Hell's Bay

by James W. Hall

  This wasn’t some old lady in a canoe.

  Sugarman would bet there was a smaller round table in some penthouse somewhere. Just three or four people. They didn’t put out papers and they didn’t do press releases. He knew it was a corny conspiracy view, something left over from reading Ayn Rand at an impressionable age. But it was a lifelong suspicion that at the top of the pyramid three or four people were calling the shots, nudging the world’s center of gravity this way or that for reasons only they understood. If that was true, then Abigail Bates was the kind of person who’d be in that penthouse suite. She might even sit at the head of the table.

  The prickle became a bloom of belly heat. Thorn’s newly discovered grandmother was one of America’s elite. The small-town sheriff in charge of the investigation had dismissed the only suspect, a man who’d had a violent encounter with the deceased. Six months later, two members of Abigail Bates’s family appeared suddenly, ready to take a voyage on Rusty Stabler’s houseboat. As they came aboard, Abigail Bates’s son announced to Thorn: I’m your uncle John. Your granny is dead.

  Sugar paused a moment and tracked back through the articles. One thing had snagged his attention. Minor point, perhaps.

  The different surnames confused him. Abigail Bates’s son was named Milligan. It took Sugar another ten minutes combing through databases and websites before he got the answer. In a rare interview with an academic business journal, Abigail explained that she’d held on to her daddy’s name out of respect for his legacy. Leopold Witherspoon Bates. A cattle rancher, and the son of Leopold senior, the family patriarch. Leopold senior was a pioneer cattleman who in his ninety years had amassed a vast herd that roamed over thousands of square miles in central Florida, land he’d accumulated when that part of the state went for pennies an acre.

  John Milligan and Thorn’s mother, Elizabeth, the kids of Abigail Bates and Edwin Andrew Milligan, took their daddy’s name. Mother Bates, Daddy Milligan. But it was Bates land and Bates cattle and the Bates ancestry and empire building that was the backbone of the modern-day Milligan family.

  At eleven-thirty Sugar dialed the home number for Deputy Rachel Pike of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office. Twenty years earlier they’d both joined the department the same month and had survived their rookie year in large part by sharing their daily trials at breakfast each morning at Craig’s Diner. Friends ever since. Even with Sugar spending the last decade freelancing in private law enforcement, and Rachel sticking it out in the public sector, rising slowly but steadily through the ranks, they’d kept the lines open.

  Rachel snapped up the phone on the second ring.

  “What’s up, Sugar?”

  Sugarman faltered for a moment. He still wasn’t used to caller ID, the edge it gave to the person answering the phone.

  “Nothing major,” Sugar said. “Well, all right, it might be major. It’s a Thorn thing.”

  “What’s the idiot gotten into now?”

  “This isn’t his fault. Something happened. Asteroid out of the blue.”

  “It’s never his fault. The poor guy.”

  Sugarman explained the deal, concise but detailed. When he was done, Rachel was silent.

  “You don’t buy it? Your Geiger’s not clicking?”

  “Oh, it’s clicking,” she said. “For one thing, what’s a lady that age doing in a canoe by herself?”

  “That’s a question.”

  “And what causes a violent confrontation between some young guy and an eighty-six-year-old woman?”

  “Another thing I’d like to know.”

  “A woman with that kind of power and influence, why didn’t I hear about it, why wasn’t it front-page news?”

  “It got coverage in the big papers—Miami Herald, NewYork Times, Boston, Washington—back in the business section mostly,” Sugar said. “Seems Bates International doesn’t court publicity.”

  “And with a VIP like her, Sheriff Timmy is running the show? No big guns from outside?”

  “Yeah, I was curious about that. Didn’t turn up anything about the Feds being involved, or FDLE, or anybody higher up than DeSoto County Sheriff’s Department. That’s another thing I’d like to ask in person.”

  Rachel was quiet for a moment. In the background there was a clinking noise that sounded ceramic, like she was brewing tea.

  “And if the Milligans wanted to contact Thorn, why not pick up a phone? Why the surprise attack? Go for a week on a boat out in the Everglades, all isolated. What’s that about?”

  “Thorn wondered the same thing.”

  “Okay, granted, something’s peculiar. I wouldn’t bet my house on it being criminal, but it’s worth a sniff. What can I do?”

  “Maybe a phone call.”

  “Sheriff Timmy?”

  “Yeah, like prepare the ground. Invoke professional courtesy. Tell him I’m working for a member of the Bates family. Which is true.”

  “Small-town cop to small-town cop, put the moves on him.”

  “A little sweet talk. That voice you use on the sheriff when he’s pissed.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s one hell of a soothing purr. You got that down.”

  “Maybe Timmy’s a sexist. He doesn’t like lady cops. That happens.”

  “I got confidence in you. If I could get a look at any evidence reports, prints, fiber, fingerprints, medical examiner’s testimony. Those eyewitnesses, their names. You know, the basics.”

  “You don’t want much.”

  “Whatever you can do, Rachel.”

  “Calling me this late, why the hurry?”

  “I’m thinking I’ll drive up tonight, get busy on it first thing tomorrow.”

  More clinking. Then he heard her sipping and setting down the mug.

  “One other thing.”

  “Let me guess. You want me to run somebody through the National Crime computer?”

  “Actually three people.”

  “Let me get a pencil.”

  Sugarman gave her the name he’d discovered in his research, the suspect who’d been let go: Charles M. Kipling, Jr. And John Milligan and his daughter, Mona. Priors, DUI’s, anything that popped up could be interesting. After a little good-natured resistance, Rachel agreed.

  “You settle things with the pilot over his daughter?” she asked. “That legal mess.”

  “Our lawyers are hashing it out.”

  “So this is a good time to be out of town. Change of scenery.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Plus Thorn is your buddy.”

  “He is that.”

  “Even though he’s almost got you killed a few times.”

  “He means well.”

  “Funny you should call, Sugar. I was thinking about you just today.”

  “Yeah?”

  She laughed. A throaty, full-bodied sound. “Don’t get in a sweat. I’m not hitting on you. I was thinking of you in a strictly professional sense.”

  “You need a private investigator?”

  “No, we’ve got an opening. A couple of grades up from your old job.”

  Sugar was silent, looking at the walls of his shabby office. Rent due next week. His in-box empty. Out-box the same.

  “So, does the silence indicate you’re considering it?”

  Sugarman sighed.

  “I’m kind of used to making my own hours. Coming and going.”

  “Just thought I’d mention it. Sheriff always liked you. A lot of people around the department think highly of you. Include me on that list.”

  “Okay, Rachel. I will. I’ll think about it.”

  “So I’ll call Timmy tomorrow morning. Purr in the good ol’ boy’s ear.”

  “Thanks, Rachel.”

  “And you think about that job. I looked through the candidate files, and, just between you and me, totally off-the-record, I think you’d have a damn good shot.”

  After Sugar hung up he sat at his desk and looked around his office for a while, listening to the late-nig
ht traffic out on U.S. 1. Somewhere down the highway a siren whooped once—a traffic stop—probably some drunk racing back to Miami, jigged when he should’ve jogged. He thought of that world—a paycheck every two weeks, the routines, the camaraderie—versus the job he had now, chasing down run-away girls who were pissed off when they were found.

  For some reason a poem popped into his head, something from a million years ago in high school English. Two paths diverging in the woods. And he remembered the guy decided to take the one less traveled. Was that the right decision? Going down the weedy path, not the trampled one?

  He sat for a while longer thinking about the poem, about paths in the woods, weedy ones and clear ones. Something to talk over with Thorn. Though he knew what Thorn would say: Why the hell take either path? Forge off into the vines and brambles, that’s where the cool stuff was.

  Sugar locked his office, got in his car, and drove back to his house to pack an overnight bag. It was four or five hours up to Summerland. He could be there by dawn.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At 3 A.M., without a word, Rusty tapped me on the shoulder and relieved me at the wheel. I went to my cabin, set the photograph face-down on the tiny dresser, and fell into my bunk and into a sleep full of armadillos and leathery crackers on horseback riding through scrubland so gray and desiccated it looked like a desert on some distant moon. There was no story to my dream, nothing I remembered when I woke at 6, just a jittery assortment of disconnected images of harsh people living in an even harsher landscape.

  I showered, dressed, slathered sunscreen on my legs and the rest of my exposed flesh, then climbed down the ladder to the main deck.

  Teeter was at work in the galley. He wore a tall red chef’s hat and white chef’s jacket with red piping, white, stiffly pressed pants and a red apron, and a bright red scarf knotted around his throat. He was moving with an unhurried economy, sliding from one dish to another, tending several simmering pans, three bubbling pots, sprinkling, stirring, adding ingredients. Aromas like no breakfast I had ever inhaled. One look, and I knew Teeter had gone overboard. Beyond overboard.

  “Where’s the roast pig?”

  He shook his head several times. Irony wasn’t one of his conversational skills. He used a pair of tongs to move a half-dozen kielbasa sausages out of the skillet onto a warming tray.

  Every countertop, tabletop, side table, and even the bar was covered with plates of food.

  “Did we get some new arrivals last night?” I said. “An army, maybe?”

  He shook his head again. The red chef’s hat was nearly a foot tall and pleated on the sides. It wobbled as Teeter filled a platter with Belgian waffles and set it beside another plate stacked with Swedish pancakes. There were flaky fruit-filled pastries of every size. Bowls of applesauce and jellies and jams. A dozen beautifully fried crab fritters. Cinnamon rolls, biscuits, a serving dish of oatmeal with blackberries on top, a pot of cheese grits, French toast, lemon bread, strawberry crepes, bacon, Canadian bacon, three different types of sausage, bagels, blueberry muffins, a large iced bowl of shrimp cocktail. The omelet pan was greased, and bowls of diced mushrooms, grated cheese, scallions, and jalapeño peppers stood ready beside the stove. A large warming tray was full of scrambled eggs sprinkled with spices I couldn’t identify.

  “People get hungry out on the water,” Teeter said, when I looked up from taking inventory. “Breakfast is the most important meal.”

  “There’s only seven of us,” I said.

  “You think I overdid it?” His eyes were misting. He ducked his head with a flash of shame.

  “No, it looks great, Teeter. Just great.”

  “I made everybody’s lunch, too,” he said, still looking down at the deck. “In the coolers. Sandwiches and cookies. Some fruit tarts with special icing.”

  “Above and beyond the call, Teeter.”

  I knew exactly the capacity of our refrigerators and ice chests and was fairly sure without even taking a look that Teeter had depleted the larder by at least a quarter on this one meal alone. We had twenty-odd meals to go before we were scheduled to return to civilization.

  Replenishing our provisions would require a two-hour boat ride back to the public ramps at Flamingo; then, assuming I could hitch a ride, it was at least another hour to a decent food market. A six-hour round-trip. It was possible some of the food he’d just prepared would keep for tomorrow’s breakfast or a meal later in the day. But even then we would be stretched impossibly thin.

  The fishing on this trip was supposed to be catch and release, but now we’d have to reconsider that—possibly do a little meat fishing. Or else cut the whole expedition short by several days.

  I was running through the choices when Rusty entered.

  She surveyed the feast, walking quietly through the galley, past the bar, circling the long table for eight that was jammed with food. Nodding her head, saying nothing. I saw her swallow a couple of times as she made the same calculations I’d just made.

  “Thorn,” she said. “Could you blow reveille and get every-body up? I’d like to be on the water by eight.”

  “And this?”

  She gazed around at the food and smiled.

  “I’m having a mushroom omelet with cheese grits and bacon,” she said. ’And those fruit pastries look yummy. Better get our anglers out here before I eat this all up.”

  But when she looked at me, her eyes were not as nonchalant as her words, silently acknowledging that we’d have to make radical adjustments to our plans, but now was not the time to sort it out. Her concern for her brother’s state of mind trumped all practicalities. It was a transaction she must have made a thousand times over the years, and it came so naturally to her, the empathy and forgiveness, the flexibility in the face of disaster, that I felt a rush of admiration for her that stirred some echo of the passion we shared long ago.

  I rapped on each cabin door and woke the others, and in twenty minutes they’d assembled in the galley and were digging into the banquet. Fortunately every one of our group was a breakfast eater, and Teeter was right about appetites being stimulated out on the water. Still, even though we did our best, and John Milligan and Holland both had seconds and I managed thirds on the scrambled eggs, we barely put a dent in all that food.

  The tensions of the night before had cooled, and every-one, even Mona, complimented Teeter on his extraordinary culinary creations. An unpracticed smile surfaced on Teeter’s lips that was touching in its awkwardness. As it was to turn out, that meal would be the last festive occasion we would enjoy.

  “Hell’s Bay is back that way. Real shallow, but damn good fishing.” Sasha waved eastward, then motioned north. “Camp Lonesome’s over there. Not really a camp, just a chickee at the end of a little narrow dock.”

  Griffin nodded, then his eyes followed the flight of a great blue heron, but he said nothing. He’d been quiet for the last hour. Now and then a hacking cough convulsed his emaciated frame, and always there was the wet rattling in his chest. His eyes were the faint gray of rain. They were working the distances like he was searching for some truth hidden in the dawn light or the patches of mist edging the mangroves.

  Sasha had been taking it slow, just fast enough to keep the boat on plane, giving Griffin the tour. No reason to hurry. They’d used the ramp at Flamingo, motored up the Wilderness Waterway into Coot Bay, then took Tarpon Creek into Whitewater Bay, that big sprawling expanse with mangrove islands in every direction. The GPS was set, red arrow steering them toward the coordinates.

  25 degrees 17′ 17″ N Latitude

  80 degrees 59′ 35″ W Longitude

  About a half hour away.

  Their craft was a yellow Skeeter with a 150-horse Merc outboard, twenty-footer, about a ten to eleven-inch draft, fifteen hundred pounds, maybe as much as seventeen hundred. Brand-new. On open water, a vessel like that would fly, out-run most flats boats and backcountry skiffs. But Sasha knew it wasn’t the ideal boat for the super-shallow waters of the Everglades. A backcountry
skiff was half the weight of the Skeeter and could float fine in only four or five inches of water.

  But this heavy rig was the best she could find in the boat dealership she’d broken into last night. The Skeeter would have to do.

  She had charts and the GPS and a fair recollection of that part of the Glades. Twenty-five years earlier, she and her daddy spent a full week working the creeks and coves out there. Sasha, in her early teens, trying like hell to earn the old man’s respect. They’d made the same drive down from Summerland, west across Tamiami Trail, then south on High-way 27 to Florida City, then another hour to the Flamingo ramp, where they put their jon boat in. They’d stayed over in the cabins at the national park. Fished all day, swatted mosquitoes all night. Her father drinking beer, shooting the breeze with the other fishermen, flirting with their wives and girl-friends.

  Most memorable moment of that trip was her dad taking her across these same bays up to where the Broad River branched east, then cutting south down a narrow fork into a creek known as the Nightmare, which was navigable only during high tide.

  Back then the name was scary to her. Going up a river that could drain away beneath you at low tide and leave you stranded atop a hill of muck and squirming creatures was creepier still. Lose track of time, you could be stuck out there all night, feasted on by mosquitoes, stalked by gators and snakes of every poisonous kind.

  “If there ain’t no risk,” her father liked to say, “can’t be no reward.”

  One afternoon when her dad was reeling fish after fish into the boat, Sasha sat watching the tide ebb, but didn’t say a thing for fear of seeming a girl·y worrywart. Finally her father looked around, threw his rod down, cursed, and grabbed for the crank cord, yanked it half a dozen times, and got only a sputter from the outboard. Sasha felt the terror rise but fought it.

  When her old man finally had the motor roaring, the small tributary was turning to solid marsh.