Blackwater Sound by James W. Hall Page B

grumbled ahead, Lawton’s mind whisked back to the days when he used to steer his small wood skiff with the forty-horse Evinrude through the chaotic chop outside of Key West Harbor, into the rush of open water and the sloppy convergence of tides and currents across the reefs, on and on, south by southwest, finally into the blue-green sand flats of the Marquesa Islands, volcanic and remote and crackling with fish, the Marquesas where he and his buddies built a little fishing shack tucked among the mangroves, a place to camp under the unsullied heavens, far from the dogs barking, the guns cocking and brakes squealing on dark, bloody streets, just him and his buddies lying on the wood planks he’d nailed into place, lying on a blanket or a nylon sleeping bag, shutting off the kerosene lantern, and gazing up at the dense speckle of stars and the dark birds circling against the moon, all that splendor to feast on, simply because he could handle a boat, wasn’t afraid of the markerless waters, could guide his way through the shoals and the narrow limestone channels, following a simple compass heading, reading the stars, or else doing it by a blind man’s intuition, and even to this day he had all those same skills, even though his brain was as leaky as the spongy earth beneath the Florida topsoil, and he damn well could still recall every patch of water he’d ever crossed, had a freeze-frame of each acre of blue water in crystal-sharp focus, just like the day he’d crossed them the first time, as if every boat he’d ever steered, every wake he’d ever thrown was still there, white foamy trails acrossthe transparent surface of the world, all the pathways he’d taken to get to this day, to this narrow, greasy river, to this boat, You Bet Your Ass .
    Lawton eased back on the throttle. The tug still hogged the middle of the river, a freighter looming behind it, big rusty-red hull, deckhands scurrying about on the foredeck, chattering, full of bustle. And other boats were strung out farther back, a fishing trawler, a small open fisherman, a Hatteras yacht. A regular parade coming up the river for repairs or gas or to deliver their loads.
    As Lawton steered the boat, a scene from long ago flashed before him. A night in the Marquesas when the mosquitoes were so bad Alex and her mother and Lawton had to climb down the wooden ladder and submerge themselves in the water for a little relief. He saw that moment. Black water, glossy with moonlight. Alexandra’s mother in her bathing suit with the flowered skirt. What was her name? The woman he’d married. The woman he’d lived with for nearly forty years. He remembered the swimsuit she’d worn that night. It had flowers. Pink flowers. He remembered that. Hibiscus.
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    Arnold Peretti took one step into the Bertram’s main salon and stopped. Sitting in a leather chair was Johnny Braswell. He had his elbows on the dining table, a sheet of paper lying in front of him. Johnny looked up from the paper and smiled at Arnold. The kid wore the same straw hat he always wore when he was out fishing, wide-brimmed sombrero with the top cut out like he was letting his skull breathe. Dark blue shorts and a white polo shirt with ByteMe embroidered over the left breast. The name of the Braswells’ yacht.
    Arnold stayed in the doorway, one foot in the cabin, the other still on the rear deck.
    â€œHey, Johnny.”
    â€œHey, Arnold, What it is , man?”
    Johnny Braswell had a chirpy voice, smiled too much. Lying onthe table beside the sheet of paper was one of Johnny’s knives, blade open. The kid loved knives, always had.
    â€œCome on in, Arnold, shut the door, relax, man. I need to talk to you. Pick your brains a little.”
    Arnold held his ground, trying to keep cool but running a quick movie in his head: slam the door, take two quick steps, throw himself over the gunwale into the river. Workable, except for one minor detail. He