City of Ports

by Jeff Deck

  Oh, I did miss Wallace Riggs and Neria Francoeur getting cleared in the matter of Graham Tsoukalas’s death. I’m still not sure how it happened. But I have an idea.

  Given the swift action of Agent Ethan Jeong, it was the FBI, not the local police, who found the second body of Graham Tsoukalas in the dumpster behind the Tenacious Trainers gym. So the FBI grabbed Evil Graham’s body and trundled it off to their special research facility down in Back Bay, to join the growing collection of clones dead and alive from Graham’s World (I will not call it “World 72”).

  The local police and the media, ignorant of that body, missed the opportunity to entertain another evil twin/relative story. Thus the FBI could have framed Wallace and Neria for the crime, just as they made me the patsy for Benazir’s kills. But they were missing the juicy element that could have sealed the deal: the salacious DVD. Thank God I’d handed it off to Sol. The FBI had no motive to pin on those two, since nobody but me and Mrs. Tsoukalas knew that Graham had been sex partners with Wallace and Neria.

  Graham Tsoukalas’s murder remains unsolved, therefore. And, of course, the murders of Daniels, Piotrowski, Berger, Bradley, and Kuhn. But in those latter cases, public opinion knows who the real culprit is.

  Me.

  Even though I’m innocent, these legal shenanigans have permanently stained what little reputation I had left. I got a call at the jail yesterday from Mr. Baldini at Jacobi Investment Associates. Turns out I’m out of a job. Once again. The partners at JIA were eager to shed all association with me, and almost fired Mr. Baldini too for his poor judgment hiring me in the first place. I felt bad for the guy; Mr. Baldini was almost crying as he told me. I think he didn’t buy into the charges against me. I’m pretty sure, anyway.

  I told him not to worry: I’ll be able to land on my feet somehow. I’ve got friends who can help me. All the usual comforting lies, etc. Plus I promised I’d still stop by to discuss football scores.

  Truth is, I don’t how I’m going to keep my apartment.

  They hand me an unmarked envelope along with my personal effects as I walk back into my life of freedom. Outside the jail, a small group of people with signs has gathered to protest my release. KILLER COP WALKS — WHY? And LOCK HER UP! NO TO RADICAL ISLAM! (I’m Hindu, but thanks for lumping me in with Osama Bin Laden. Brown people are all the same anyway, right?) And most chilling of all, WE’LL BE WATCHING YOU.

  Oh, I’m going to have a lot of people watching me in the coming days and weeks and months of my life. I can count on that.

  I refraining from feeding the trolls. I walk by them, ignoring their calls and their jeers. Someone throws an orange at me—why is it always fruit with these hecklers?—but I manage to dodge it. Seems that my reflexes didn’t atrophy while in prison.

  I try to look on the bright side. It’s a beautiful day in the beautiful Seacoast. And I do have one friend waiting for me. Mr. Sol Shrive, ne’er-do-well server at the Friendly Toast, has brought my car to Brentwood for me. We hug and he hops into the shotgun seat.

  “You okay?” he says.

  I settle behind the wheel and take a deep breath.

  “Now I am,” I say. “But a few ladies back in the penal system are really gonna miss me.”

  “Whoa!” Sol says, grinning. “You dog!”

  “Sadly, not in that way. But thanks for your everlasting faith in my libido.” I open the envelope I was handed at checkout. There’s a brief note inside:

  Benazir is safe in Boston. Let’s talk. — SSA Jeong

  Looks like Ethan has gotten himself a promotion, thanks to his years of service and loyalty to the agency. Unfortunately for him, we have nothing to talk about. I crumple the note and throw it out the window, then I pull away from the jail and head back to Portsmouth.

  “You hungry? You must be,” my friend says. “You gotta try the breakfast burritos at Dos Amigos. It’s a new addition to their menu. You’ve missed a lot, but I’ll help you catch up.”

  I laugh. “You act like I was locked up for years, Sol. I don’t need any ‘readjustment’ to life outside the big house, thank you very much. I just need information—what did the Tenacious Trainers say when you went back to them?”

  Glancing at him, I notice for the first time that Sol looks different. There’s a new energy dancing in his eyes. Sol picks up on my scrutiny and averts his gaze, looking out the window instead. “They . . . showed me things. Divya, that Port in the Sheafe Warehouse was only the barest beginning. You wouldn’t believe what these people have been up to.”

  “Do they seem capable of murder?” I ask artlessly.

  Sol shakes his head slowly. “They’re seekers. Travelers. You have to meet them, Divya. They certainly want to meet you.”

  I’ve had a lot of time to cool my heels and unpack what exactly happened on that long, insane night in May. I’d figured out early on that the Tenacious Trainers were the ones who placed the anonymous call to me about the death of Graham, their brother in Port-chasing. But it took me longer to realize why they called me—it wasn’t just because of my relationship with you.

  “You know what?” I say. “I think I already have met at least one of them.”

  “Huh?”

  I ignore his bewilderment and press on: “Why do they want to meet with me? I already helped them figure out what happened to Graham.”

  “They want to help you in return,” Sol says.

  I reflect on the results of my last alliance. The FBI let me do the dirty work, find out the truth behind Graham’s murder, and the truth of the Port as well, and even let me close it myself. And then they set me up as the fall girl for Benazir’s crimes. Sure—it was technically my own carelessness that caused those crimes in the first place. I’ll forever carry the deaths of Kuhn and the four cops on my conscience. But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive Jeong and the rest of those double-crossing Feds.

  “I would prefer to work alone,” I say.

  “Understandable!” says Sol. “But don’t you want to look them in the eye and determine for yourself what they’re capable of?”

  I sigh.

  “Good,” he goes on. “How about tonight? They’re very eager. And, um, I was planning to meet them tonight anyway. I’ve decided—I want to be initiated. I’m going to get the wrist device.”

  Briefly I wonder at the wisdom of the path I’ve set Sol on. Those wrist implants seem to invite a higher mortality rate than I’m comfortable with. But he’s an adult, and he’s in the program, and he can make decisions for himself. I stare at the road ahead and say, “Set it up. And I’ll set a course for breakfast burritos.”

  18

  New Castle, the rich Republican enclave of an island just off the coast of Portsmouth, seems like an unlikely place to meet scruffy radical cultists obsessed with other dimensions. Then again, maybe that’s why they chose it for a meeting spot.

  Evening drapes itself over the Seacoast as I walk to my appointment. I make my way up the hill to South Street and then head down New Castle Road. The water of the harbor stretches over on my left, restless and dark. I can see the old naval prison across the water. It reminds me of my recent incarceration; I shudder. Never again.

  A series of bridges connects the mainland with the island of New Castle. In between the bridges lie a few lumps of land with their own access to the water. I step off the road at one of these spots and scramble down the sandy hill to the rocky beach area. A night fisherman sits on a half-submerged rock close to me, but he only gives me a glance before returning to his casting, his headlamp shining on the water. At the far end of the beach I see a small group of dark figures chatting in low voices.

  I shine my flashlight on them. My lurid expectations for the cult are quickly dashed: none of these folks are wearing hoods or robes, nor is there a glass of Kool-Aid in sight. The first face I recognize is Sol’s; he gestures at me to turn the light out, but I ignore him. Then I see a tall, brown-skinned guy with his arms folded, looking at me with complacent calm. He barely squints at m
y light. Finally, there’s a dark-haired man and a blonde woman standing close together and conferring. They break their conversation as the light hits them, and the woman says, “Off.”

  Initially this couple puts me in mind of Wallace and Neria. I’m not sure why: the two couples couldn’t be more different. Regarding Graham Tsoukalas’s hapless friends, Wallace was very much the dominant figure physically, while Neria was slender, almost wispy. Here, the woman is the taller, more muscular one, while the man is thin, with bad posture, seeming to fold up on himself. Maybe he’s not as short as he looks, but the woman is definitely the more noticeable physical presence. Fit and gorgeous. Looks like only one of these two is actually using the equipment at the Tenacious Trainers gym.

  The man with bad posture has a pleasant face from closer up. Glasses, freckles. He’s even younger than her; he looks fresh out of college or still enrolled. He’s folded up because he’s reading a book on an e-reader. I see that he has a wrist gadget.

  I know the blonde woman, of course. She was leading the 3Peters’ protest against the construction of the Seafare Estates on that tense afternoon (and nearly got shot by Officer Lewis). But I knew to expect her here before I stepped onto this beach. Tonight it’s clear that she has a wrist device like the other cultists; she’s wearing a form-fitting red sweater with the sleeves rolled up. I have a brief mental image of exploring that body from head to toe. Then I shake off the vision, disgusted with myself. Not the time.

  “I said, ‘off,’” the woman repeats.

  I’m not usually one for following commands. I keep my light on her and say, “So, I figured out you’d be the one waiting for me. Sol mentioned that a woman around his age tried to recruit him into the Trainers. You fit the bill age- and physique-wise, and I never forgot the intensity in your eyes. You also told me I’d have to ‘pick a side’ someday, a phrase only used by the truly persecuted—or people who believe themselves to be.”

  “Brava, Allard,” she says. “Now would you please?”

  I relent and direct the flashlight onto the sand, where it’ll still provide ambient illumination. “What I still haven’t quite cracked is why you threw in with the 3Peters to protest the new condo building. With your eye on other worlds than this, surely you can’t care all that much about affordable housing or a communal water view. What’s your real issue with the Seafare Estates construction? They build it right over one of your Ports?”

  I’m half-joking as I say this last part, but the shocked look on the young woman’s face tells me I’ve hit the target.

  However, she recovers quickly and says, “I have common cause with anyone brave enough to challenge the rich and powerful in this city. That’s all you need to know about that. I thought you’d want to discuss more important topics, like the untimely deaths of mutual friends.”

  Few questions so far, mostly commands and statements. She’s used to getting what she wants. I can play this too.

  “Name,” I say.

  The woman heaves an impatient sigh. She offers me her hand. “Nadia Chopin,” she says. “Pleased to officially meet you.”

  She has, unsurprisingly, a firm grip. I withdraw my hand and check that all my little fingers are still there.

  “And I’m, uh, Trig,” says the kid, hastening to join us, though still holding onto his e-reader. I look in his eyes. He doesn’t seem particularly fervent. Doesn’t seem like he’d blow up a mall.

  I check Nadia’s eyes once again with this criterion in mind. No killer instinct there either. But her gaze is certainly full of intelligence, with an ironic glint.

  “You were the one who called me,” I say, pointing at Trig. “Anonymous Caller, the night Graham died.”

  He nods but says nothing. Nadia’s the one who answers. “As soon as we heard about Graham’s death, I thought of you. You’d shown your integrity that same afternoon. Keeping that cop from threatening me. You had no reason to help me, but you did it anyway.”

  “But if you called me, I’d recognize your voice right away,” I say.

  “Wouldn’t make for much of an anonymous call,” she agrees.

  The kid’s attention drifts back down to his e-reader. Either he’s expecting her to do all the talking, or he just can’t resist a good book. I target him with a: “Hey, whatcha reading?”

  He looks up with a guilty expression. “Dance of Numbers. It’s—well, you wouldn’t have heard of it, probably. Specialized.”

  So far the tall guy hasn’t said a word, and nobody’s made a move to introduce him. With his arms folded, I can’t tell if he has a wrist device too.

  “You helped us out,” Nadia says to me. “We’re inclined to help you in return. And to offer you a lot more, if you’re interested.”

  I wait for clarification, without asking for it. I get the inkling Nadia is used to manipulating people.

  “I wonder if you would come with me first,” she finally says. “I’ve got a lot to tell you, but I’d rather not tell you here.”

  “Then why did you want to meet me here?” I ask impatiently.

  “Oh, we don’t have far to go.” She nods at Trig, who produces a plastic bottle of water from his shoulder bag and hands it over. The other cultists—or Tenacious Trainers, however I should think of them—clear the area around her, and Nadia takes a few steps back and then uncaps the bottle and flings a few drops into the air. Then she starts pacing a circular path in the sand and rocks, while speaking a string of unintelligible, wet syllables. She flings more water at the same spot in the air.

  “Oh, no,” I say, “not again. No!”

  Startled, Nadia breaks off her movement and arcane speech, and the shimmering that has begun to wrinkle the night air now fades. “What? What’s the problem?”

  Sol reaches for me in a placating fashion, but I swat him away. I snap at Nadia: “You know what the problem is. We went through hell to close the last Port you people opened.”

  Finally the tall man speaks up. His accent is strange, silken. “The Ports aren’t all the same,” he says. “Graham Tsoukalas was reckless. He went on his own, didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going. He chose poorly. This one—trust me. It’s safe.”

  “Safe?” I say indignantly. “And who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Durmaz 1N of Stroyer’s Axle,” the man responds. “This Port leads to my home.”

  I’ve been stunned into silence. But my eyes still function, so I rove them over this man calling himself Durmaz 1N. He looks human enough—sure, a tall and thin specimen with a rather elongated face, but there’s nothing unusual about him. Well, scratch that. He is unusually pretty. His brown skin is lustrous, and his thick black hair shines blue in the faint moonlight (is he a desi too?). If I were into men, I’d probably want to fuck him.

  But as Durmaz self-consciously fidgets with his hair under my scrutiny, he draws attention to his ears—which are pointed at the top. And for the first time I notice the unusual device hanging over one of his ears and extending a small wire to near his mouth. It’s golden and filigreed with fine, lace-like detail. Won’t find that at Radio Shack.

  No. Not gonna let a pair of fake ears and a newfangled earpiece fool me. “Bullshit.”

  Durmaz gives me a bland smile.

  “We didn’t invent the wrist implants, Allard,” Nadia says. “They come from another world—Durmaz’s world. And that’s where we’re going to take Sol to get his own implanted tonight.”

  Sol nods eagerly. “They’re not just, like, heart rate monitors. They allow the Trainers to communicate with and locate each other, and, well . . . they’re how you find Ports! You get a vibration in your wrist when there’s one near.”

  I’m still not sure I’m ready to accept any of this, particularly the part about a cross-dimensional being standing right in front of me and speaking English. But before I met Benazir, I would have dismissed her as impossible too.

  Still assessing the situation, I look at the Tenacious Trainers, and the supposed foreigner, and my friend So
l. It’s cold here on the little beach, with the darkness and the pre-summer wind. The water in the harbor is swift-moving and deep; I wonder what secrets it holds underneath the surface, just like the city itself seems to hold.

  I’m having trouble not feeling bitter about the fact that you hid all this from me. You committed yourself to this secret club and got your decoder ring—sorry, Port-sensing wrist thing—and you didn’t want to tell me about it? Maybe you were going to, eventually, and never got the chance. But if you’d hung around the Tenacious Trainers long enough for them to initiate you, that meant there was plenty of time for you to open up to me. Instead, you let that time slip away.

  “Did you make her swear to secrecy?” I ask. “Did you make her promise not even to tell me?”

  Nadia doesn’t have to ask who I’m talking about. Instead, she says: “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Hey,” Sol puts in. “There’s no call for being mean, Nadia.”

  I relent. “Okay, just forget it. Whether you asked her to or not, Hannah must have had a good reason for keeping all of this from me.”

  “She did,” Nadia says. “However much she may have loved you, you were a cop. And the Portsmouth police aren’t our friends. Over the last couple of years, we’ve lost several of our members to opioid overdoses—people who had no drug problems before they died.”

  “No drug problems you knew about,” I say. “Addiction can happen to anyone, trust me.” I don’t mean for my eyes to slide over to Sol at that point, but they do. He cringes.

  Nadia lets out an angry cough. “I knew them. I knew them all. The circumstances were beyond suspicious in every case. But every time, your old colleagues would just look the other way—or worse.”

  “That’s . . .” I struggle for words. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

  “And yet you were willing enough to believe in a department-wide conspiracy when your fiancée died,” Nadia says. “Do you think this is any different? You saw how the police chief, Akerman, was willing to put you away for the crimes your doppelgänger committed. Sure, there are some honorable cops in the mix. But Prince, Lewis, Gomez? Somehow one of them always seemed to be involved, whenever one of these supposed OD cases turned up. I wouldn’t trust them to investigate a parking ticket.”