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fish because they’re mostly the females who lay the eggs.
    But this year I did a bit of bass fishing, so I could tag them and let them go again. It was part of an effort to learn more about the migratory and other habits of the fish. The tagging was simple and, according to the island’s resident marine biologist, painless to the fish: You ran a needle, threaded with a strip of plastic printed with the address of the Littoral Society in New Jersey, through the fish’s flesh just behind the dorsal fin, knotted the plastic, and let the fish go. You recorded the size of the fish and the time and place of the tagging and sent that information to the New Jersey address. If the fish was ever caught again, the person catching it could send the plastic in along with information about the size of the fish and the time and location of the catch.
    Lest I give the impression that I am a dedicated lawkeeper and environmental moralist, I should confess that if I catch a bass when I feel like eating one I keep it no matter what size it is. Unless someone is looking, of course.
    I had tagged five bass running about two feet and weighing six pounds or so and had just recaught a particularly dumb one I’d tagged not an hour before, when I saw a blue Jeep Wagoneer coming west from Katama. I had decided that if I was doomed to recatch fish that I didn’t want in the first place I would quit fishing, so my rod was racked and I was having coffee when John Skye drove up with Iowa.
    Iowa got out and looked around. He was disappointed.
    â€œWhere the hell’s Zee?”
    â€œWorking.”
    â€œDamned shame. Any fish here?”
    â€œSmall bass.”
    â€œGet any?”
    â€œNo keepers. Tagged some.”
    â€œGood enough.”
    He got his rod from the roof of John’s Jeep and stepped down to the surf. Iowa would fish in a bucket if that was the only water around.
    â€œWhat’s Iowa doing riding around with you?” I asked John.
    â€œHis pickup is in the shop. Tore up his muffler at the jetties. He’ll have his own wheels again tomorrow.”
    â€œDidn’t bring his niece with him this trip.”
    â€œShe’s home with Jean. Kid’s had a tough time, I understand.”
    â€œSomebody roughed her up. Boyfriend, I’d guess.”
    â€œHow’d you know that?”
    I told him about the bruises. “I figure she’s here to either get over the bastard or decide to go back to him. Women have a hard time leaving these guys, sometimes.” It was a truth I could never really understand.
    â€œYou hit it on the head,” said John. “Guy living withher lost his job and started beating on her. She took it for a while, then got out. Came here. Iowa’s a favorite uncle.”
    â€œI see her walking the bike paths. She’s looking better. She going to stay?”
    â€œI don’t think she knows, yet.”
    â€œThe guy know she’s here?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    When I was a cop in Boston, I learned a lot about women and the men who beat them up. I knew that men beat up women here on the island, too, but I wasn’t a cop anymore, so I didn’t have to deal with it. I had had enough of cop stuff.
    â€œMaybe she’ll be sensible enough to shake him.”
    â€œSometimes the men come after the women who leave them.”
    True enough. About half the killings you read about in the Boston papers are the result of turf wars or drug wars. A lot of the others are men killing the wives and girlfriends who want to leave them or who have left them and been hunted down.
    â€œLet’s hope she’s smart enough to shake him for good.”
    John nodded and looked for a new subject. “When I saw your truck, I thought Zee might be here. I didn’t know she was working mornings.”
    â€œMaybe she isn’t. I haven’t seen too much of her lately.”
    â€œOh.” John dug around in his Jeep and came up with a