Other than anxious fishermen hoping to make the first cast of salmon season, it was that hour in the morning when it was rare to see anyone up. The storm had stirred some inhabitants of Traitor Bay from their beds while others slept on. Generators seldom used spat to life and burned off dirty smoke. The quiet vacuum left behind by the storm was slowly being filled with the pulsating grind of machines, the smell of propane and gasoline, of modern civilization kicking back to life. Ann saw a handful of homes with their lights on inside and out, people walking around checking for storm damage or sitting in their kitchens thinking about starting coffee. The dogs seemed to be busy patrolling their yards, catching the scents of distant things carried by the wind on dead leaves, twigs and trash. She scanned the roof of the store as she approached it, didn’t notice any missing shingles or damage to the chimney. She’d been worried about it for a few years now, had found bits of mortar when she cleaned the rain gutters every spring. There’d been a house down on the bay that had its chimney knocked over during a storm, and it had slid down to the edge and hung there until someone could figure out what to do about it. She’d have to call someone to come out and take a look soon. Don’t want bricks falling down on our customers.
Ann noticed all the windows looked undamaged and the lights of the Coke coolers still glowed in the back, reassuring her that the backup generators were doing their job. She stepped on the accelerator and sped past the rest of town, which on the outer edges appeared to be blacked out. When she got over the top of a big hill she was startled by bright lights shining on the road. It was as if she’d accidently driven onto a movie set. She soon drove by a repair crew setting up cones next to a crane with a cherry picker, while others worked at a downed fir with chainsaws and she could smell the tang of freshly cut wood even with the windows rolled up.
As she turned off the highway into the boat ramp parking lot, she noticed that the lights there had also been knocked out by the storm. The place was definitely showing its years of neglect. The small concrete building that used to cater to the salmon fishermen and anyone else passing by on the highway when she was a kid, was all boarded up. The old man who’d run it had died years ago and no one had wanted to take over after he was gone. Ann still remembered the perpetual tang of propane, the big steaming pots he’d cook crabs in and the smoke of hotdogs barbequing. Practically every inch of the structure was covered now with anti-cop graffiti, and only just before salmon season came would the city pay someone to come out and give it a hasty whitewash.
She hadn’t gone fishing since high school, never cared for the crowds that turned the bay into something resembling city gridlock. Late on Friday and Saturday nights she and James would sometimes go to the boat ramp to party with friends. Nothing too serious. Someone with a pickup rigged with stereo speakers blasting from the tailgate, a pony keg hidden under tarp. Everyone seemed to get along, even with the visitors from Buoy City who occasionally got swept up in a migrating party of their own. Then Sheriff Dawkins began to crack down, made some minor-in-possession arrests and got everyone too paranoid to do much of anything on weekend nights except hang out at the 101 or go to the movies in Buoy City.
Ann parked next to the staircase that led down from the top of the bank to a floating wooden dock below. She put the gun in her pocket and grabbed the flashlight from the glove box before she got out of her car. Stopping for a moment to look out over the bay, she saw that the dark mouths of small streams she used to explore in her kayak during high tide now stood above the bay like drained aqueducts. There was a network of these canals that led through the tall grass, secret places where Ann often found solitude. Now hours before dawn, the water seemed heavier than usual as it returned to the sea. She recalled it was that time of the year when it filled up with plankton and in the sunlight looked as if it had been silted with copper dust.
When she got down the two flights of wooden staircase, she noticed a small boat tied up next to the dock. There was no sign of anyone around. The parking lot above had been empty. She drew her gun and stepped closer to the boat, wondering if someone might be lying inside, but all she saw were some life preservers and a ragged crab ring. She smelled gasoline coming from the boat, felt a puff of warmth that had drifted from its motor.
“Ann?” said a voice from behind her.
She spun around, aimed her flashlight up into a face and made sure it saw the gun in her hand.
“Don’t come any closer.”