All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  Forcing himself to remain calm, he reached down to remove his shoes. One was gone, apparently lost in the fall. He removed the other, and choosing what he thought was the right direction, began kicking his legs. His lungs had reached the bursting point when he saw the dim glow of the light above.

  Straining with his last ounce of strength, he broke free of his watery prison and filled his lungs with sweet air. Immediately he began gagging, trying to rid his lungs of the last remnants of oily water. Still dazed, he began the short swim back to the seawall.

  “My wife! My wife!” the man screamed from the seawall, pointing to the area Matuszak had just surfaced from.

  Puzzled, Matuszak stopped and looked up at the man wildly waving his arms.

  “What? Where?” he called back, treading water.

  “My wife. Please, she can't swim! Oh my God! You must find her.”

  Matuszak looked to the water, then back at the line of people lining the seawall. They were pointing and yelling, “There! There! She went under!”

  His thoughts clearing, Matuszak realized that someone else must have fallen into the water. He took a deep gulp of air and once more slipped below the dark surface. Fighting back the panic from his first plunge, he groped with his hands hoping to find the woman. Unable to see and out of air he resurfaced.

  Refilling his lungs he dove again, this time as deep as his lungs would permit. Near exhaustion, he searched but again found nothing. Starting his ascend, he caught a flicker of white off to one side. Turning, he reached for the object but missed and it sank deeper. Chasing it, he made one final grab, and felt the wonderful sensation of cloth, as his arm closed around the woman's body.

  Laboring with the motionless body, Matuszak again started toward the surface. His exhausted muscles burned and his lungs, nearly depleted of oxygen, cried out in protest. He fought against the urge to release the body and save himself. Finally, at the limit of his endurance, he saw the dancing reflection of searchlights playing on the water's surface. Giving one final kick he broke free.

  Bathed in the brilliant light of a dozen searchlights, the harbor's surface churned with other would-be rescuers. Being located on the tip of a pier, Pier Six Pavilion proved a magnet to area pleasure boaters attracted by the music. The lights were from the small armada of marine party-goers. Exhausted by the ordeal, Matuszak struggled to keep him and the woman on the surface. He released his precious burden to the outstretched arms extending over the gunwale of a passing boat.

  “No” he insisted, waving off the offer to be taken aboard. The Cyclops's second victim had to be taken to solid land with all possible haste. “Forget me,” he said. “Get her ashore quick! I couldn’t detect any signs of life.” Not waiting for a reply, he turned and began the short swim to shore.

  Reaching the pier a strong hand grabbed him and pulled him up onto a small ledge at the base of the seawall. The rescue boat, having raced ahead, sat tied up near by. Matuszak could only watch helplessly as a group of men transferred the motionless body from the boat, up a set of ancient stone steps and into the arms of waiting medical personnel.

  With his breathing still labored, but somewhat under control, Matuszak began the slow, agonizing climb up the seawall's steps to the pavilion's grounds. There, he found himself bathed in the stark, dazzling lights of television camera lights and surrounded by the throng of curious onlookers.

  Ignoring the microphones and the swarm of countless questions that followed, he stared down at the fragile form in the white dress lying on the pavilion lawn. Frail and much older than he first thought, she lay unresponsive as medical personnel feverishly worked to revive her. Their efforts were soon rewarded, and a roar of applause went up from the onlookers as she coughed, then drew the first of several feeble breaths.

  Mid-October in Maryland usually meant Indian summer, with warm days and delightful evenings. Today was no exception. Despite the warmness, Matuszak couldn’t drive the coldness from his body. Even accepting the medical personnel’s offer of a blanket was of little help. Exhaustion and the drenched clothing were only partly to blame. With the blanket wrapped about his shoulders, his eyes returned to the frail form on the lawn.

  First Matty, he cursed, then Ladew Gardens and now this. Only providence had prevented another innocent person from falling victim to the unknown forces pursuing him.

  * * *

  The first aid station lay tucked away under the concert stage. A single, bare bulb illuminating the red cross stenciled on the door panel marked its location. Inside, the music from the symphony filtered down through the cement structure and reverberated within the small catacomb of rooms.

  Matuszak sat on the edge of the stainless steel examination table. The medic pressed his fingertips into Matuszak's side, gently probing along the length of each rib.

  “Ouch!” He winched, recoiling whenever a probing finger found a tender spot.

  “Sorry,” the medic said, applying long strips of surgical tape to the rib cage. “They're probably just bruised. Still, there's always the possibility of a fracture. You really should have those ribs x-rayed. This is just a first aid station, I don't have the facilities here to do a thorough job.”

  “It will have to do,” Matuszak replied. “Right now I'd like to get out of here unnoticed.”

  Matuszak wasn't worried about the bruised ribcage. He wanted to know who had sent that giant after him and if he had any friends waiting outside to finish the job? And what about Judith? Sitting in the lawn area, she would be unaware of the incident on the seawall. Meeting her after the concert was out of the question. He would call her tomorrow and try to explain. For now the first order of business was to get out of here unnoticed.

  He slipped the remnants of his tattered shirt on. “Is there a rear exit I can use?”

  “Sure,” said the tech. “There's a back door in the supply room. Leads to the parking lot. You want to avoid the television crew waiting outside?”

  “No, but in case some of that guy’s friends are waiting, I’d rather not run into them.”

  “Smart move,” the medic said, nodding in approval. “If you follow the line of concession trucks as you exit, it will put you on the rear parking lot. From there you should make it to one of the gates unnoticed.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Reaching into the supply cabinet, the medic removed a pair of cardboard hospital slippers and gave them to Matuszak.

  “You better put these on,” he said. “Not much protection, but they're the best I can offer.”

  Puzzled by the offer, Matuszak looked down. Two bare feet protruding from wet pants legs greeted him. In all the confusion, he had forgotten his shoes had been lost in the water. “Damn!” he swore. Being offered bits of hospital clothing was becoming a habit.

  “They're probably resting on the bottom of the harbor by now,” the medic said. “You're sure you don't want to wait for the police? They should be here any second. Be a lot safer.”

  “No, no police. I’m exhausted. I don't want to be tied up all night answering questions.”

  * * *

  Moments later found them in a little used storeroom.

  “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Positive,” Matuszak replied.

  “Okay,” the medic said, flicking the lights off and unlocking the door. “It's your funeral. I'll wait a few seconds before closing the door. If they're out there...” His voice trailed off. “Well, maybe you can make it back.”

  Opening the door, Matuszak stepped back and waited. Careful to remain in the room's shadows, he peered into the night.

  Nothing moved.

  “Good luck,” the medic said. “Remember, follow the line of trucks until you reach the parking lot.”

  Matuszak nodded and slipped into the night. The doorway emptied into a dimly lit service way, formed between a line of vendors' supply trucks backed up to the rear of the concession stands. Intermission was over. Except for
the whine of portable generators and the occasional voice of a concessionaire loading his truck, the area was deserted. Staying well within the shadows, he passed undetected.

  The paper slippers proved useless. Their waterlogged soles, easily punctured by sharp gravel and stray bits of broken glass, had left his feet sore and bleeding. He abandoned the disintegrating slippers to the pool of muddy water.

  Taking a wide, circular route, he was able to avoid the television crew and hopefully anyone else waiting outside the medical station's front door. Once safely on the rear parking lot, he followed the pavilion's perimeter fence. Remaining in the shadows, he was able to reach a point even with the Escort undetected.

  The Escort sat, several rows deep on the lot. Its plain boxy form was easily distinguishable among the other cars. Wary of leaving the safety of the shadows, Matuszak opted to survey the parking lot, looking for movement or a sign of anything out of the ordinary before committing himself and stepping into the lot’s stark, sodium vapor lighting.

  He was miserable. Crouching in the shadows, shivering in wet clothing, his bare feet bleeding from a dozen glass cuts, he yearned to reach the warmth and security of the auto. But, instinct told him to wait and he obeyed. Finally, when convinced all was safe, he cautiously stepped into the light.

  Instantly he froze.

  His eyes had caught the brief, momentary burst of orange flame as a match flared, illuminating the sedan's interior. In its brief flare, the outline of two figures sitting in the auto directly behind the Escort was plainly visible.

  His heart pounded. Instinctively, he stepped back into the safety of the shadows.

  The flame flickered and died, replaced by the occasional glow of a cigarette tip, as its owner took deep drags. Silence. No cry of alarm, no opening of a car door...only the sound of his own heavy breathing and the strains of the orchestra playing in the distance.

  His luck had held, they hadn't seen him.

  From his vantage point he spent the next several moments observing the car's occupants while he pondered his next move. Who were they? Why were they sitting in a car and not at the concert? Was it only a coincidence that they had chosen to park behind him, or were they as he suspected, the friends of the giant waiting to finish the job? Deciding he couldn't take the chance he carefully retraced his path, making his way to Pratt Street and the taxi stand located outside the pavilion's main gate.

  Opting for the last cab in line, he opened the door and slid into the warmth of the cab's front seat.

  “Sixteen Whispering Pine Lane,” he said.

  The astonished cabby whirled about in his seat. “Sorry pal. You’re suppose to take the first cab in line, not-” He stopped short, catching sight of Matuszak's unruly hair, his wet clothing and finally the muddy, bleeding feet protruding from rumpled pants legs.

  “You got the ten dollars for the fare?” he said.

  Matuszak took a wet ten dollar bill from his wallet, then added an equally soggy twenty to it. He held both bills up for the cabby to see.

  “You didn't see me tonight,” he said, offering the bills to the cabby.

  “Look mister, if the cops are after you I-”

  “No. No cops,” Matuszak said quietly.

  “What then? Husband? Boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. I think he brought some friends with him too.”

  “Okay. In that case, I never saw you in my life,” the cabby said, with a smile. Taking the soggy bills and stuffing them into his shirt pocket he started the engine.

  “Now, what's that address again?”

  “Sixteen Whispering Pine Lane,” Matuszak repeated, then added. “Wake me when you get there.”

  Exhausted, Matuszak laid his head against the cab's window and in moments was fast asleep.

  20

  Matuszak’s Home

  Linthicum, MD

  The following morning

  The morning newspaper carried an above the fold photo of Matuszak with the unconscious woman in his arms. Taken as they broke the surface of the water, it's caption read, “Unsung hero saves woman at Inner Harbor” in bold type. The accompanying article told of the struggle and daring rescue.

  Laying the paper aside, Matuszak finished the last of his coffee and headed for the shower. There, he spent the better part of the next fifteen minutes under a steamy flow, attempting to coach the remnants from last night’s encounter from his body. A like amount of time was spent trying to dress without further agonizing his back or sensitive ribs.

  As he was preparing to leave the telephone rang. He hesitated in the doorway, casting a doubtful eye at the telephone. The thought that it may be Judith Carberry calling enticed him back inside.

  “Hello,” he said, hoping to hear Judith's lilting voice on the other end.

  “Secretary Bradford's office calling. Is that you Agent Matuszak?” The timid, squeaky voice on the other end of the line belonged to none other than O.M. Bradford's secretary, Agatha. Pencil thin, gray hair with beady little eyes, she reminded Matuszak of a timid little field mouse.

  “Good morning, Aggie.”

  “I just finished reading the morning paper.” Agatha chirped in her usual nervous manner. “Naturally everyone saw the morning newscast and the paper. You’re the talk of every office in the department. How do you feel? Everyone agrees you looked like you were in great pain.”

  “No, I'm fine, Aggie, just a little sore that’s all. But, what's this all about? When you call this early, it can only mean that old U.P.S. is on the warpath again.”

  “U.P.S.?”

  “Useless Piece of Shit,” Matuszak replied, to which Agatha burst into a bout of uncontrollable giggling. “Am I right?” he continued. “Is he in one of his foul moods again?”

  The giggling ceased. “Yes, I’m afraid so, Agent Matuszak. Secretary Bradford would like to talk with you as soon as possible. Can we expect you, say at ten o'clock?”

  “I’ve got a small errand to handle first, but I should be able to make it by ten.”

  * * *

  Hailing a cab, Matuszak made his way to the pavilion's deserted parking lot, where he retrieved the Escort. During the brief drive to Bradford's office, he found himself making frequent checks in the Escort’s rear view mirror. In his frame of mind and the heavy city traffic, a convoy of Russian tanks could be following and he wouldn't be able to spot them. At any rate, he had Bradford to contend with and that was more than enough trouble for one morning. There was no sense looking for more in the mirror.

  Reaching the Department of Transportation headquarters, he parked and headed for Bradford's office. He paused at the reception room door, took a deep breath and turned the handle.

  “Good morning, Aggie.” He smiled, stepping inside and closing the door.

  Agatha spun in her chair. “Where have you been? You're ten minutes late and he's in a terrible, foul mood this morning,” she said, glancing apprehensively at the wall clock. She pushed the intercom button. “Agent Matuszak is here to see you, sir,” she announced. With a flick of the head she motioned toward Bradford's office door. “Now go! He’s waiting.”

  Matuszak was in no hurry. He paused at Agatha's desk. Choosing a candy from the glass jar, he said, “Doesn't a condemned prisoner get to eat a last meal first?”

  “No,” she said, slapping him on the hand and reclaiming the container. “Now hurry, he's waiting for you.”

  Matuszak sighed and gave a brisk knock on Bradford's office door.

  “It's about time!” a voice barked from the other side. “Get your ass in here.”

  Matuszak gave a last look at the nervous, twitching form of Agatha, smiled and turned the knob.

  Bradford was pacing behind his desk when Matuszak entered. His normally pale skin was flushed with rage. He slammed the newspaper he was holding down on the desk. “What in the hell's going on Matuszak?” he demanded.

  “What do you mean, what's going on?” shot back Matuszak. He had been called on the carpet many times in the past, but he usually
had an inkling of the infraction. This time, he was in the dark.

  “This!” Bradford roared, pointing to the Sun paper lying on the desk.

  Matuszak picked up the newspaper. It was a replay from this morning’s edition. He looked at it and tossed it back on the desk. He said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “What do you want me to say? It’s not even a very good likeness.”

  “You can't even go to a simple concert without getting into trouble. Turned the damn thing into some kind of a cheap street brawl the way I hear it.”

  He had become used to Bradford’s combative nature. “I went to enjoy the music, not to get assaulted,” he countered.

  “An innocent citizen gets knocked into the water, damn near drowns,” Bradford continued, conveniently omitting Matuszak’s role in saving the woman. “All because of you. God only knows how much damage control I'll have to do.”

  “Damage control! You? For what?”

  “This brawl of yours. This isn't a time to get smart with me. I don't know if I can save your ass this time or not.”

  “Now hold on, I was only-”

  “Just who in the hell was the guy anyway? Some bimbo's husband?” The last remark was laced with the typical Bradford sarcasm.

  “How should I know?” Matuszak said, giving up on justifying his actions. “He didn't bother to introduce himself.”

  “Oh right! You’re telling me a total stranger just happens to pick you out of a crowd of a thousand people to start a fight with.”

  “All I know is he came charging at me, like some crazed, wounded animal. Tried to kill me. Never saw him in my life.”

  “Well, whoever he was, he's gone now.”

  “What? Television was covering the concert. The paper said the incident was caught on video and was being review by the police. Weren’t they able to identify him?”

  “Apparently not. He was last seen running down Pratt Street, holding his face. That's another can of worms you opened up.”