Safe Harbor

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Provincetowns newest, and only, deputy sheriff pulled her cruiser to a stop in the parking lot overlooking Herring Cove. It was 6 a.m. on a clear, crisp morning in May. Other than a Winnebago parked at the far end of the lot, she was alone. To her right stretched the curve of sand leading to Race Point, and in the distance she could make out the figures of a few early morning walkers. Seagulls swayed low over the water, searching for their breakfast, their shrill calls echoing on the wind. The water reflected the color of the nearly cloudless sky, iridescent blues and greens slashed through by the frothy white of the churning waves. The air carried the damp mist that hovered over the dunes, chilling her skin. Despite the chill, she rolled the windows down, allowing the scent and sounds of the sea to rustle through the vehicle. A coffee cup sat on the dash, tendrils of steam drifting off on the breeze. Unconsciously she shifted her equipment belt, settling the revolver more comfortably against her right hip.

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