Terminal Island by Walter Greatshell

It’s just outside of town.”
    Ruby asks, “You think we can make it there and back before dark?”
    “Oh yeah—no prob.” The girl snaps her fingers. “Hey, if you guys want us to watch your daughter for a while, we can do it—we do childcare at competitive rates. We’re state certified.” She hands them a business card. “Or if you ever want to like go out for the evening? Have a little romantic honeymoon? A lot of the guests like it. My granny’s so great with kids.”
    “Thanks. We’ll have to take you up on that some other night.”
    “Any time, just let me know.”
    Out front, Henry says, “It’s getting kind of late. Maybe we should wait ’til the morning.”
    “No way. I can feel you stewing about it, and it’s ruining my vacation. Let’s get this over with before you have a coronary.”
    “Sorry. You’re right, I’m just procrastinating.” He takes a deep breath as if preparing for a high-dive. “Okay, let’s do it.”
    “Hey, I just want you to be able to relax. I love you, you know.”
    “I love you, too. Thanks for helping me deal with all this.”
    “What’s a good wife for?”
    They push the stroller along the crescent waterfront, following the sidewalk away from the business district toward the northern tip of the bay: the stone jetty and the domineering red-roofed fortress of the Casino Ballroom.
    “It’s not an actual casino,” Henry says. “I don’t know why they call it that. There’s no ballroom either, as far as I know. It’s always just been a movie theater and concert hall. I must have seen The Golden Voyage of Sinbad at least ten times there.” Impulsively, he says, “Hey, maybe we should go to the movies while we’re here.”
    “With Moxie?” Ruby says. “I don’t think so. You remember the last movie we tried to take her to?”
    Henry shudders. “No, you’re right. Too bad.”
    “Sorry, honey. We’ll go again when she’s away at college.”
    The Casino is closed anyway, dark and shut up. There is a flyer on the window advertising an upcoming town meeting. They walk out to a sea wall overlooking the choppy open ocean, the water midnight blue and falling away sharply to bottomless depths. As a kid, Henry marveled at scuba classes going in here, heedless of sharks, boulders, icy currents, or dense kelp—he’s not so sure anymore he’d want to try it. You could vanish down there and never be found. Anything could be lurking down there in the dark—he has a bit of a phobia about it.
    Between the Casino and the stone jetty there is a plaza with coin-operated telescopes. A few other couples have come here to enjoy the late afternoon sun before it sinks behind the island. The rest of Avalon is already in shadow. Ruby sets Moxie free to run around, but as they stand enjoying the view there is a disturbance, a harsh ripping sound from the road. It gets louder and its source appears: a yellow all-terrain vehicle ridden by two men, charging onto the square.
    “Whoa,” says Henry.
    Ruby calls, “Moxie! Stay by us, honey.”
    The burping quad ATV does a donut in the middle of the patio and stops, revving its engine. One of the riders gets off and examines the motor as the other keeps revving, the two of them conferring together over the noise. “I don’t like that sound,” the driver says.
    “Yeah, we don’t, either,” Ruby mutters.
    The men obviously aren’t tourists. They’re dressed in grease-stained overalls and scuffed work boots that clash with the magazine-pretty surroundings like a blue-collar reality check. Henry feels an odd pang of envy at the sight of them—they don’t give a shit about anything.
    “Hold on a second, honey,” he says to his wife, and starts walking over.
    Both men have the grizzled, sun-seasoned look of hardened grunt workers; roadies or even carnies, all wiry, tattooed muscle. They blandly look up as Henry approaches.
    “Hey. Nice ATV,” he says.
    “Yeah, she’s a beaut,” the driver replies amiably. “Just