Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “That’s all right,” I replied, knowing what she meant.

  She may have stolen the shawl, and disapproved of my lifestyle, but we were still friends.

  I got off the phone and realized that Terri was staring at me.

  “What was that all about?” he questioned.

  “It has to do with a case I’m working on. It’s the one I told you about earlier. That was Magda, the woman that stole the shawl,” I replied. “Oh.”

  That single utterance was enough to send shivers racing down my spine, though I didn’t know why.

  We finished our dinner in silence.

  “I’d better head off to work,” Terri finally said, having become unusually quiet.

  We parted outside the restaurant and I walked home alone.

  Eight

  The streets felt oddly deserted and the sidewalks were covered with snow. The city was so still that I could actually feel its pulse pounding beneath my feet.

  Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom.

  The steady rhythm was abruptly interrupted by the sudden flapping of wings. Startled, I jumped, afraid that the Angel of Death was hovering above me.

  I glanced up, but saw nothing at first. Then ghostly silhouettes gradually emerged. A flock of Canada geese passed over, flying through the night.

  I took a deep breath and then slowly let go. However, a sense of disquiet had already taken root in my soul. Even the streetlights seemed to sense my nebulous fear. Their elongated shadows taunted me.

  The shops on Orchard Street were closed. Their shuttered forms loomed ominously in the dark as I neared home. I hurried past and anxiously let myself inside my building. Then I dashed up to the third floor, the stairs groaning like the rattling of bones beneath my boots.

  I pulled out Gerda’s spare key and opened her door. It wasn’t that I was being rude. I simply knew that she wouldn’t be home. Dinner at Sammy’s Famous Romanian Restaurant was an all-night event.

  This time I greeted Spam with an overabundance of fanfare by wrapping my arms around his neck. If there were ghosts lurking nearby, we’d face them together.

  We strode down the hall and slipped into my apartment, after which I hastily closed and locked the door.

  Home, sweet home. Damn, but the place was cold! Then I remembered. I’d left the windows wide open. Gone was the scent of Raid, replaced by a smattering of snow.

  I quickly brushed the flakes off the sill and lowered the sash. Then I set about disposing of what dead cockroaches were visible. Next, I washed down the counter and cleaned all the exposed dishware. But I didn’t stop there. I proceeded to scrub the pots and pans, hoping to keep my demons at bay; but nothing could shake the feeling of dread that continued to grow inside me.

  “Come on, Spam. Let’s go for a walk,” I said, in an attempt to escape.

  We trudged out into the cold, but still my bogeyman wouldn’t let go. Rather, he held on tight as the snow began to come down even harder.

  Back upstairs, I plugged my cell phone into its recharger. Then Spam, my sense of foreboding, and I all climbed into bed together.

  I closed my eyes and the dread now began to take form. It was Magda removing the shroud from a corpse. I peered down at the body, and was stunned to find that the face was my own. The flesh slowly began to disintegrate until nothing was left but bone. I cried out in horror, causing Spam to spring up with a growl.

  “That’s okay, boy. It’s only me.” Santou’s voice floated in the air, as if in a dream.

  It became reality as he slid into bed and nestled beside me. Jake laid his arm across my body and I felt safe once more. That is, until the phone on my nightstand began to ring. I immediately sat bolt upright, as if having been touched by a ghost.

  “Hello?” I mumbled into the phone, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one to whom it seemed foreign.

  “Rach, is that you?” someone asked.

  “Yes. Is this Terri?” I responded, slowly beginning to wake from my fog.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Are you all right?” he questioned, clearly concerned.

  “I’m fine. Why?” I asked, and then immediately panicked.

  Some sort of disaster must have happened. The thought was automatic. The events of 9/11 were never far from my mind. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, hoping not to see a calamity.

  “I’m sorry,” Terri swiftly apologized. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s just that I’m sitting here at work, and I keep envisioning the color red all around you. I finally decided to call and make sure that everything is all right.”

  “Yes. Thanks for checking. Everything’s fine,” I assured him.

  However, I knew that wasn’t true. I hung up the phone, turned off the TV, and lay back down, not knowing what else to do. Though the room was cold, the bedsheet clung to my back, which was laden with sweat.

  “Who was that, chere?” Santou asked, his breath nuzzling at my neck.

  “It was Terri. He had a feeling that something might be wrong and just called to check,” I replied.

  “I hate to say it, but he’s getting crazier by the day with that new job of his. He’s actually beginning to believe all that crap he feeds everyone,” Jake intoned, and pulled me close.

  He quickly fell back to sleep, while I remained wide awake. I finally slipped out of bed, still feeling the impression of his body against my back, my legs, and heels. Grabbing my clothes, I pulled them on and hurriedly wrote a note. I left the slip of paper on my pillow, in case Santou woke before I returned. Then I quietly slipped outside, hoping that a walk might help clear my head.

  The snow was deeper than before, the night even more silent. The stillness was broken only by the occasional snarl of a car, or the whine of a snowplow chugging by. I kept my eyes glued to the ground, finding myself on a time-killing mission: making fresh footprints in the snow.

  If mammals sleep longer in the winter, then why can’t I? I pondered, feeling decidedly envious.

  Though my body felt as sluggish as a bear, my mind was racing a mile a minute. By the time I reached the parking garage, I finally knew what I had to do. I climbed into my Trailblazer, turned on the engine, and let it idle for a few minutes. Then I pulled out into the street and took off for the seaport, my vague unease having distilled into specific concern.

  There was no fighting traffic at this hour, as I cut across town to the Holland Tunnel. The tube stood waiting for me, its mouth wide open in a languid yawn. Only I knew it was a blatant dare.

  I approached while tightly gripping the steering wheel, and then floored the pedal to the metal. The Trailblazer shot through like a rocket, clear to the other side. The tunnel took it in stride, knowing that I’d eventually have to return.

  I emerged to a string of gas stations, each brightly lit as a Christmas tree. Sunoco, Exxon, Amoco, and Shell all plaintively called out to me. I paid no heed but continued on my way. The world was white as I pulled on to the Jersey Turnpike, and for a moment I was lost in a flurry of snow. Then I glanced to my left to see that the Hudson River was twinkling at me. It was vibrantly alive with the reflections of thousands of downtown lights, and I knew that New York City would always survive.

  I followed my “Yellow Brick Road,” dotted with refinery stacks blowing smoke. Their vapors formed lunar cobwebs that daintily laced the night sky. Ever so slowly they morphed into winged devils with tails and horns. Then the wraiths turned to me with what seemed to be bloodred eyes.

  Go back home. Go back home, they distinctly warned.

  Instead, I stepped on the gas and sped up, a sense of urgency spurring me forward.

  My wheels hit a patch of ice and the rear end fishtailed, first left and then right. Next thing I knew, I was heading for the center guardrail on the turnpike. I’d become a deer caught in the headlights of the oncoming cars that blinded me.

  I could scarcely see as my adrenaline kicked into high. I spun the wheel into the direction of the skid with all my might. Only at
the very last second did I finally get my vehicle under control.

  Phew. That was a close call, I thought, as the guardrail began to drift away from me.

  But my relief instantly died as I realized that my Trailblazer had begun to slide toward the opposite side of the road.

  A chorus of horns blasted angrily as I skidded across all three lanes of traffic. My pulse raced as fast as my tires, which spun helplessly on the ice.

  Congratulations. You’ve just crossed the line. This is the night that you’re finally going to die, my demons gleefully informed me.

  Like hell I will, I snarled, my adrenaline ratcheting up another notch.

  I quickly swung the steering wheel hard once more, piloting my vehicle on a different course. Rather than straighten out, however, my SUV began to skid in a 360-degree turn.

  Round and round she goes. Where she’ll stop, nobody knows.

  The rhyme danced in my mind as the road continued to revolve around me. Never had I felt more out of control in my life. I prayed that I’d somehow survive the night.

  When my vehicle finally stopped, it stood perfectly parked on the shoulder of the road. Except that it now faced approaching traffic.

  I sat, not daring to move a muscle, until my hands finally stopped shaking. Even so, my heart continued to pound with fear. Taking a deep breath, I threw my Trailblazer into gear, turned the vehicle around, and slowly continued along the turnpike. I crawled the rest of the way and pulled off at the seaport exit.

  Only then did I look up at the sky. The firmament had grown abnormally bright. I wondered if it was due to a full moon. But there wasn’t a star to be seen in the night.

  My pulse had begun to throb. It was as if I were silently being called. I looked up once more and found that the color red was now staining the air all around me.

  The sky began to ooze, and then gush in a massive visual rush, almost as if an artery had been cut open and the heavens were hemorrhaging blood. And I suddenly knew exactly what I’d been fearing all along.

  I no longer cared about slipping and sliding as I drove at breakneck speed past hotels and the outlet mall, and hooked a right onto North Street. It was there that I finally caught sight of the fire that torched the night.

  Magda’s silver truck was being consumed by an angry mob of flames. Their red-hot tongues greedily lapped up the falling snow as though the flakes were fuel, as they mercilessly turned the Kielbasa House into a funeral pyre.

  “Magda!” I screamed, and frantically scrambled out of the Trailblazer.

  But my calls were drowned by the deafening roar of sirens as fire engines rushed to the scene.

  “There’s a woman inside that truck! You’ve got to get her out!” I cried to all that passed by.

  The men heard my pleas, but there was little they could do other than battle the fire.

  I’d lose my mind if I had to stand by and wait. Instead, I began my own investigation, carefully combing every square inch of the area for some sign of the woman. But I came up with nothing other than a few empty food containers and beer cans that lay strewn on the ground. All the while, smoke filled my lungs and burned my eyes, and tears streamed down my face. Still, I refused to give up hope as the firefighters wrestled with the flames.

  I was so distraught that I didn’t even notice Officer Nunzio standing nearby until he tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Seems like we were here just yesterday,” he remarked as casually as if we were at a football game. “What are you doing back again tonight?”

  So much for the caring, sensitive man that had questioned my priorities.

  “Remember the woman that found Bitsy von Falken’s body? Well, she called me earlier this evening. She was afraid someone might be following her. I came out because I began to worry that something might be wrong,” I explained.

  “Then it’s a good thing she wasn’t sleeping in her truck tonight,” Nunzio commented.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, praying that he was right and she’d been found safe and sound.

  “We warned her not to sleep there again, or she’d be given a ticket. Besides, if she was so afraid, why didn’t she call the police?” Nunzio logically questioned.

  A firefighter walked over before I could answer, having caught the last part of our conversation. He was dressed in full firefighting gear, and furrows of dirt streaked his face.

  “You had good reason to be concerned,” he confirmed. “It looks as though the fire was due to kerosene. Either this was arson, or a dangerous appliance was being used in there.”

  My heart sank and my conscience grew heavy with guilt. I should have driven here right away and dragged Magda back to my place, whether she liked it or not.

  “Has anyone been found inside?” I asked, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.

  The firefighter removed his helmet, revealing thin strands of hair that lay plastered to his scalp with sweat. He wiped an arm against his face and the soot spread like war paint across his flesh.

  “We haven’t been able to search in there yet,” he disclosed. “But I doubt anyone would have been in that truck at this time of night.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Nunzio confirmed.

  I checked my watch. It was three 3:33 A.M. My own personal witching hour.

  “Magda lost her apartment a while ago. She’d been sleeping in that truck ever since. I know she was staying here tonight, because I spoke to her earlier this evening,” I revealed.

  I didn’t want to think about what the last moments of her life had probably been like. But Magda clearly had had a premonition. She’d been right, and had called to ask for my help. Only, I’d let her down.

  What had stopped me from immediately rushing out here? Her stubborn protests that everything was all right? The fact that she refused to go to a shelter? Or my own foolish pride? So what if she hadn’t condoned my lifestyle? I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for her death.

  The firefighter walked away and I realized that Officer Nunzio had been staring at me the entire time. I wondered if I looked guilty enough to be arrested for negligence.

  “You never answered my question. Why did she phone you instead of the police?” he probed.

  “I don’t know,” I responded with a shrug. “I told her that she should call you guys.”

  What I didn’t say was, What good would that have done?

  “She was afraid that you’d force her to go to a shelter,” I added. “And she was adamant about staying in her truck.”

  “Okay. So then tell me what you think. Was someone really after her? And if so, why?” Nunzio continued to dig.

  I wasn’t ready to reveal that Magda had stolen Bitsy von Falken’s shawl. First of all, I’d be raked over the coals for not reporting it immediately to the police. Secondly, Hogan might end my investigation.

  “She could have been murdered if someone thought that she’d actually witnessed a crime,” I surmised.

  “Yeah. Except why wait a few days? If the perp was gonna kill her, he’d probably have done it right away. Then she wouldn’t have a chance to talk. Here’s another question for you.”

  Nunzio’s face resembled that of a harlequin. Half of it remained in shadow, while the other half was illuminated by the light of the flames.

  “Do you have any idea how she kept warm at night in that thing?” he queried.

  “Magda said that she ran the truck’s heater on full blast before going to sleep. If she woke up at night and was cold, then she’d turn it back on for a while,” I revealed.

  “Okay. But what did she do for light?” Nunzio asked, in what distinctly sounded like a dare.

  I instantly knew what he was getting at. Nunzio was hoping to prove that the fire was an accident.

  “Maybe she had a flashlight,” I said.

  “Or maybe she had a kerosene lamp, instead. If so, she could have easily knocked it over in her sleep,” he suggested. “For all you know, she even kept a kerosene heater
in there. Those things are notorious for starting fires.”

  While that was true, I also knew in my heart that Nunzio was dead wrong. I had no doubt that the flames were the result of foul play. Magda had clearly realized she was in danger. So why had she insisted on spending the night in her truck?

  Then I heard the words that I’d been dreading all along.

  “Officer Nunzio, over here! A body’s been found.”

  There was one last thing I knew. I didn’t need an autopsy to prove that the charred bones and flesh were all that remained of Magda.

  Nine

  Dawn was already beginning to break by the time I left the scene. Its dim rays tentatively spread across the sky, intermingling with waning streaks of red still visible from the tumultuous fire.

  I didn’t bother to go home but drove straight to the office. Once there, I pulled Magda’s new coat over myself. Then I conked out on Hogan’s couch for a couple of hours. My sleep was interrupted by a series of vivid dreams. In one, Magda deftly wrapped her shahtoosh shawl around me like a winding sheet. It was just about to cover my nose and mouth when something hard jabbed at my arm and I let out a startled shriek.

  “For chrissakes, Porter. What are you doing sleeping here in my office?” Hogan asked, leaning over me.

  His breath smelled bitter and stale, and I wondered if the man ever considered brushing his teeth. Or maybe I was still dreaming. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  “What the hell happened to you, anyway? You look like shit,” he pronounced, catching a better glimpse of me.

  “There was a fire at the port last night. The lunch truck, the Kielbasa House, was set aflame along with the woman that owned it,” I dully reported, still not wanting to believe it was anything more than a nightmare.

  “Well, whaddaya know? This port is really turning into a hopping place these days,” Hogan replied with a snort. “First there’s that socialite’s death, and now this. You better watch yourself, Grasshopper. Other agents will soon be fighting to come here and take your job.”