Read Online Hell's Bay by James W. Hall - Free Book Online

looks my way as if I was committing another egregious etiquette error by not coming over and joining in.
    â€œThe guy’s dicking with me.”
    â€œOh, come on, Thorn. You’re working yourself up.”
    â€œIf it was you, Sugar, is that the way you’d handle this? Zoom in out of the blue, no warning, spring it on a nephew you’ve never met? Hey, guess who I am? Your freaking uncle. I got an opportunity for you. It’s a gotcha thing. A bully-boy trick.”
    â€œOverreacting, Thorn. Making a big deal over nothing.”
    â€œWould you do it like that, Sugar?”
    He shook his head and glanced back at the purpling sky.
    â€œSome people like surprises. Maybe he thought you’d throw your arms around him, give him a big hug.”
    â€œI didn’t read it that way.”
    â€œOh, man.” Sugar sipped his beer, set it down, wiped his lips with his napkin. “Your whole life, you never met any of your own flesh and blood. It’s this big missing piece. Then, bam, it happens, and listen to you. You take one look at the guy—your uncle, your mother’s little brother—you’re around him all of five minutes and you got him pegged as a villain.”
    I had no answer for that. He was right. My instincts were on red alert. I’d made a career out of reclusiveness, but at all too frequent intervals I’d been dragged into the world by violent men, treacherous women, but most often by my own impetuous folly. More than one innocent life had been damaged or lost because of me. I’d done plenty I wasn’t proud of and only a few things I was. Lately I’d reached the point where I was having trouble telling the difference.
    Distrust and wariness had become a reflex. In the last year the condition seemed to worsen. At the first sign of trouble, I found myself flinching and turning away. Anything could set it off—a defiant look sent my way across a crowded bar, or a woman’s comeon smile. I’d duck my head and hustle back to my burrow, pick up my fly-tying gear, and disappear into the refuge of work. Whole weeks passed without human contact. Until Rusty challenged me that night in July, it suited me fine.
    Sugarman claimed it was some version of post-traumatic stress. I’d passed some watershed and was sliding into a new state of mind. One too many catastrophes, too many innocent friends or lovers caught in the crossfire. Now I was shell-shocked down at some cellular level.
    Whatever its name, I had grown sick of it. Sick of hiding out, stiff-arming all human contact. So I’d heaved the boulder away from my cave door, staggered out into the sunshine, signed on to be sociable, a certified hale-fellow-well-met. Then John Milligan climbed aboard, laid the photo on the bar, and, Christ Almighty, the whole shitty cycle was starting again.
    A short while later we exited the Green Flash Lounge and moved upstairs to Pierre’s, the fanciest eatery on the island. As the group waited to be seated, a man appeared in the doorway behind us and Milligan swung around to greet him, then introduced him one by one to the rest of our party.
    His name was Carter Mosley, the pilot who’d flown the Milligans down from Sarasota. A short man, not more than five-two, he stood very erect. After he shook hands with each of us, Mosley’s pale blue eyes landed on my face and he took a moment to study its angles as if trying to fix me in his memory.
    Mosley was silver-haired, mid-fifties, with a reserved smile and those alert eyes. He wore a sky-blue jumpsuit, a black T-shirt visible beneath. His face was unlined and, for such a small-boned man, his handshake was crushing.
    â€œI can’t stay,” he replied to Rusty’s invitation to join us for dinner. “Got a mountain of paperwork on my desk. Just wanted to say hello, and wish y’all good luck on your fishing adventure. I’ll be back in a week to pick you