Dead Harvest

  On the ship, I was greeted by a dark-skinned boy of no more than sixteen, who led me wordlessly to the captain's quarters, knocking twice on the open door before ushering me inside. The captain was a wiry man with eyes and skin of deepest brown, and an accent to match the flag atop the mast. He sat behind a massive wooden desk, scarred and pitted – and stacked high with books and charts. He didn't rise when I entered, and as I approached to shake his hand, he waved me off, instead nodding toward a worn leather suitcase standing just inside the door.

  "I believe that is what you came for," he said. "Now take it and get the hell off my ship."

  His tone was angry, to be sure, but the quaver in his voice belied the strength of his words. This man was afraid, I realized. Of me. Of Dumas.

  Unsure how else to respond, I did as the captain said, retreating from his cabin without another word. The suitcase was heavy, and cumbersome as well. Twice as I descended the narrow ramp to the wharf, I stumbled, and nearly fell. But if the crewmen watching from behind the glowing embers of their cigarettes found my lack of grace amusing, they sure as hell didn't let on – there was nary a snicker or chiding comment to be had. It seemed the captain was not the only one who was frightened by my new employer. I was beginning to wonder if I ought to be as well.

  It was just past 5am when I arrived at Penn Station, suitcase in hand. A far cry from the modern monstrosity now crammed like an afterthought beneath the hulking behemoth of Madison Square Garden, the old station was a soaring structure of glass and granite, its imposing colonnades oddly out of place alongside the deserted sidewalks of early morning. I left the car at the curb and wrestled the suitcase inside.

  According to the board, the first train of the day – an overnight from St Louis – wasn't scheduled to arrive for another twenty minutes. Aside from an old man in coveralls, pushing a mop around like he didn't give a damn if the floor got clean, the concourse was deserted. A bank of lockers sat along the far wall, and I dragged my payload toward them, wincing as I heard my awkward, shuffling gait repeated back to me as it echoed through the vast empty space.