Hell's Bay Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR JAMES W. HALL

  AND HIS NOVELS

  “James Hall’s writing is astringent, penetrating, and unfailingly gripping long after you read the last page. Explodes with the brilliance of chain lightning.”

  —Dean Koontz

  “The king of the Florida-gothic noir.”

  —Dennis Lehane

  “No writer working today . . . more clearly evokes the shadows and loss that hide within the human heart.”

  —Robert Crais

  “James W. Hall’s lyrical passion for the Florida Keys, his spare language, and unusual images haunt us long after the story has faded.”

  —Sara Paretsky

  “A master of suspense . . . James Hall’s prose runs as clean and fast as Gulf Stream waters.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “James Hall is a writer I have learned from over the years. His people and places have more brush strokes than a van Gogh. He delivers taut and muscular stories about a place where evil always lurks beneath the surface.”

  —Michael Connelly

  HELL’S BAY

  “Fast-paced . . . Hall’s ability to evoke the deep, primeval essence of the Bay and Glades—the water, air, wildlife, feral excitement—are unmatched . . . All the ingredients for a thoroughly indulgent and hardy stew of a thriller. With his unerring sense of place, and a frighteningly sure grasp of the dark side, nobody cooks it up like Hall.”

  —Miami Herald

  “A tasty mix of rip-roaring adventure, caustic social commentary and lyrical appreciation of the beauty that still exists in Florida.”

  —Washington Post

  “A white-knuckle thriller that draws on our deepest fears . . . There is no such thing as a bad Thorn novel, but this is one of the best of an excellent bunch.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Effectively capture[s] the beauty and fragility of the Florida wilderness and the environment-vs.-big-business issues that threaten Florida’s embattled ecosystem and parlay[s] them into a gripping story of adventure and suspense . . . Will keep readers glued to their armchairs.”

  —Library Journal

  “Another compulsive page-turner from a master of suspense.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A solid, action-packed story about eco-terrorists, the past’s pull, and family ties . . . Each [Thorn] sequel has surpassed the previous for its depth of character, scenery, and plot . . . Hall knows how to make evil ooze off the page. With Hell’s Bay, Hall delivers a true rip-roaring adventure.”

  —South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “Hall is in fine form here. The plot twists like a canoe trail through a mangrove forest, and his evocation of south-central Florida and the Everglades is so vivid you might start itching from imagined mosquito bites.”

  —St. Petersburg Times (Florida)

  “A standout thriller as brilliantly crafted as it is plotted.”

  —Providence Journal

  “Fans of Hall’s lengthy series will find lots to chew on in this fast-paced tale of murder and mayhem in the mangroves. Newbies will finish Hell’s Bay and quickly seek out its predecessors.”

  —News & Observer (Raleigh, North Carolina)

  MAGIC CITY

  “A gripping tale of dirty politics, love gone wrong, murder for hire, and international intrigue that is impossible to put down. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Damn good.”

  —Miami Sun Post

  “The quintessential South Florida novel.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Fast, entertaining . . . Hall offers lively characters, livelier dialogue, and an excellent depiction of contemporary south Florida.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Another outstanding chapter in one of the genre’s most consistently first-rate series.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Hall’s action scenes are starkly poetic.”

  —Baltimore Sun

  “From an opening scene that charges out of the box like a greyhound on amphetamines, to the climactic denouement that will leave the reader as limp as two-month-old kale, the pace . . . never slows.”

  —New York Sun

  FORESTS OF THE NIGHT

  “Complex . . . chilling . . . [Hall’s] prose style becomes almost cinematic . . . don’t put this one aside as a beach read. A long winter’s night is a better bet.”

  —New York Daily News

  “Hall’s finest work to date. It’s serious, gorgeously written, and deftly plotted. It leaves you wanting another book instantly. Hall’s work is being compared to Cold Mountain, but it’s a whole lot better. He has the lyrical style of a Southern storyteller, reminiscent of James Lee Burke.”

  —Boston Globe & Mail

  “A page-turning thriller.”

  —Tampa Tribune

  “Absorbing . . . fascinating . . . intriguing.”

  —Raleigh News & Observer

  “Breathless and fast-paced . . . brisk, suspenseful.”

  —Providence Journal-Bulletin

  “A successful departure from [Hall’s] usual style . . . [Hall] leaves the reader wanting more.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A thriller of the first magnitude.”

  —Miami Herald

  “[Hall is] a writer who carefully measures out the answers in clean yet elegant prose. Hall used to be a poet. In all the important ways, he still is.”

  —Denver Post

  “A multilayered, richly characterized, and compulsively readable story . . . Is it too early to pick a best book of the year?”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “A first-rate literary thriller in the tradition of Stephen Hunter’s Dirty White Boys and Wayne Johnson’s recent The Devil You Know!’

  —Booklist

  “The kind of story meant to be read around a campfire, providing you have a lot of wood stockpiled. Only the bravest souls would want to venture into the darkness in search of kindling after they’ve read the first few chapters of Forests of the Night!’

  —Atlanta Journal Constitution

  “A suspenseful, sharply detailed blend of history, family drama, and thriller, Forests of the Night cuts a wide literary swath, and does it with élan and passion.”

  —Russell Banks

  “Forests of the Night moves like an arrow—lean and swift—toward its amazing target. James W. Hall is at the top of his form; he’s a wonder to watch.”

  —Reynolds Price

  “Compelling . . . with action scenes that bristle with visceral intensity . . . nearly everyone has real depth, and the author’s appreciation for history and its reverberations adds further complexity.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “In the crowded and talented pool of South Florida suspense writers, James Hall pretty much has the deep end to himself. Out of reach for most, it’s a place of nameless primal fears and murky evil, from which Hall shapes compelling characters in riveting stories. You get caught up in the light and color, the movement of the unfailingly taut action, but you are always aware of something very old and dark beneath it all. His latest novel is wonderfully disturbing in just this way . . . all of which make the carefully crafted, darkly resonant Off the Chart stay with you.”

  —Miami Herald

  “After years of tussling with metaphorical pirates of every stripe, fly-tying South Florida swashbuckler Thorn finally gets to go up against the real thing . . . the combination of world-class villainy, exotic locations, quick-march pacing, and studly heroism also suggests Thorn’s channeling James Bond.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  BONES OF CORAL

  “Hall takes this high adventure a step beyo
nd the limits of the traditional action novel. . . a thoughtful, multifaceted novel that should not be missed.”

  —Library Journal

  “Brilliantly suspenseful . . . Hall raises mystery writing to its rightful place of honor alongside the best of American fiction.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  BLACKWATER SOUND

  “Nautical action sequences [are written] with cinematic vigor.”

  —The New York Times

  “Compelling . . . A well-crafted thriller.”

  —Miami Herald

  “From dramatic beginning to chilling ending, Hall’s never been better . . . the result is suspense, entertainment, and high-quality literature.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Terrific.”

  —Scott Turow

  “I believe no one has written more lyrically of the Gulf Stream since Ernest Hemingway . . . a wonderful reading experience.”

  —James Lee Burke, author of Bitterroot and Purple Cane Road

  “Gorgeous and compelling.”

  —Robert Crais

  “Sleek and relentlessly propulsive.”

  —Dennis Lehane

  “With beautiful prose and a heavily muscled story, it moves with the grandeur and unpredictability of a hooked marlin. Make that a killer marlin.”

  —Michael Connelly

  ROUGH DRAFT

  “A thoroughly satisfying thriller . . . Strong and engaging characters.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Lots of action, some of it gruesome, and an intriguing plot.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Good, old-fashioned, hideously violent fun . . . remarkably original . . . The creepy hit man Hal is one of Hall’s best psychos.”

  —Miami Herald

  “Veteran thriller master Hall exhibits a new dimension . . . solid suspense . . . an expert creator of grotesque villains and fast action, former poet Hall raises the crossbar with his sensitive insights into the human condition.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  BODY LANGUAGE

  “Body Language seduces you, then it grabs you, and it never lets you go. This is a first-rate thriller by a masterful writer.”

  —James Patterson

  “Alexandra Rafferty is a fabulous addition to the ranks of law enforcement. She is smart, competent, the consummate professional, and her job as a Miami P.D. photographic specialist places her at the heart of the crime scene, with a cold eye for detail and a passionate commitment to justice.”

  —Sue Grafton

  “Body Language is a sizzling tale of sex, blood, and obsession.”

  —Stephen Coonts

  “A well-plotted mystery . . . Past hurts and current passions come into play in a riveting way that simply won’t allow you to put the book down.”

  —Tampa Tribune Times

  “Hall fans will be more than reimbursed by his poetic imagery in the landscapes and love scenes. Alex is a heroine with enough endearing attributes to sustain yet another long-running character series.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Suspense and forensic detail with a near-flawless grasp of character.”

  —Booklist

  ALSO BY JAMES W. HALL

  Magic City (2007)

  Forests of the Night (2005)

  Off the Chart (2003)

  Blackwater Sound (2001)

  Hot Damn! (2001)

  Rough Draft (2000)

  Body Language (1998)

  Red Sky at Night (1997)

  Buzz Cut (1996)

  Gone Wild (1995)

  Mean High Tide (1994)

  Hard Aground (1993)

  Bones of Coral (1992)

  Tropical Freeze (1990)

  Under Cover of Daylight (1987)

  HELL’S

  BAY

  James W. Hall

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  HELL’S BAY

  Copyright © 2008 by James W. Hall.

  Cover photo montage © Shutterstock

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007039977

  ISBN: 0-312-94417-9

  EAN: 978-0-312-94417-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / February 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2009

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Geoff Colmes, my guide

  We are the children of many sires,

  and every drop of blood in us

  in its turn . . . betrays its ancestor.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  JULY

  Summerland,

  Florida

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twist for twist, curve for curve, the two-lane road tracked the ancient meander of the Peace River through the sun-battered Florida scrubland. Steering one-handed, Abigail Bates reached up and cocked her rearview mirror off-center to better ignore the white pickup riding her bumper.

  She eased back in the leather seat and held the Jaguar to thirty-five and returned to spying on the river through the cy-press and pines. In the full sun its dawdling current threw off a silver glow against the riverbank trees and lit the belly of a great blue heron as it slid upstream with ungainly ease. Kingfishers stood watch in the highest branches of the pines, each bird staking out a stretch of water. From the southwest a warm wind breathed through the foliage, shifting leaves and smoothing down the tall grasses.

  To her mind, this landscape had a stern grandeur, but go fifty miles west and pluck an average sunbather off the white sands of Siesta Key, drop them on the seat beside her, and most would be hard-pressed to find a trace of beauty in that stark countryside. Godforsaken was how she had described it as a defiant teen, seventy years before, serving out her childhood in the land of cattle prairies, citrus groves, pine flatwoods, cy-press swamps, and marshes. Back then this wilderness was home to a wealth of scrub jay, sandhill crane, little blue heron, indigo snakes, and any number of species that these days were near extinction. Extinct as well were the leathery cowmen who’d settled that land—roughneck dreamers like her father and his father before him. Although they’d never been glamorized by moviemakers, Florida wranglers like her ancestors were cracking whips over vast herds of cattle a half century before longhorns grazed the prairies of the West.

  Despite her youthful scorn of that rugged terrain and its rural isolation, eventually Abigail succumbed to her old man’s coaching and learned a measure of appreciation for the hard-scrabble aesthetics of the place.

  Apart from the garish aberration of Orlando, the vast interior of the state was thought by most to be a desolate wasteland. Finding champions for those millions of acres of scrub and palmetto and cypress swamp was nearly impossible. Indeed, that lack of care and legal scrutiny was in large measure what allowed Abigail’s family to amass their empire.

  As she steered the car around another sweeping bend, her foot softened on the gas pedal. On the gravel shoulder a bloated possum lay on its back, its paws reaching skyward as if pleading to the indifferent sun. Unperturbed by Abigail’s car, a pair of buzzards plucked at the remains.

  If she’d had any sense, she would’ve braked hard, U-turned, and headed back to the penthouse on Longboat Key. She was a firm believer in omens, and if that possum wasn�
�t one, she didn’t know what was.

  But damn it, for months she’d promised her granddaughter she’d complete this journey, take a firsthand look at what was at stake. Not that a three-hour paddle down the Peace River was going to alter her decision a whit.

  Despite the prickle of unease, she pushed on, and in another ten minutes she saw in the distance her first waypoint, the canoe outfitter’s shack.

  A good half mile in advance she put on her blinker for the benefit of the yahoo behind her. As she made her turn into the gravel lot, the truck thundered past and she glimpsed the driver, a woman with chalky skin and a long braid.

  She parked in front of the dilapidated cabin with a rusty sign over the door: canoe safari. The man who stuck his head out the doorway at the sound of her car had blond hair that trailed across his shoulders and a scraggle of hair on his chin.

  He stepped into the doorway and watched her climb out of the Jaguar. Except for the creaky knees and the steady throb in her left hip, she judged herself as supple as any woman half her age.

  For this outing she’d chosen one of her long-departed husband’s fly-fishing shirts with all the silly pockets and air vents, a pair of frayed jeans, and pink Keds. She’d pinned her silver hair into a bun and fit a Marlins cap atop. In that getup and the right light she might pass for seventy.

  With a squint of wariness the man watched her cross the gravel lot.

  “Help you?”

  “I’m looking to rent one of your boats.”

  He gazed at her for several seconds as if waiting for her to break into a grin and admit she was only teasing.

  She stepped closer and said, “In case you’re wondering, I’m eighty-six. I’m fully insured, but if it’ll make you feel easier, I’ll sign a release.”

  The man drew a strand of hair off his cheek and looped it behind his ear.

  “What’s your fancy? Red boat or one of the yellows?”

  It was agreed that the young man, Charlie Kipling, would rendezvous with her downstream at the state park landing at noon and would haul out the canoe and return her to this spot. That would give Abigail a three-hour drift down the Peace, quite enough time to take in the views and remind herself what the fuss was about. All she’d have to do was paddle a few lazy strokes now and then to keep the boat straight.