Grave Situation by Alex MacLean

of the waterfront was much
different in the daytime—a beehive of locals and visitors. There
was a rich history to see—a reflection of old, the promise of new.
Eighteenth and nineteenth-century architecture blended with modern
buildings encased with glass.
    Greg carried a flashlight in his
right hand. After flicking it on, he played the beam around.
Lampposts lent the dock a touch of light, but their pale glow
seemed only to deepen the shadows.
    Slowly, Greg crossed the landing,
making his rounds again. As he stopped close to the water, his
two-way radio suddenly crackled to life.
    “Copy, Greg.”
    He recognized the voice as
belonging to his co-worker, Brad Hawkins. Greg pulled out the radio
from his belt and pressed the talk button. “Go ahead.
Over.”
    “Better watch your back,” Brad
said. “There’s a suspicious person coming up behind
you.”
    Greg turned his head without moving
his body. In the periphery of his vision, he saw a shadowy figure
approaching. He swung around, lifting the beam.
    It was Brad himself. He came into
the light with a broad grin on his face. Both hands rose in feigned
surrender.
    “Don’t shoot. I come in
peace.”
    Greg managed a smile. “You’re lucky
we don’t wear guns.”
    “If we did, I wouldn’t be so
bold.”
    Greg chuckled. “Pretty quiet night,
eh?”
    Brad nodded, putting away his
radio. “Surprising, really. Not too many Saturday nights like this.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing.”
    “Yeah, it is.”
    “Come on,” Brad said. “We should
finish up.”
    Together, they made their way
through the waterfront, checking doors and windows. To cover more
ground, the two men split up. Brad went back the way they had come.
Greg made his way to Historic Properties on Upper Water Street
where many waterfront warehouses built by the city’s earliest
settlers still stood. Today, they were renovated into boutiques,
cafés and pubs.
    The streets were empty. A car or
two passed by. There was no one on the sidewalks.
    Halfway through his rounds, Brad’s
voice came over Greg’s radio again.
    “Copy, Greg.”
    “Go ahead. Over.”
    “I’m going to check out a truck
sitting here on the waterfront.”
    Greg looked at the time. 5:01 am.
“What’s your location?”
    “I’m coming up to the Impark lot
by ECTUG.”
    “Anyone around?”
    “No one outside that I can see.
The dome light is on in the truck. Only see one person inside that
I can tell. Could be someone beside him.”
    “Is the person male or
female?”
    “Male. Guy is probably drunk and
came down here to sleep it off.”
    “Do you want backup?”
    “No. I can handle it.”
    “Copy that. If you have any
problems, radio me.”
    “I will. Over.”
    Greg continued his rounds. When he
finished at Historic Properties, he walked toward Lower Water
Street. He tried the doors and examined the windows at the Maritime
Museum of the Atlantic. All secure.
    The time was 5:28 am. Brad still
hadn’t radioed back.
    Curious, Greg decided to check on
him. He took out his two-way.
    “Copy, Brad.”
    Waiting for a reply, Greg breathed
in. Slowly, he began counting to himself. When he reached fifteen,
he got on the radio again.
    “Brad. Are you there?”
    Still no reply. Something was
wrong. Brad always answered his radio.
    Dead
battery? Greg wondered .
    He knew the Impark lot was close.
Radio in one hand, flashlight in the other, he started
walking.
    Dawn was breaking quietly over the
horizon. Through the fading dark, vague shapes began to take on
distinctive qualities.
    Greg reached Sackville Landing once
more. A short distance away, he could make out the profile of the
ECTUG building outlined against the sky, the peculiar silhouettes
of two tugboats moored at the dock.
    “Copy, Brad.”
    Silence.
    Greg came to the tugboats first.
The Impark lot was straight ahead.
    “Brad. Are you all
right?”
    Abruptly, Greg became very still.
There was a sound. Holding his breath, he clicked the talk button
on his radio,