FATAL HARBOR
BRENDAN DUBOIS
As with my first novel, this one is for my parents,
Arthur and Mary DuBois.
Thanks for believing in me from the very start.
FATAL HARBOR
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
In my home state of New Hampshire, death certificates are a formal-looking document, with a light watermark in the center outlining the shape of our fair state. There are seals in each corner, an elaborate light-blue border with lots of swirls and curls, and the official state seal in the center. The paper is thick and has a light pink background, to prevent counterfeiting, I’m sure.
Just below the words CERTIFICATE OF DEATH, in all capital letters, there are sections to be filled out.
FULL NAME OF DECEASED
Next to those four official words, a three-word name had been typed in:
Diane Elizabeth Woods
Below the name, there are other sections of the death certificate to be filled out.
DATE OF DEATH
DATE OF BIRTH
And the usual and customary information of one’s life, all filled out in clean, bureaucratic prose, from PLACE OF DEATH to RESIDENCE to PLACE OF DISPOSITION.
About halfway down the list is the phrase that sticks out: MANNER OF DEATH.
I looked at it again.
MANNER OF DEATH.
And typewritten simply is one word:
Homicide.
I woke up with a start, an elbow in my side. A familiar male voice to my left: “Lewis, if you were working for my crew back in the day, you’d hope that falling asleep on the job would be a firing offense. And nothing else.”
I yawned. “Felix, in your day, I wasn’t within five hundred miles of this place.”
Felix Tinios laughed. “Then you missed a lot of action.”
I wiped at my eyes, yawned again. We were in Felix’s black Cadillac Escalade SUV, parked on a residential street in Brookline, Massachusetts, just outside Boston. It was late October and two in the morning, according to the Cadillac’s dashboard clock. I stretched, felt something pop in my back and legs.
“How much longer?” I asked.
“Up to you. This is your little op, now, isn’t it? I’m just here for . . . assistance and technical advice.”
Along this fine street were houses whose monthly mortgages could support a family of four for about a year or so in some areas of the United States. Most of the homes were dark, save for a few that had that ghastly light-blue glow in the windows from televisions that were left on.
“So, what’s your advice?”
The wind came up, stirring leaves along the pavement. Our target house was just up the street, on the left, near a fire hydrant. It was dark. It had been dark since we had gotten here, nearly four hours ago.
Felix stretched as well. “Stakeouts sure do suck,” he said.
“That’s a statement, not advice.”
“Best I can do right now.”
I stared at the house, willing a light to go on, a car to pull into its short driveway, anything to indicate that its occupant had finally come home. But the Colonial-style home with its attached two-car garage and black shutters remained lifeless.
“Didn’t think college professors had such exciting lives,” Felix said.
“Always a first time.”
“What does this clown teach again?”
“The clown’s name is Heywood Knowlton, he’s in the history department at Boston University, and he teaches a course called ‘Marxism and the American Consumer.’”
“What else does he teach?”
“That’s it.”
Felix grunted. “Nice gig if you can get it. It’s going to be a joy to talk to him, when he shows up.”
“If he shows up.”
“I’m supposed to be the pessimist in this crew, Lewis. Remember your place.”
Felix turned in his seat and reached back among our gear, came back with a Thermos container. “Coffee?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
Felix poured himself a small cup, took his time sipping it. At first the coffee smell had been a pleasant one; but, having been cooped up in the Cadillac for so long, it was now turning my stomach.
I rubbed at my eyes, nervous and jumpy. It had been a long four hours and I felt guilty for dozing off. I felt like I hadn’t taken a bath or shaved in a week, and in the dim light from the nearby street lamp, Felix looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine, wearing charcoal-gray slacks and a black turtleneck. For the past couple of days, we had been tracking Professor Knowlton, not because we wanted to audit his class, but because we wanted to talk to him about someone he knew, this particular someone who had put my best friend into a hospital ICU with little chance of recovery.
Our work had begun at Boston University earlier in the day, where we had followed Professor Knowlton from his office, through the pleasant campus of BU, and into another campus building. Through a pretext call, Felix had found out that after a faculty meeting, the professor was going to a function on Newbury Street celebrating another history professor’s book publication. Felix and I had set up surveillance on either end of the street, keeping the restaurant entrance in view, cell phones in our coat pockets, as people walked about us on the cool October evening.
But he never showed up. After a while, after seeing other BU faculty members dribbling out, each carrying their co-worker’s book—and I had to smile when one woman with a pinched face and oversized glasses walked by, volume in hand, and said to her younger male companion “There is no God if a dolt like him can get anything more complicated than a cookbook published”—Felix slid into the restaurant and came out, shaking his head.
We had missed him.
Now Felix said: “What news from the hospital?”
“Still in a coma, still in ICU.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“It’s enough.”
Felix drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’ve been at this two days now. You still on board for what you’ve got planned?”
“I am. Why do you ask?”
“Because time’s gone on, that’s why. I’ve found that over time, well, things cool down. Perspectives change. What was once clear is now a bit foggy.”
Up ahead on the road, something scurried across from one row of shrubbery to another. Too small for a dog, too big for a cat. A fox, maybe? Here, in the dense suburbia of Brookline?
“Nothing’s changed, Felix. Not a damn thing.”
“He might not have anything for us.”
“He just might, and that’ll be worth it.”
Between us on the seat was a small handheld radio. Every now and then there was a small burst of sta
tic. Felix swiveled in his seat, put the Thermos away. Back in the rear were two black duffel bags with our respective gear, and underneath our seats were our respective weapons. I had a 9mm Beretta, and Felix had a 9mm Glock. Two different styles of pistols, but the same caliber, helpful if we were to get into a firefight and needed to share ammunition.
Not that either of us was planning to be on the receiving end of a firefight. It was just good to be prepared.
Felix said, “Another half hour.”
“Why not.”
And among our other preparations back there were plastic Flex-Cufs, a black cloth hood, some short lengths of rubber hose, some half-gallon containers of water, and other assorted pieces of gear to commence mayhem.
Then the radio crackled.
“Dispatch, B-four.”
B-four was a patrol unit for the Brookline Police Department.
“B-four, go.”
“B-four, respond to Wellington Street. Caller reports suspicious vehicle parked for an extended period of time, apparently two men inside. Vehicle large black SUV.”
“Dispatch, B-four, responding.”
Felix quickly turned the key to the Cadillac. “Lewis, I do believe it’s time to depart these fair shores.”
“No argument here.”
With lights off, Felix drove us down the street, slowed without halting at the stop sign, and made a turn. I admired his tradecraft. If we were still being watched by a curious neighbor or two, they wouldn’t see taillights flickering as we braked, so whether we went left or right wouldn’t be known.
Once the turn was made, Felix switched on the headlights, and we sped up through the quiet suburban streets of Brookline. Felix made a series of turns, going one way and then another, until I was severely, completely, and utterly lost. There was an impressive navigation system in his rented Cadillac, but he refused to use it. Earlier, he had said: “It takes a lot of work to stay disconnected in this wired world of ours, but you’ve got to do it. Otherwise, one of these days you’ll be sitting in court, watching some sharp prosecutor explain in full detail your driving record on the night in question.”
On this night, we soon left the confines of Brookline and entered Boston. Once we were out of the city where the police were on the prowl, I sensed Felix relaxing, and I did too, though right after that I was quite tired.
Felix said: “Always nice to set your own schedule for meeting public servants. The ones you meet at this hour of the night tend to be grumpy and suspicious.”
“Even when they’re working for the public good?”
“Especially when they’re working for the public good.”
“If you say so,” I said, and maybe I was being paranoid, for I swung my head around one last time to check on our progress.
Nothing.
Good. Meant the Brookline patrol cruiser was still back there in Brookline, doing its job. The fair people of Brookline were getting their tax money’s worth this early morning, for the police were indeed preventing a number of crimes including kidnapping, assault, and possible torture.
A series of crimes I was fully prepared to commit.
CHAPTER TWO
Felix brought us to the North End of Boston, with its narrow streets and brick buildings pushed together like some architect years ago had been deathly afraid of open space. Being with Felix the past few days, since we had driven down here from New Hampshire, I had gotten familiar with our temporary lodgings, but Felix drove by that brick building and went on for another two blocks.
I was going to ask him what was going on, but, through years of experience, I knew when to keep my mouth shut. His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens, and one can sense the energy coming from him while he’s working. Now he backed into a narrow alleyway and waited, switching off the Cadillac’s lights.
It was quiet. He shifted some in his seat. Leather squeaked. I kept my mouth shut.
A group of drunken college students stumbled by. One of them stopped and weaved his way into the alley, started fumbling at his belt and zipper. Felix said “Not on your life,” and he lowered the window.
“Hey!” he called out.
The student raised his head, grunted something in return.
Felix said, “Pull it in, zip it up, or I’m coming out. And if I come out, your hands will be worthless for a month, and you’ll be wearing an adult diaper. Got it?”
The student got it. He wandered back out to the street, moved away. Felix raised the window. He sat, silent, looking out the windshield.
“What’s going on?”
Felix looked left, looked right, looked left again. “Don’t know. Just got the feeling we’re being followed.”
“The cops?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
I kept quiet, gave him space. A few long minutes passed. “After years of being out there, doing what I do, you gain . . . a sixth sense, or a sight, or something like that. Nothing you can put your hand on, but you learn to trust it. Has saved my skin on a number of occasions.”
“And you’re feeling that now?”
He tugged at an ear. “That I am.”
“But I don’t see anything.”
“Neither do I,” he said. “But I feel something. . . .”
He switched on the headlights, put the Cadillac in drive, slid us back out on the narrow North End street. “Eh, probably nothing. I’m tired, you’re tired, and it’s damn late at night.”
A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of our quarters. There was an empty spot in front of the four-story brick building. There was always an empty spot there, and when I had noted that to Felix our first night here, he had said, quietly, “Nobody in this neighborhood would dare to take it.”
We got out into the chilly early morning air. Lots of lights out there, the hum of traffic, car horns and distant sirens. The street was jammed with parked cars, wet trash was underfoot, and, by the near alley, there was the strong smell of recently released urine.
Big-city life.
I hated it.
I wanted to be back at Tyler Beach, in my small hundred-year-old-plus home, deep in bed, listening only to the creaks of the old timbers and the gentle roar of the ocean waves crashing in, with no worries besides what I was going to have for breakfast the next day.
If I said something, I knew Felix would take me back right away. Tyler Beach was just about an hour away, and then we’d both be back where we belonged, instead of here, where we had to be.
We retrieved our respective pistols and then, from the back seat of the Cadillac, took out our duffel bags. Our first night here, after another long night of surveillance, I had been in favor of leaving our gear in the Cadillac instead of humping it up three flights of stairs, but Felix had instantly quashed that idea. “Not for a minute,” he had said. “Leave stuff like that out in the car, you’re leaving evidence. All it would take is some nitwit sideswiping or trying to steal the damn thing, and cops will be here, asking questions.”
Now with duffel bags over our shoulders, Felix led the way and we went up some stone steps, and he unlocked the door. Dim light bulbs flickered in the stairwell, and we slowly went up the creaking stairs. Instead of the smell of urine and wet trash, there was the smell of spices and sauces.
On the third-floor landing, Felix unlocked another door and we stepped inside a very warm and cozy living room. There was a thick braided rug in the center, and two plush couches with lace doilies on the armrests. A light had been left on for us by the owner of this building, Aunt Teresa, a relative of Felix’s who was no doubt fast asleep in her own room. We softly let the duffel bags down, for Aunt Teresa was quite the light sleeper, for which I couldn’t blame her, since she was closing in on her tenth decade of life.
A small kitchen was on the other end of the living room, and there were two other small rooms, one of which was a spare bedroom, the other a sewing room. In a burst of generosity when we had first arrived three days ago, Felix had taken the sewing room and a fold-out couch. I think it
was a positive comment on his character that he didn’t readily seem to regret that decision, which was why I always let him use the tiny bathroom first.
When he was done I went into the bathroom myself. It had an old porcelain sink and a claw-footed bathtub. A small statue of Jesus was propped on top of the medicine cabinet.
Felix was already in his room when I got out, and I went into my lodging, closing the door behind me. I undressed and tossed my clothes on a simple wooden chair in the corner. I crawled into bed, switched off the light, and stared up at the ceiling. Even with the shade drawn, the outdoor light was illuminating everything inside, from the simple chest of drawers to the chair with my clothes on it, to the nightstand with another lace doily, and up on a small shelf by the door, a statue of the Virgin Mary. The statue was glow-in-the-dark, and her eerie light seemed to look right at me.
The bed was lumpy and old, and it had a musty smell. The pillow was too thick. I tossed and turned, tossed and turned, the sounds of traffic and horns still driving at me. I flicked the bedside lamp back on, reached over, and picked up a copy of yesterday’s Boston Globe. I flipped through the pages, trying to get myself relaxed, and read the breathless stories about the upcoming presidential election and the usual distressing news from overseas. I then went to the editorial pages of the Globe, which typically had the most boring op-ed columnists on the planet, coupled with sincere letter-writers who railed against everything from the sales of bottled water to the military influence on kindergarten classes.
In the Metro section, which covered the area around Boston and its suburbs, there was a brief news item about the Falconer nuclear power plant and the continued investigation into the violence that had erupted during the last demonstrations. Two dead from gunshots from yet-undetermined shooters, several injured, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage to the power plant, which was still operating despite the damage.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Four days ago, I had been at the last Falconer demonstration, where members of the Nuclear Freedom Front had stormed through, and where gunfire had broken out, and where my dearest and oldest friend, Diane Woods of the Tyler Police Department, had been beaten nearly to death with an iron pipe.
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