Chapter 18 - The Waters of Berth 44
The wind off the Atlantic whipped against my face, freezing the rain into needle-sharp pricks across my skin.
Berth 44 was an industrial relic of the early twentieth century, an abandoned concrete pier jutting into the black, churning waters of the East River like a broken tooth.
Rusting cargo cranes towered overhead against the stormy sky, their steel cables groaning in the gale like phantom rigging.
Marcus pulled the unmarked black SUV to a halt behind an overturned shipping container fifty yards from the perimeter fence.
The engine died, plunging the cabin into darkness, illuminated only by the rhythmic flash of the distant harbor lighthouse.
"The security patrol passed ten minutes ago," Marcus whispered, checking his digital watch.
"We have thirty minutes before the auxiliary sweep returns."
"If Camilla’s private security catches us on these docks, they won't call the police, Victoria."
"They will claim we were trespassing on private trust property and handle it internally."
"Let them try," I replied, pulling up the collar of my coat and stepping out into the freezing deluge.
The ground beneath our boots was a treacherous mix of cracked asphalt, oil slicks, and rotting timber.
We moved swiftly through the shadows of the abandoned warehouse, ducking beneath rusted chains and discarded maritime rigging.
My mother’s gold watch pressed cold against my wrist beneath my leather gloves, a steady, silent reminder of the time running out.
At the edge of the pier, a rusted iron grate blocked the entrance to a narrow, descending concrete stairway.
A heavy chain was wrapped around the bars, secured by an industrial padlock that had long since surrendered to salt corrosion.
Marcus pulled a heavy pair of bolt cutters from his canvas tool bag.
With a muffled grunt of effort, he clamped the jaws onto the rusted shackle and squeezed.
The metal snapped with a sharp *crack* that was instantly swallowed by the roar of the surf.
We pulled the heavy grate open, revealing a yawning black staircase that led down into the belly of the pier.
The air rising from the darkness smelled of diesel, rotting kelp, and cold stone.
Marcus switched on a heavy-duty waterproof flashlight, cutting a beam of brilliant white light through the damp mist.
The steps were slick with green algae.
I descended first, gripping the wet concrete wall with one hand, keeping my footing steady despite the cold settling into my bones.
At the bottom of the stairs, the sound of the storm was muffled, replaced by the deep, hollow sloshing of sea water echoing beneath the floorboards.
The tide was rising.
A foot of dark, freezing water already covered the floor of the maintenance chamber, lapping against the concrete pilings that supported the weight of the massive terminal above.
"Where is it?" Marcus asked, sweeping the flashlight beam across the decayed concrete walls.
The light illuminated rusted pipes, broken electrical conduits, and faded emergency signs dating back forty years.
I stood still in the freezing water, letting my memory peel back twenty-five years of time.
I remembered standing here as a little girl, holding my mother’s warm hand while the massive cargo ships thundered overhead.
She had pointed to the central support column—the keystone pillar stamped with the Vance maritime crest.
"There," I pointed.
Marcus swung the light to the massive central column rising from the center of the flooded chamber.
The concrete was scarred by decades of salt spray, but high up on the pillar, above the watermark of the highest tide, was a recessed iron utility box, sealed with heavy industrial bolts.
Marcus waded through the water, lifting the heavy crowbar from his bag.
He jammed the wedge beneath the rusted edge of the iron plate, leaning his full body weight against the steel.
The metal shrieked in protest, oxidized bolts shearing off one by one, until the heavy faceplate tore away and splashed into the murky water beneath our feet.
Inside the recess sat a heavy, lead-lined waterproof canister, coated in a thick layer of grease.
Marcus reached inside, his breath misting in the cold beam of light, and pulled the canister free.
"It’s intact," he whispered, wiping the grease from the heavy bronze latch.
"Open it," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Marcus twisted the heavy bronze seal.
The latch gave way with a dull suction pop, breaking a vacuum that had held for thirty years.
He reached inside and pulled out a single cylinder of heavy maritime vellum, rolled tight and tied with a black ribbon.
He handed it to me.
My fingers trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon and unrolled the thick paper under the glare of the flashlight.
It was not a secondary trust.
It was not a corporate charter.
It was an official certified affidavit of parentage, signed by the Chief of Vital Statistics of the State of New York in May of 1993.
Appended to it was a full genetic cross-match authorized by the Manhattan Superior Court.
I read the names through the beam of light, the words burning into my retinas like fire.
The child listed on the certificate was not Camilla Price.
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The child listed as the sole biological daughter of Arthur Sterling and Eleanor Vance... was me.
***
