Bay of Sorrows

Tom Poole was tired of corpses. In those days death had become a way of life. He had been driving north along the Port Arthur highway with the bay behind him, a long shiny seam of water, heading home after a hard Saturday, when the call came over his radio. Dispatch said there was a dead guy in a fishing shack just down the beach from the old marina. Poole knew where that was, and something—he didn’t know what, made him turn east, back toward the ocean. It took him some driving around the b...