Fatal Harbor

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?”

Felix paused. “You really want to do this?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Felix shrugged, shifted into first and let out the clutch. “No, you’ve made that pretty clear.”

He expertly drove us through the side and back streets of Cambridge, where we then passed over to Brookline. My feet were finally feeling like they were attached to a human, and after a couple more minutes of driving Felix got us to Professor Knowlton’s neighborhood.

“Damn,” Felix said.

“You said it.”

We were definitely late.

Up ahead on the street, the place was lit up by flashing strobe lights from three fire trucks and two police cruisers. Rigid hose lines snaked their way across the road, and firefighters and police officers were doing their job as Professor Heywood Knowlton’s house burned to the ground.

There was an all-night diner outside Brookline, on Route 2, where we stopped to have a meal. Not sure what kind of meal it could be called because of the time, but it made sense to refuel. We both had cups of coffee and Felix had an omelet stuffed with veggies, while I had scrambled eggs and bacon and hash browns. Felix looked at me with disdain and said, “Ketchup on eggs? Really?”

“Why not? Better than spoiling eggs with vegetables. Vegetables don’t belong in eggs. They belong in salads or side dishes.”

“Barbarian,” Felix said.

“Just know what I like.”

We ate in silence for a while, the other booths filled with late-night students, early-bird truckers, and a fair mix of whoever else was out and about at this hour of the night. When the plates had been cleared and the check dropped off, I said, “Your Aunt Teresa going to be okay?”

“Oh, cripes yeah,” Felix said. “First of all, her neighbors will keep a good eye on her. Second, I really don’t think someone’s gonna pick up a lady her age and try to bring her in. And if they do, she’ll start yapping at them in Italian, and if they get an Italian speaker in, then she’ll start going at it with some sort of Sicilian dialect.”

“Plus she’s deadly with a kitchen knife.”

“Only with relatives,” Felix pointed out.

I picked up the check, thought for a moment, put it back down. “So what the hell is going on?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m here as—”

“Yeah, advice and technical assistance.” There was a sprinkling of toast crumbs by the end of the counter. For some reason it disturbed me, so I took a moist napkin and wiped it clean.

“So this what I think,” I began. “Curt Chesak and the Nuclear Freedom Front… he’s incredibly connected, or there are some serious types after his ass. But neither makes much sense. If he’s connected, then who’s pulling the strings? Anti-nukers and their friends? They don’t have deep pockets, and the vast majority of them are peaceful. Their idea of being violent is writing snotty letters to the editor, or leaving anonymous postings on conservative Web sites. So that doesn’t make much sense, that everything that’s been thrown up against us has been from close friends of Curt Chesak. Unfortunately for us, and for him, Professor Knowlton was our only real connection to Chesak. With his house burning down around his ears, I don’t think he’s going to be seen anytime soon. Don’t know if he was in that house or not, but he’s certainly ticked someone off.”

Felix picked up his coffee cup. “All right. Considering the reception I got at BU, then I’d say there are some serious types after his ass. Any theories?”

I wiped again at the countertop. “There were two guys with fake IDs at BU. I saw two other guys hanging out at your Aunt Teresa’s place. Then you have the crew that burned down Professor Knowlton’s house. That means at least six fellows with dark arts out there in the shadows, and they all need to be paid, to have logistical support, and to have backup. That’s a lot of money, a lot of expertise.”

“Maybe there are others out there like you, seeking revenge.”

I made a face. “One person seeking revenge is a cliché. Two or more is just an incredible coincidence. I just don’t know.”

I made for the check again and Felix beat me to it. And as a man who knew his tradecraft, Felix paid the bill with a twenty and a five. No credit cards, no records.

“So what do you want to do now?”

“Beats me. You got any ideas?”

Felix said, “I want to check on my aunt.”

“All right.”

“And you?”

“Still planning to chase down Curt Chesak.”

“Don’t remember you having a boat called the Pequod,” Felix said.

“That’s a hell of a literary reference. Maybe you should be on Jeopardy or something.”

He frowned. “Wouldn’t pass the background check. So, while I’m checking in on Aunt Teresa, how are you going to find Chesak?”

“You got any suggestions?”

A shrug. “Whenever I’ve been stuck, sometimes going back to the beginning pays off.”

“That’s a hell of a suggestion, and I like it.” I looked into my wallet. “But only if you can spot me some money.”

Felix reached into his own wallet. “Have I ever said no?”

Several hours later, I emerged from a train in Exonia, the town directly next door to Tyler. I was tired, dirty, and hungry, the meal from the Brookline diner only a distant memory. From that diner, Felix took me to North Station in Boston, and with a cash advance, I got a one-way ticket on the Amtrak Downeaster to Exonia, home of the famed prep school, an obscene number of writers, and the hospital where Diane was. Felix had also slipped me my 9mm Beretta and said, “Be thankful there’s no metal detectors on Amtrak.”

It was well after midnight when I stepped into Exonia station, which was just a roofed-over portion of the platform. There was a parking area, a number of buildings, and a closed diner. A few cars were parked at the end of the lot. Two other passengers got out and quickly got in their cars and drove off.

Then a dark blue Ford sedan rattled into the lot, with EXONIA CAB on the side in yellow letters. I walked over and a woman driver peered out at me. She was smoking a cigarette and rolled down the window. “Where to?”

“The hotel near the hospital.”

“Tyler Inn and Suites?”

“That’s the one.”

She frowned, and I said, “I know it’s not much of a fare. Make you a deal: take me there and I’ll pay double.”

“And double the tip, too?”

“Of course.”

“Mister, you got a deal.”

I got in the back of the car and settled down in the seat. It was clean and smelled of Lysol and tobacco. She shifted and we left the parking lot, went up past a school and Catholic church, and made a left-hand turn. Within seconds we were passing through the old and impressive buildings of Phillips Exonia Academy, a prep school that’s been teaching since 1765. There were a few lit Halloween decorations along the way. Usually Halloween is my favorite holiday, but not this year. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate anything fun or special about death or the spectral arts.

The driver had an all-news radio station on, which was broadcasting the latest poll numbers for the upcoming election between Senator Jackson Hale from Georgia and the current incumbent. The driver snorted at the news and said, “You follow this political shit?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

“Then you’re a smart fella, you are.”

“Some nights, not tonight.”

I had a pang of guilt. Annie Wynn. With my cell phone destroyed so whoever was out there couldn’t trace my signal, I had no way to contact her, and my home number wasn’t being answered either.

Through the center of Exonia, past a delightful bandshell that had two town hall buildings on opposite sides — an oddity, I know, but this was New Hampshire — and two traffic lights and turns later, we were at the Tyler Inn and Suites. After paying my driver, I wandered into the lobby, which was empty. I rang a bell on the counter and a yawning male clerk came out from behind, with a black goatee and slicked-back hair, and tattoos on the backs of his hands.

We had a bit of to and fro with me not wanting to use my credit card to pay or to guarantee the room. But I managed to give him the impression that my, quote, old lady, unquote, had kicked me to the curb — which explained my lack of luggage — and after slipping him a twenty, he slid across a keycard and said, “You take care, bro.”

“You can count on it.”

I went up to my room, got inside, and stripped and took a shower, and then collapsed in bed. Considering the noise level of the past few nights, I fell asleep within seconds.