Fatal Harbor

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.