Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) by James W. Hall

Author:James W. Hall [Hall, James W.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2013-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FOUR

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, THE sun grazing the tops of the mangroves, golden arrows of sunlight firing through the dense foliage. Light wind from the east, new moon, tide coming in. Perfect fishing weather.

He’d convinced Leslie that after they finished their construction project, he should take the guys out, catch tonight’s dinner. Fresh fish instead of the fast-food shit the group was surviving on. Teach them how to cast the bait net, get some pilchards, threadfin herring, or minnows, then find a coral head or patch of turtle grass, snag some snappers.

Suspicious at first, Leslie finally relented. Gave him a sharp, cautionary look, then headed off in her flats boat on an errand she didn’t reveal. Cameron was gone, too. Shortly after a breakfast of cold pizza slices from the ice chest, he’d paddled away to work at the power plant’s biology lab. Staying with his routine, keeping up appearances.

At the moment just the four of them were on the island, and it seemed unlikely Thorn would have a better chance to make a break.

Only steps from where they stood, the pry bar was buried in the sand, but going for it, then taking on both Chee brothers hand to hand was too risky. Once they were out on the water, though, the balance of power would shift. The sea was Thorn’s second home. And he had a plan, nothing fancy, a way to stall the Chees long enough for him and Flynn to get a decent head start.

He knew he’d get one chance and only one. If he blew it, there’d be no democratic vote this time. And he had to brace himself for the prospect that Flynn might side with the others. If that was how it went down, Thorn was prepared to leave Flynn behind, return as fast as possible with backup.

While Pauly hauled the last of the four kayaks from the storage rack, his brother stood at the shore practicing with the cast net—trying to sail it out into the cove, but fumbling yet again.

At the waterline sat the slatted box they’d spent most of the day constructing. Thorn guided them through Leslie’s blueprint, making use of the handsaws she provided, the hammers and nails. It was a rectangular cage, so large it would be a tight squeeze in the bed of a pickup.

Leslie didn’t say what it was for, just that it would play a role in their plan. To Thorn it resembled an oversize lobster trap.

Thorn stepped over to Wally as he was hauling in the handline, once again the entire rig snarled in a mad tangle of loops and netting, the lead weights knotted in a clump.

Six times he’d failed, but each time Wally dragged the net to shore, methodically untangled it, and hurled it again—failing, failing, failing, but on a compulsive mission to get it right.

Thorn asked Wally if he wanted to walk through it one more time.

“Fucking thing is impossible.”

“Loop the handline around your left wrist, then take the line and make even coils, and hold the horn of the net in your left hand.

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