Free Hell's Bay by James W. Hall Page A

beer, the wine, the bad jokes. Our laughter echoing across the empty waters. I’d stashed some good memories along nearly every mile of that route.
    Beyond Sandy Key, up to Cape Sable, then Middle Cape, Northwest Cape, past Big Sable Creek, into Ponce de Leon Bay, and into the marked channel of the Little Shark River. The Shark was a complicated river system with multiple mouths, several of them dead ends, but I knew every turn. South through Oyster Bay, through Cormorant Pass and into Whitewater Bay where tomorrow around dawn we’d ease into the side bay along the western edge of Whitewater that bordered Joe River.
    The unofficial name of the cove was “Cardiac,” so christened because years before a tarpon guide friend of mine lost a client there to a heart attack. Among my buddies the name was meant as both respectful and a dark joke. What a perfect place, and a perfect way to go, a giant tarpon jumping three feet in the air. The line tight, the heart seizing up.
    Cardiac Bay was a comfortable spot, protected from the wind, with a good rocky bottom that would hold the anchor. By the time we arrived there Teeter would be cooking breakfast.
    After the anchor was set, I was planning to head to my cabin for a nap while the others woke and dressed and ate breakfast. I’d sleep for an hour, then when everyone was fed, we’d head out, take the two skiffs and four anglers north into the labyrinth, using our laminated photograph.
    Rusty would go her way and I’d already picked the spot I wanted to explore. Three lakes joined by narrow channels. About a half mile of mangroves to fight through, but once inside, if the photograph wasn’t lying, we could fish all day in those waters, moving from one lake to another. Could be schools of tarpon back there, snook, redfish, sea trout, or grouper. Since the water was brackish—freshwater coming out of the Everglades mingled with the Gulf’s brine—there might even be a few bass. Or there might be nothing at all.
    I was going over the day ahead, the fishing. Running through the gear we’d need, how best to load my skiff. Trying to occupy my mind, though now and then as I shifted my feet, swaying with the rock of the Mothership, I could feel the weight of the snapshot in my shirt pocket.
    I wasn’t ready to examine it yet. I wanted the voices down below to die out—for the party to break up and for everyone to head off to their cabins. When they were all asleep, I’d take another look at the young blond country girl with the strong features and the wide shoulders. At the two older folks sitting on their front porch. I’d study the image and try to extract details I’d missed on my first two looks. I’d try to read my mother’s face, my grandmother’s. I was girding my-self for that.
    I gazed out at the darkness, a long narrow path of flickering moonlight on the flat seas. A single vessel glided along the horizon, a slow-going sailboat under power.
    The Mothership was handling well, a big lazy vessel, slow and sloppy through the turns, but stable and smooth on a straight heading.
    On impulse, I plucked the photograph from my pocket and laid it on the console before me. The low lights provided just enough illumination to read charts without throwing a glare on the windows, enough light to see the photo. But I didn’t look. It lay there on the flat dash beside the throttle levers.
    I shifted my hands on the wheel, nudged us a few degrees north, heading into a light breeze and a few quartering swells. With the forward motion of the Mothership combined with the freshening breeze, there was probably a fifteen-knot wind out on the decks.
    I reached through the side window to check, and the rush of air pushed against my open hand. I was starting to regret asking for Sugar’s help. This was none of my business. An old woman’s drowning, a granddaughter’s fury and grief. These people were strangers. They had