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PROLOGUE TO COLD DARK WATER |
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PROLOGUE Tim Pethic never heard the bullet which ended his life. The setting sun burned a bright orange blaze across the surface of the ocean. The water appeared to be on fire, a finger of liquid fire pointing directly at his boat. The water was dark on either side of the sun’s fiery reflection, which bisected the breakwater at Little Harbor. He had pulled in the last of his lobster traps and set them on the deck of his boat. Weary from the day’s work, he stood up and stretched his back. It was almost sundown. The day was done, the harvest good. He sat on the gunwale of the boat, squinting at the setting sun and then looked eastward, toward the Islands. He took a long drink from a bottle of whiskey he kept on board, and watched a nearby tug escorting large freighter out of Portsmouth Harbor. He stood up and took another long drink from the bottle. He never thought it would be the last drink he’d ever enjoy. Lobsters were once thought to be a nuisance, used as food for prisoners and slaves. Today they are seen as a delicacy worldwide. There’s no better place for lobster than right here, along the Maine and New Hampshire seacoast. Lobstermen work hard. Studies have shown that only ten percent of lobsters that enter a trap get caught. The other ninety percent enjoy a free meal and move on. Smart. Being a lobsterman is a tough way to make a living. The hours are long, the work physical, strenuous, and in all kinds of weather, too. The men are tough and many are friends of mine. My name is Jack Dawson. I live and work among them, enjoying the fruits of their labor, repairing their boats, and occasionally imbibing with them. The sad reality is that I used to take them for granted. That was until they started dying around me.
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