Read Hell's Bay for Free Online Page B

the V an even fainter crooked trail ran from the open water through the mangroves and eventually led into the lake.
    â€œMouth of an old creek,” I said. “Completely overgrown.”
    I became silent, feeling the hard tug of what she was presenting.
    â€œNo way to know how long those creeks have been blocked off,” she said. “A century ago that stream could’ve been twenty feet wide, then year by year the mangroves inched toward the center, eventually sealing it up. Some lakes could’ve been locked tight since the Civil War. I talked to a marine biology guy at the college who said there’s no way to be a hundred percent certain how long they’ve been cut off. Hurricanes come, destroy new growth, open up the creek again. Sun exposure, disease, tides, currents, lots of variables. But a bunch of creek beds are still there. Enough water to get the skiffs inside.”
    Rusty was silent while I scanned the photograph. After a couple of minutes I’d counted two dozen hidden lakes, many with the faint remnants of creek mouths. Some of the lakes were tiny, some large, a few were interconnected by narrow channels, and all of them were encircled by mangroves and tucked into the remote fringes of the navigable Everglades.
    â€œSo you wedge the skiff beneath the branches, hack your way inside, you’re in waters that no one, not even Seminoles, have ever seen.”
    â€œDid I bring my pig to a good market?”
    I stepped away from the table and looked at her. Her eyes were filled with giddy light.
    â€œWhy me? All the guides you know, anybody would jump at this.”
    â€œI got my reasons.”
    â€œAnd face it, there’s no way to know what you’d find back there. Fish in those lakes would be seriously spooky. Never seen bait. Never seen anglers. One bad cast, the whole exercise is wasted. Don’t see another fish all day.”
    â€œExactly,” Rusty said. “Extremely spooky. Major challenge.”
    I walked past her and opened the refrigerator.
    â€œBeer? Rachel ale?”
    â€œNothing for me.”
    I opened a Red Stripe and took a seat at the kitchen table. I had a long pull, then nudged the laminated photograph aside and set the bottle down.
    â€œOkay, it’s tempting,” I said. “Fishing a virgin lake.”
    â€œNow you’re talking.”
    â€œBut I got my routines. Being on a houseboat for a week, guiding a bunch of jackasses around the wilderness, that’s not my idea of fun.”
    â€œGoddammit, Thorn.”
    I shook my head.
    â€œYou got your routines,” she said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œIt’s those goddamn routines that’re killing you.”
    Rusty cut her eyes away. She hadn’t meant to go that far. She clamped her lips and looked at the doorway to the living room, the escape route.
    â€œNever mind. Forget it. I’ll find somebody else.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean, ‘killing me’?”
    She gave her head one small shake. Finished talking.
    â€œYou been listening to Sugarman, haven’t you? That’s what he told you, that I’m withering up, dying. Entropy, a closed system, nothing new coming in the door, I’m starving emotionally. That’s his bullshit, isn’t it?”
    â€œHe’s worried about you, Thorn. We all are. You’re hunkered down in your bunker, or monastery, whatever the hell it is. Months since you been off your property. You’re hiding, Thorn, suffocating. I mean, yeah, I know some ugly shit’s come your way. So you retreated and here you are. Making a few dozen flies a day, watching the sun come up, watching it go down. Pretty soon the windows will be plastered over, and you’ll be eating nothing but pizza or what-ever food they can slide under the door.”
    I looked down at the sparkle of condensation ringing my beer.
    â€œWhat if I’m happy with things just like they