Harrison Squared by Daryl Gregory

creature that had died in the crocodile’s mouth. Weathered poles stuck up out of the water, the walkways and berths long since rotted away. One pier remained, jutting over the water. Clinging to its tip was a colorless wooden shack. A dozen boats—outboards, fishing boats, a handful of sailboats—were tied up along the pier. Three lobster boats were loading up. Men in baggy pants tossed down metal lobster traps to other men on the decks. They shouted to each other as they stacked the traps, the fog muffling their voices.
    Birds wheeled in the air above the boats, keening. They looked and sounded like the seagulls back home. If any of them were albatrosses I wouldn’t know—I had no idea what one looked like.
    Our pickup was parked in a corner of the gravel lot. It looked lonely with no equipment in the bed of it, like a dog with its chin on the floor. I hoped Edgar and Howard and the other buoys were still out there, still taking sonar pictures, still broadcasting. When Mom came back she’d be anxious to see the data.
    I walked over to the truck, tried the door, but it was locked. I cupped my hands against the window. The keys weren’t in the ignition—a place Mom had been known to leave them—so I figured she’d brought them with her on the boat. No matter. I went to the rear right fender and felt around until I found the magnetic case. The key was still inside. I’d never told Mom about the spare, because then she’d use it: If you give an AMP a key, she’s sure to lose it.
    I unlocked the door and climbed in. The cab still smelled like the onion rings we’d eaten somewhere in Pennsylvania. I only had my learner’s permit, but I figured I could risk driving the truck back to the house. Then I noticed the crumpled green paper on the floorboard. I remembered the note Mom had found on the hood of the truck.
    I picked it up, then smoothed it out. In spidery black cursive, it said, “Stay out of the water.”
    I stared at it. A note from the neighbors, she’d called it.
    The windows of the truck were rolled up, and the parking lot was empty. I felt okay about screaming a few curse words, in a couple different languages.
    I thought of Mom yelling into the phone the morning she disappeared. That, that … Viking! The charter captain’s name was Erik Hallgrimsson. Had he left the note? Or was everyone in town trying to get us to leave?
    Hallgrimsson was probably out on that pier. All I had to do was go out and find him.
    *   *   *
    The pier.
    It wasn’t that I was afraid of the ocean—that wasn’t it at all. I hated it. I wouldn’t swim in it or boat across it, and I didn’t even like to fly over it. Walking out over it, on some rickety platform that looked like it would fall apart at the first big wave … ugh.
    But there were questions I needed answers to.
    I was relieved that the boards felt solid beneath my feet. I avoided looking out at the water and kept my eyes on the sign above the shack’s door: B AIT S HOP . When I reached the shack, I stood with my back against the wall, hands jammed in my pockets.
    No one paid me any attention. I watched the men work, and when I thought they weren’t looking I studied their faces, wondering, Is he the one?
    A slate board was nailed to the bait shop wall. The boats’ names were written in chalk. Each boat had been assigned a numbered slip. I wondered which one was the ship Mom had gone out on that first day. The Bonny ? The Paste Pot ?
    Then I saw the next two names on the list. Huginn and Muninn. Huginn was crossed out.
    Huginn and Muninn were the ravens that belonged to Odin, king of the Norse gods. Huginn’s name meant “thought.” Muninn meant “memory.” Good names for boats if you read a lot of Thor comics—or if you were a Viking.
    The men still on the pier climbed down ladders to the boats, and my time was running out. I