    “Thanks,” he took the tube. Both covered in mosquito repellent, they eased over the low gunwale and waded the calf-deep water toward shore. The mosquitos swarmed, but kept their distance as they approached the mangroves. Will went first, clearing a path and holding back branches for Sheryl. He followed what appeared to have at one time been a trail. The ground cover had not grown back as aggressively as the mangroves slapping at their bodies. They reached the center of the island and entered the clearing. 
    He looked around. “Look there’s footprints. Strange, they look fresh. It rained a couple of days ago. Funny, I’ve never seen anyone come out here; it’s all mangroves at high tide and sand bars extend way out at low tide.”
    She followed him as he moved to the two concrete tank lids, both a foot higher than the sand. “And here’re the tanks.”
    “Wow! That stinks,” he said as they approached. 
    “That’s weird. They should be full of clean water so they don’t pop out of the ground when it rains. There’s something wrong here.”
    The image of the large bag on Braken’s boat popped into Will’s head, and he looked