It was not a clear day, though, and the view was more gray: thick clouds and low fog obscuring the horizon, slate-black seawater pebbled with rain. The government wharf extended out from the foot of the road on pilings, and from it extended a number of floating docks, empty save for half a dozen decrepit fishing trollers, of which all but a couple looked moments from a watery grave.

There was a building on the water too, to the west of the government wharf, on the left from Mason’s standpoint. It extended out on stilts, corrugated metal gone rusted brown-red, a half-sunk floating dock of its own. DECEPTION COVE SEAFOODS, the sign on the roof would have read once, though it was now rendered nearly illegible by a succession of graffiti artists of varying levels of talent.

Nothing much seemed to move as Mason descended the hill. A pickup truck pulled out from somewhere, came up toward Mason, its engine struggling with the incline, windshield wipers working hard, its headlights dim yellow smears against the gray backdrop.

Mason reached the buildings, found a couple of bars, a grocery store. A marine outfitter and a diner. The sheriff’s deputy’s office and a boarded-up gas station. He stopped at the diner first, ordered eggs, hash browns, and bacon from a tired-looking waitress, ate his breakfast and drank coffee and looked out at the sheriff’s deputy’s office. It was a one-story building, a couple of cruisers and a big, jacked-up red pickup truck out front. Mason paid for his meal, left a generous tip, and walked across the street to the marine supply store.

The business appeared to function as part machine shop, part general store. It was a small, crowded space, shelves piled to the roof with fishing gear and tackle, rope of various sizes, engine lubricants, tools, and hunting knives, much of it covered in a thin film of dust. Behind the cash register sat a bored-looking man in his seventies, reading a paperback adventure novel through bifocal lenses. He nodded when Mason walked into the store, went back to his reading. Behind him, in a locked display cabinet, was a selection of rifles and shotguns for sale.

Mason found a package of Jockey shorts and some thick socks. A couple of T-shirts with fishing company logos on them, a Stanfield’s wool sweater, and two pairs of Wrangler jeans. He carried them to the front and deposited them on the counter, waited as the man finished his page and dog-eared the novel and stood, wearily, to sort through Mason’s purchases.

The man moved at a deliberate pace. Mason stood back and looked out through the doorway, watched the rain fall. Read the notices tacked to the bulletin board by the door, someone selling an outboard motor, someone selling a car, a couple of different men looking for deckhand jobs.