Abigail had told him that Port Allain was a pretty town, and it lived up to the promo. Set flush on the edge of the Queen Charlotte Strait, it was tiny, clean, and prosperous. The streets had just been paved and there was fresh paint on the storefronts. Renovations were underway on a couple of the older office buildings. A nice place to visit, as the old saying went.
As Ramon walked off the ferry, he spotted a police officer casing the disembarking foot passengers, her gaze calm and speculative, substantial as a touch on the shoulder. Behind her, an old man in an immaculate blue suit was walking with a protest sign.
"Port Allain: over 50 deviants served. Welcome to the home of perverted scum," read the front of the sign. Residents flowed past the protester as if he was invisible. He pivoted to reveal the back placard, where the famous face of Rupe Moresby loomed fourteen inches high. "No Second Chances!" read block letters above the picture.
"Protect our children," the old man sing-songed in a reedy voice.
Ramon scanned the ferry terminal, spotted his ride click-clacking toward him on high heels.
"Doctor Corazone?"
"Just Ramon, Mayor."
"Dandy. That'll make me Sheila."
Studying the copper-haired matron, he shook the offered hand. She was well-dressed and alert, with deep lines just beginning to set around her mouth. Scooping up his suitcase, she hefted it into an illegally parked teal Civic. "This is a change," she grinned. "Usually I do this run with reporters."
A faint surge of unease broke through him, like a wave on the beach. He patted his pocket automatically, discovered his inhaler wasn't there. It must have ended up packed in the laptop case. "You get many journalists?"
"One or two a month. Enough so I've got a standard tour worked out."
)
