Fatal Harbor

by Brendan DuBois

  When I was in college, I wasn’t too fond of professors who prattled on and on, and I found that my dislike hadn’t gone away over the interceding decades.

  “That’s quite fascinating, Professor Knowlton, but I was hoping we could steer the conversation back to why I came here today. I also realize you only have a fifteen-minute block before another student comes knocking at your door.”

  He raised a hand. “My apologies, Mister Cole. Research, you said. For a freelance article, then?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for. And I’m also hoping you could assist me in locating Curt Chesak, the head of the Nuclear Freedom Front. I’d like to talk to him about a proposed book project about the demonstrations at the power plant.”

  He said nothing and continued looking at me, and I looked right back at him. Finally he said, “You’re certain you’re not a law enforcement official?”

  “Positive.”

  “Could I still see some ID, please?”

  Feeling generous, I opened up my wallet, passed over my New Hampshire driver’s license, as well as my official press pass, issued by the New Hampshire Department of Safety. He examined them both and gave them back to me.

  “What makes you think I know anything about Curt Chesak?”

  “I was led to believe that you were an associate of his.”

  “‘An associate of his.’ And who said that, someone whose dad worked for Senator McCarthy back during the Red Scare?”

  “No,” I said. “A source I know, a source I can trust.”

  “From the news accounts of what happened at Falconer, you must know that lots of cops are looking for Curt Chesak. Some of them have actually paid me a visit.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, right, luck,” he said. “And you know what I told each and every one of them? That even if I knew where Curt Chesak was—which I’m not admitting—I wouldn’t even consider turning him in. Because he’s a true believer, a fighter for the people, an organizer who has made a difference. To lots of people, he’s a damn hero, and I’m not in the business of turning over heroes to the police.”

  “To lots of people, he’s a damn thug.”

  Knowlton raised a hand. “Of course that’s how the corporate-powered media are going to portray it, and—”

  “I saw what he did,” I said sharply, interrupting him. “I saw him at the Falconer plant site last week, where he took a length of pipe and nearly beat to death a Tyler police officer.”

  “Price of progress.”

  “The price of. . . .” I couldn’t go on anymore. I wanted to reach across that academic desk, pick up his coffee mug, and crack it against his skull just to give him a taste of his blessed progress.

  “Absolutely. The Tyler police officer who was allegedly injured by Curt Chesak wasn’t a person anymore. He—”

  “She,” I corrected him.

  “He, she, does it make a difference?”

  “Makes a difference to some. Including me.”

  “Whatever,” the professor said. “That police officer was more than just a police officer. She was a symbol of the corporate oligarchy that has been running this country for decades and, in the spirit of self-defense, what happened to her was a just response to oppression.”

  Focus, focus, I thought to myself. “So, when was the last time you saw Curt Chesak?”

  A slight smile. “Not going to happen, sorry.”

  “But you do know him.”

  “I refer you to my earlier statement.”

  “Ah, even if you did know him, you wouldn’t admit it.”

  “True, because you know, when it comes to—”

  “Excuse me, I think you’ve misunderstood why I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  I stood up. “I’m not paying tens of thousands of dollars per semester to listen to stuff I can hear for free at 2 A.M. on Newbury Street, when the bars close.”

  His lips pursed and his eyes flared. “You can leave.”

  I headed for the door. “I don’t need your permission.”

  Outside, I was hoping the air would freshen and cheer me up, but it did the opposite. The air was thick and oppressive, and the constant drone of nearby traffic seemed to burrow inside my skull, like a dull drill bit trying to fight its way through something unyielding. I got out on Bay State Street, looked up and down, and saw Felix’s Cadillac at the intersection with Granby Street, partially parked up on a sidewalk.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Parked on the opposite side of the street was a dark blue Ford LTD with a whip antenna on its trunk. One man in a long black raincoat was standing by the open driver’s door, while the other one was talking to Felix. To me they looked like cops. I wondered if they were ticked off by Felix’s lack of parking etiquette.

  I was too far away to hear what was going on, but I clearly could see that the discussion was quite animated, with lots of hand-waving and finger-pointing. Then Felix seemed to burst out laughing, and gently slapped the guy’s shoulder. I started walking to Felix, feeling pretty good, all things considered, since Felix seemed to have the situation well in hand.

  Felix turned and walked back to the Cadillac, both men shouted something, and Felix whirled around, crouching, pistol in hand, and shot at them both.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sudden boom! of gunshots made me duck and hunker down behind an oak tree. Everything slowed down, like I was watching a movie and the projectionist had screwed up the speed of the film. The guy nearest Felix fell to the ground, rolled, and came up with his own pistol, shooting back at Felix.

  Felix kept on firing, moving to take cover by the front of the Cadillac. Glass shattered on the LTD. The second guy ducked behind the open door of the LTD. More gunfire. The near guy grunted loud and fell back on the street. Didn’t move. Felix was leaning over the hood and he popped out an empty magazine, quickly reloaded, kept up the firing.

  I started moving, automatically reached to my side, found nothing.

  Because someone stupidly thought he didn’t have to be armed in such a safe area.

  I had nothing to help Felix with.

  But I kept on moving, as students and other folks ran away, screaming and yelling. Felix ducked behind his Cadillac. I didn’t see him and got worried.

  More gunfire.

  A yelp from the second guy, who slumped into the driver’s seat.

  Sirens were screaming in the distance.

  Felix popped up, went to the Cadillac, dove in and started up its engine.

  I started running down the road.

  Felix glanced back, saw me, and then drove away, making a sharp left onto Granby Street.

  I stopped running, breathing hard, feeling like knives were slicing away at my lungs. The road was deserted. The LTD was still there, windows shattered, bullet holes in the door and the front fender, the left front tire sunk flat. The first guy shot was lying flat on his back, the other was still slumped over in the front seat.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, turned, and started walking briskly away. Sirens grew louder. People were clumped at the end of Silber Way, looking down at the carnage on the other end of the street. I moved through them, not saying anything, not doing anything conspicuous, just wanting to get away as quickly and quietly as possible.

  Two blocks away from the shooting, I took out my cell phone. I checked it and there were no messages, either voice or text. I turned and faced a building, phone in hand, like I was examining something important. I took the cover off, removed the battery and the SIM card. I broke the SIM card in half, kept all the pieces in hand. I strolled a few yards until I found a storm drain. I quickly knelt down, dumped everything down the storm drain, pretended to tie my shoe, and then kept on walking.

  I suppose I was in shock. I was observing the streets, the people walking by and passing me, the sound of horns and sirens. I flinched as a white Boston police cruiser roared by, followed by another, heading to where I had just been. Everything seemed double-exposed, for what
I was watching was overlaid by the sight of Felix and the other two men in a gunfight on a quiet college street just a few blocks away.

  I kept on walking.

  I ended up at Yawkey Way, adjacent to the most famous baseball park in America. Once again the Red Sox had not disappointed their diehard fans and had collapsed in spectacular fashion in August, leading to weeks of backbiting, gossiping, and some firings. So on this October evening, the lights were doused and pieces of scrap paper were the only things moving up and down the deserted street. I walked up to Gate A and stood there for a while, trying to ease my breathing, keeping my hands in my pockets.

  Felix had season tickets to the Red Sox, and on those occasions whenever he invited me to a game, this was where we entered. Felix knew his way around Boston like he was the mayor of the damn place, and he had a secret parking spot near the park which meant it was only a five-minute walk to the game, going along with the thousands of people streaming in, most wearing Sox gear.

  I looked up at the dark structure. Lots of fond memories from this place, opened up the year the RMS Titanic sank. Games lost and won. Beers and hot dogs consumed—Felix once saying “Still a great ballpark, but damn, they almost lost me when they started selling deli sandwiches here”—and it was nothing earth-shattering, but damn, it had been fun.

  I started walking away.

  My feet were aching something awful when I stopped again. I had hiked damn near halfway across the city, getting lost about a half dozen times, refusing always to ask for directions. Asking directions meant interacting with people, people with memories, and I didn’t want anybody to remember me walking through Boston tonight.

  Now I was in a semi-familiar neighborhood, with Italian restaurants and pizza joints and tourists and students milling about, looking for fun, food, and whatever else might come their way.

  That third part worried me.

  I took my time, walking along the narrow streets, until I reached the street where Aunt Teresa lived.

  Looked quiet.

  Looked calm.

  Still didn’t like it.

  Nothing seemed out of place. Cars were parked up and down the street, there were college-aged men and women walking by, some were standing around, and. . . .

  Standing around.

  At one end of the block, a tall, muscular guy was sipping on a drink. At the other end of the block, another guy about the same size was gnawing on a slice of pizza. He was taking very, very tiny bites.

  Both guys’ heads were moving around, up and down the street, up and down the street. I walked into a restaurant, asked for and received a take-out menu, and walked away from Aunt Teresa’s block.

  Three blocks later, I dumped the menu in the trash.

  At Park Street Station on the edge of Boston Common, I found a park bench, sat my tired butt down, took stock of the situation. I had about sixty bucks in my wallet and my credit cards. But using the credit cards was out of the question, at least for now. Felix and I had gotten a hell of a lot of attention, and I wasn’t sure from who. All I knew was that Felix had felt threatened back at the college, and had responded rattlesnake-quick.

  I shivered. I had a heavier coat for the autumn evening hours, but that coat was at Aunt Teresa’s home, along with my other belongings. With cash, I could get on the T, head to North Station, and from there eventually catch the Amtrak Downeaster train that went north and eventually into my home state, and there to Exonia, home of Phillips Exonia Academy and the hospital where my friend Diane was barely surviving.

  But what to do after that? Every other time I had gotten into a bind, I had always counted on my few friends to help me out. Paula Quinn, assistant editor at the Tyler Chronicle, was always there to dig up some obscure piece of information or give me a tidbit about local politics. But the last I knew, she was out in Colorado with her boyfriend—the town counsel for Tyler—taking a couple of weeks off after being hurt at that same anti-nuke rally in Falconer where the activist Bronson Toles had been shot.

  Diane had always been Diane, but she was . . . she was out of the picture.

  And Felix?

  No joy. I had no idea where he had gone.

  I rubbed my arms again, feeling the most alone I had in quite a long time. People kept on walking by, not as many as before, as the night lengthened and the air grew colder. Up to the left was Beacon Hill, home of the Massachusetts Legislature and the source of many a headline and criminal sentence, and behind me was the famed Boston Common.

  I waited. I could make out the grinding sound of a T train rattling beneath me.

  What to do?

  I looked one way, and the other.

  Traffic was thin.

  I waited.

  A car approached on Tremont Street, slowed, and then pulled in front of me, in a No Parking area. It was a bright red BMW sedan. The driver’s side window rolled down.

  Felix looked out at me.

  I got up from the park bench, strolled over and around the BMW, opened the door, and sat down gratefully in the heated interior.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I fastened my seatbelt and Felix moved quickly into traffic. “You okay?”

  “Feet hurt and my butt is frozen. And you?”

  “Never finer. You dump your cell phone?”

  “Quite dead,” I said, adding, “Your aunt’s place is under surveillance.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He stopped at a traffic light near Frog Pond. “What happened back there?” I asked him.

  “I was waiting for you and those two pulled up. Showed me ID, stating they were FBI. Wanted to talk to me.”

  “Sweet Jesus, you shot two FBI agents?”

  Felix tightened his hands on the steering wheel, made a sharp left turn. The BMW was a standard and he seemed to take a pure physical joy in working the clutch and moving the shift. His jaw worked and he kept quiet, and he quickly braked at another red light.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Spoke too fast. Spoke without thinking.”

  We waited at the light. It was a long wait.

  The light turned green. Felix said, “I guess you damn well did.”

  Then we started moving again.

  I kept my mouth shut. My feet were tingling with joy from not having to walk any more. Felix made another turn and we were on the Mass Avenue Bridge, heading into Cambridge.

  “So I was parked there, waiting for you to come out. Then the LTD drove by, made a U-turn, parked across from me. One guy came out and walked over, wanted some identification. I politely asked him who he was. The guy said he was FBI, flashed me his ID. It didn’t look right. The photo was slightly out of focus, print looked blurry, badge looked cheap. That was point number one. Point number two was when I asked him if I could take a closer look at the ID. He refused. Lewis, in my previous encounters with similar officials, they’re always happy to show off their IDs. Makes them feel that much more important.”

  It was good to be in the warm interior of the BMW, good to be with Felix, good to hear him explain what had happened.

  “So the first guy got closer in my face, wanted to know why I was at Boston University. I said I was there to meet a friend. What friend, he asked. None of your business, I said right back at him. Meanwhile, I was also keeping an eye on his driver, who was back at the LTD, standing behind an open door, giving him cover. And while this was all going on, I was evaluating.”

  We were now in the People’s Republic of Cambridge. Luckily, the long-promised border and customs crossing had not yet been set up. “What do you mean, evaluating?”

  Felix slowed down as we approached another red light. “Sounds spooky, hocus-pocus, all that crap, but in my line of work you develop a sense of what’s going on. Learn how to sit in a restaurant. Know, when you’re walking down a sidewalk, who might be a potential threat. Learn when to answer a party invite at some guy’s house or stay home and watch basketball. And you know how much I hate basketball. But this sense, it’s never failed me, not once. So I’ve learned
to trust it.”

  “What was your sense telling you?”

  “The whole thing was a setup,” Felix plainly said. “The guy was too pushy, too demanding, too cocky to be an FBI agent. Plus his clothing and shoes, it just didn’t add up. FBI guys like to dress flashy. He wasn’t flashy at all. I talked to him for about two or three minutes, and by then I knew they were both fake. So I slapped him on the shoulder, told him good job, why doesn’t he try out for summer stock theater next year, and I turned to walk back to my Caddy.”

  “Turning your back on them didn’t seem too bright.”

  “Maybe not, but I had an advantage. The way I’d parked the Cadillac, I had a pretty good reflection from its side windows. When I was walking away from the gentleman actor, I saw him reach under his coat, grabbing a weapon. It was quickly going bad. I was either going to get shot right then, or they were going to drag me into the LTD and I was going to get shot later on. Neither outcome was appealing.”

  “You moved fast.”

  “I wasn’t thinking, just reacting.”

  “Sorry again for second-guessing you.”

  “Apology accepted once again. And speaking of apologies, I’m sorry I didn’t wait around for you. I only had seconds to get the hell out of there.”

  “Understood. Though I admit I was getting nervous after you didn’t show up at Fenway Park or your aunt’s place.”

  “Took a while to dump the Cadillac and pick up new wheels. Even with prep work, calls have to be made, people have to be paid off.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Felix made a series of turns and we went down a residential street. He pulled over and put the shift into neutral, left the engine running. “So, where now?”

  “Off to Brookline,” I said firmly. “To see Professor Knowlton.”

  “I take it you didn’t get much joy from the professor?”

  “Not a damn thing, except overpriced and undervalued opinions.”

  Felix glanced back at the rear of the BMW. “We’re missing some gear.”

  “I think we can make do if we put our minds to it, don’t you?”