The Mayflower Compact
Cap Codd
November 11, 1620
In the name of God, Amen. We whose names are underwriten, the loyall subjects of our dread soveraigne Lord, King James, by the grace of God, of Great Britaine, Franc, & Ireland king, defender of the Faith, etc., haveing undertaken, for the glorie of God, and advancemente of the Christian faith, and honour of our king & countrie, a voyage to plant the first colonie in the Northerne parts of Virginia, doe by these presents solemnly & mutualy in the presence of God, and one of another, covenant & combine our selves togeather into a civill body politick, for our better ordering & preservation & furtherance of the ends aforesaid; and by vertue hereof to enacte, constitute, and frame such just and equall lawes, ordinances, acts, constitutions, & offices, from time to time, as shall be thought most meete & convenient for the generall good of the Colonie, unto which we promise all due submission and obedience. In witnes whereof we have hereunder subscribed our names at Cap Codd, the 11 of November, in the year of the raigne of our soveraigne lord, King James, of England, France, and Ireland the eighteenth and of Scotland the fiftie fourth, Anno Domini 1620.
“In the name of God, Amen.”
“I suppose, Ms. Fuller, you think I’ve brought you here to rape you.”
The man crouched and pulled a coil of thick rope from his bag. He wore black and a cheap ski mask obscured his features.
“You may even be praying that I’ll rape you and then leave you here to lick your psychological wounds. And you tell yourself, ‘I can survive this. This isn’t my fault.’”
He strapped on a headlamp. A pale red beam bounced off the floor and walls as he moved, sending eerie shadows about the small room.
Anna struggled to breathe through the duct tape wrapped around her head and mouth; he’d hogtied her after they reached the cottage. She lifted her head from the gritty floor and clawed frantically at the bindings.
He stood and faced her, then shook his head. “That’s a double constrictor knot. You won’t be able to loosen it.”
He measured the rope out, folded it on itself and began to wind the end around the two halves.
“But as I was saying, you might already be planning your recovery. You take comfort in knowing that the victim isn’t to blame.”
He continued adjusting his knot.
“As it happens, Ms. Fuller, I would agree with you. Rape is a vicious crime and women too often feel shame where none is warranted. But Anna, I don’t intend to rape you.” He turned and stared down at her. The red beam shone in her eyes and she closed them. Seconds passed before he spoke again. “Fornication is a sin against God.”
Anna opened her eyes wide and renewed her efforts with the ties. She rolled to her side and tried to scoot away, her screams muffled under the tape.
The man turned and threw the rope up over a cross-beam and secured it, then backed away from the noose.
“And so tonight, my unfortunate girl, you must die. In the name of God, Amen.”
Chapter 1
“And….you didn’t see any sign that he’s been seeing another young man? I mean, er, romantically?” Harvey Mattison lowered his voice when he said ‘romantically.’
My jaw dropped and I stared at the phone. I’d put Mattison on speaker so I could easily refer to my notes while I outlined the findings of my surveillance.
“Because my wife and I, well we—”
“Mr. Mattison,” I interrupted in my best professional voice, “as I explained, over the past week I observed your son at home, at school and with his regular group of friends. Four or five young men and at least three different young women. My report includes details on my observations. But frankly—”
“So there were—” Mattison tried to butt in, but I forged ahead. This time though, the professional voice stayed behind.
“Frankly, if I’d known exactly what you were digging for, I never would have taken this case. You told me you thought Andrew was into drugs. I saw no sign of that whatsoever, which I did think was strange since you seemed so concerned, but now I realize that you weren’t worried about that at all. You can’t just hire a private investigator to spy on your son because you’re curious about his sex life. It’s….it’s…repulsive.”
Mattison was silent.
When I finally spoke again, my voice was tight. “I will mail out my report along with photos and an invoice this afternoon. If you have any further questions, ask Andrew!”
I punched the speaker button off, stood up and yelled.
“Unfuckingbelievable!”
I grabbed all of my carefully compiled notes and photographs and wadded them up into little balls. Then I pitched them, one by one, at the wall. Cy Young would have been proud.
“Stupid.” Throw.
“Lying.” Throw.
“Bastard.” Throw. Pause.
“BASTARD!” Throw.
My cat Pepper opened his eyes and watched from where he lay. He was on his back with all four feet in the air. When I stopped throwing things he rolled over and ran out the door to the deck.
“Sure, Pep, that’s great, just leave,” I yelled after him. “Next time around I’ll be the spoiled rotten house cat and you can be the stupid private investigator. And I want the expensive kibbles from the pet store.”
Pepper licked his paw.
“Maybe I should get a dog.”
He stopped licking, squinted at me and then ran down the stairs.
“Yeah, you go hide under the house,” I muttered. I considered joining him. I wasn’t just angry that my client had lied to me, or that he would actually hire a PI to find out whether or not his son was gay, although that was certainly reprehensible. I was also angry with myself. How did I miss the lies? I might be a whiz on a computer, but if I couldn’t read people I was going to suck at this whole PI thing. I flopped down on the couch and exhaled.
From where I sat I could see Mrs. Trimble silhouetted in her kitchen window, watching me and probably preparing to duck. I’d pulled my 9 mm on her a week ago when she showed up and let herself in my back door, the way lifelong neighbors around here sometimes do. She was bringing me a piece of Mr. Trimble’s birthday cake. She hadn’t popped in since, which was a shame. That was really good cake. I waved and smiled a big smile and she darted away from the window.
What the hell? I’d had my PI license for almost six months and I hadn’t even tailed a single cheating husband yet. Wasn’t that the bread and butter of PIs everywhere? Not that I’d been looking forward to it, but I’d assumed that following mid-life crisis-ers who couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants would be a cornerstone of my new career.
But no. There wasn’t a single horny pecker to be found in my case list. Nor was there one in my personal life, but that was another matter. My list of investigative successes included such triumphs as one recovered sound system—the man’s teenaged step-son hocked it—and one recovered baby boa constrictor—behind the client’s dryer.
And then there was Mrs. Jansen. Two weeks ago I went to see this wealthy eighty-year-old woman who’d made some vague comments about a problem with her children when she called for the appointment. I showed up expecting a nice juicy estate problem—maybe she needed intelligence so she could cut someone out of her will. Maybe her kids were conspiring to take control of her money. Maybe they were trying to off her. I was excited.
When I got there she invited me to her back yard, where I raked and bagged leaves for four hours while she drank iced tea and whined about her negligent offspring. She paid me a hundred dollars.
Now it turned out that I’d spent a week tailing this kid, eavesdropping, taking pictures and getting
hit on in a testosterone-filled college bar, only to realize that Mattison Sr. was a liar and a homophobe.
Sam Warren, Private Investigator. What a joke.
I sat on the couch cursing aloud for a little while longer. Finally, I stood and said, “Screw him.”
I went to put on my running clothes.
The tide was low as I jogged along White Horse Beach in the warm, Indian summer air. I wore tight black running pants with one of my dad’s faded grey hoodies over my sport bra. My carrot-colored hair was pulled back in an elastic band, which did little to control my long curls. Ha. Curls was my mother’s word. I called it frizz, especially when sweating in the humid Atlantic air.
I ran down the hard-packed sand, ignoring the homeboys and pretty young things in their low-slung shorts and bikinis. I guess they didn’t get the memo announcing that summer was over and the beach should be handed back to the locals. Like me. At least the really fat, red-faced weekly renters were gone for the season.
(“Enough, Miss Pissy.”) My father’s voice. He sometimes intruded with unwelcome comments. My shrink said it was my subconscious trying to tell me something, but I knew better. Even dead, my dad was a bossy SOB.
I grunted and kept running.
Just past the homeboys and girls a flock of seagulls gathered; they always stood together in that same spot when the tide was low. Hundreds of them. Why did they do that? It was like an ornithological happy hour. Except it was only eight-thirty in the morning.
I turned off Taylor and headed up Manomet Point Road toward 3A. Traffic was light, but every other car was doing forty in a twenty zone. Assholes. (“Pissy,” Dad repeated.)
After another mile or so my breathing evened out and my pissy thoughts waned. I continued northwest on 3A to White Horse Beach Road and turned back toward the ocean. By the time I finished the four-mile loop my anger had faded. I ran up the front steps into my bungalow, went into the kitchen, got a big glass of tap water and walked through the living room to the deck overlooking the beach.
White Horse Beach is part of Plymouth, Massachusetts, tucked between the Plymouth Harbor and Cape Cod to the south. It’s less than two miles long with lovely fine sand and a lot of big rocks that stick up at low tide. The largest of these has an American flag painted on it, though this late in the season it was tough to make out, what with all the bird shit that had accumulated. The shoreline is a patchwork quilt of older bungalows and newly built homes trying to look like they’re old too. There’s a lot of that around Plymouth. “Olde” is cool here.
My weathered cedar-shingled home sat almost directly in front of Flag Rock. I stared out past it to the horizon and gulped my water. An angular gray tanker shimmered in the distance; nearer to shore a graceful red and blue sailboat glided toward Duxbury Point.
I stretched and got down on my yoga mat. I did sit ups and pushups and then I stretched some more. Pepper came along, his long tail straight up, and rubbed my nose with his cheek. No hard feelings.
“I wouldn’t really get a dog, Pep,” I whispered. “Not a real one anyway,”
Pepper is a solid black Bombay cat with species-identity issues. He walks with me along the beach, retrieves thrown objects and enjoys car rides.
I sucked up to him for a few more minutes and then went inside. I picked up all of the crumpled papers and photographs off the floor, smoothed them out and put them back on my desk so I could send them out later. Then I hit the shower.
“You know, Pep, I wasn’t always pathetic,” I said, as I rinsed the conditioner from my hair. “I used to be a professional. I had a real job; I was respected.” Pepper had pushed his way into the steamy bathroom as soon as he saw the closed door. Pepper hates closed doors.
“I owned suits. And I made real money. I even had health insurance.” I peeked out from behind the shower curtain. Pepper looked up at me with a puzzled expression.
“The stiffs at Fort Meade couldn’t get enough of Sam Warren. They called me Miss Mitnick, which honestly, I didn’t appreciate.” I turned off the water, climbed out of the tub and grabbed a towel. “I’m a way better hacker than he was. Mitnick got caught.”
I still remembered the absolute thrill I’d felt when one of my favorite professors called me to his office near the end of my sophomore year at MIT and suggested I apply for the NSA’s Cryptanalyst and Exploitation Services Summer Program. He stroked my ego and set up a meeting with the agency’s recruiter.
I breezed through the program and two years later I’d marched across the podium, accepted my diploma, returned my cap and gown, drank a toast with my dad and gave him an awkward hug. Then I jumped into my old Ford Falcon, bursting with my meager wardrobe and an abundance of computer gear, and left for Maryland and my grand career with the National Security Agency. Six years after that I’d made the journey back to Plymouth with what would fit in my tiny Mini Cooper. That car was the only really good souvenir I had from my abbreviated professional life.
“I shoulda run when I heard the program was called exploitation services, Pep,” I said as I toweled off. Shaking my head, I went to find clean shorts.
Thirty minutes later I was back at my desk. I had the police scanner turned low as I alternated bites of glazed donut with bites of sausage egg bagel from Dunkin Donuts.
The scanner was belching its usual mix of staticky squawks and chirps and military alpha codes mixed with numbers. Very little intelligible conversation came through but, best I could tell, it was a quiet morning around Plymouth. Someone called in a raccoon behaving strangely. A few minutes later the responding officer reported that the raccoon was fine. Well, that’s a relief.
I prepared an invoice for Mattison. I was disgusted and indignant but also dangerously close to destitute. Pride is expensive. So are Pepper’s kibbles and all the little luxuries I enjoy in life. Like electricity.
“Officers in the vicinity of Plimoth Plantation, please respond. Possible 10-54, reported hanging victim. I repeat, all officers in the vicinity of Plimoth Plantation respond, 911 caller says there’s a body there.”
10-54 was the code for homicide.
I inhaled my bagel, dropped my head down between my knees, gagged it up and then lunged across my desk to turn up the volume. Did she say hanging victim?
I was still hacking up sausage chunks when I ran out the door.
Chapter 2
I did forty in the twenty zone up White Horse Beach Road and burned rubber pulling onto 3A. I had to get there before they closed off the entrance. Before some wet-behind-the-ears uniform shut me out. I was only four miles away.
I was shifting the Mini into fifth when I rounded a bend and nearly plowed into our local vegetable stand, which was being towed by a pickup doing thirty in a forty-five. It was Farmers Market day. Shit!
I hit the brakes, came within inches of the colorful trailer and stayed there. For a full mile I cursed the bright tomatoes, corn and strawberries painted on the back door. I cursed the farmers with their holier-than-thou produce and I cursed the yuppies and vegans who bought it. Fucking organic! Finally we hit the two-lane stretch before the left exit to Highway 3 and I floored it, careened around the veggie wagon and cut over onto 3A as it bends right toward town. In another thirty seconds I was skidding left into Plimoth Plantation.
I hit the museum’s long winding driveway and lifted my foot from the gas pedal; seconds later a squad car zoomed past me, lights flashing. I hit the accelerator again. I held out little hope of glimpsing the crime scene, but on the off chance...I tore into the employee parking lot, kicked open the door, hefted my backpack onto my shoulders and jogged to the main parking area.
Three empty black and whites sat like scattered dominos in front of the main entrance. I wove between them and mounted the stairs. Below the rough-hewn archway, a crowd milled on the paved path that wound through the forest to the welcome center.
I descended and discreetly joined the group. Some thirty people were gathered, many in period dress. Others sported khaki shorts and cameras. All of
them twittered like excited jays.
“Ron said Mrs. Smit nearly fainted.”
“Who found it?”
“Are we gonna get paid for today?”
“Marty said John walked right into her!”
“This is way better than a bunch of stupid Pilgrims! You see that cop with his gun? Bang! Die, muthah’!”
“Jason!”
“There’s really a body in there?”
“In the Billington House. John just went in to get set up and Bam!”
“Is Melissa here? I think she’s doing John.”
“Marty said John thought it was a joke at first, like a fake. He was laughing, you know, trying to pull it down, when he realized it was real.”
I snuck my tiny private-eye camera out of my backpack and took a few pictures on the sly. I glanced down and hit preview. For posterity, I’d captured four butts and one toddler’s snotty nose. Back at NSA, I had been confined to a desk; my only field experience had been with the intermural soccer team. And I wasn’t very good at that.
I was peering around trying to memorize faces when one of the tourists hoisted his camera and took a picture of the group. Outstanding. I raised my cell phone and followed suit. Some of the actors put their arms around each other and smiled and pretty soon all of us tourists were snapping away.
I was laughing at a couple of actors mugging it up when Dennis came through the wooden archway and descended the steps. He glanced over, did a double-take and frowned. Uh-oh. He said something to his partner, Turk, who nodded and continued down the path. Dennis veered toward me.
Dennis Sheffield was in his mid-fifties. He’d been a detective for nearly as long as I’d been alive and he had lines on his face for each and every case he’d ever worked. Maybe a few more for his three ex-wives. His eyelids drooped over his brown eyes, which had puffy bags underneath. His thinning grey hair was combed back and slicked down. He was a grouchy, gnarly old guy, but he’d been my dad’s partner for twenty years and was one of my closest friends. He was also the one who suggested I put my over-the-top curiosity to work as a private investigator. I wondered if he now regretted that gem of fatherly advice. (“Probably,” said Dad.)
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 1