"I've been working on a boat out on the bay." I was sharing the bar with a down-to-earth working man, three days' stubble, worn jeans, a beat-up denim jacket. I didn't know he was the wrong person to tell. He grunted. "A pretty little thing?" I laughed.
"Not a chance. Ugly as sin but safe as houses. Looks like Frankenstein's boat maybe, but she'll be floating when the trumpets call."
He smiled. "Sounds like a good boat. Like to go out and get some peace and quiet?"
It was my turn to grunt. "Like anyone can find peace these days. No, my Sanctum — that's her name — is loaded up with food and fuel, water, ammo, all that."
He nodded and was quiet long enough for me to worry he could be an informant. Then the guy launched into his own plans, a cabin in the woods someplace, belongs to his cousin. Sounded made up to me.
It probably was. Because when shit met fan and I went to my Sanctum, she was gone. Did he tell the government? Did he wake up and smell the manure before I did, and remember my ugly little boat? Does it matter?