Welcome to the Punkhorns (Shepard & Kelly Book 1)

by Benjamin Bradley

  The entire town of Brewster took up twenty-five square miles, just larger than the size of Manhattan. The town was named for the first religious leader of the Pilgrims, William Brewster, and had once been home to many wealthy sea captains. The stately homes and mansions that decorated most roads were the last remaining remnants of those former inhabitants, aside from the roaring ocean that bordered Brewster’s edge.

  Despite the rich history, Rachel knew this was a town in dire need of funds. It was common knowledge that a former Mayor had bled the town coffers dry in an attempt to grow the year-round population. The expensive series of events and investments had yielded very little in return. The former Mayor had failed in such spectacular fashion that it marked the first time Brewster had been mentioned by name in the Boston Globe.

  The jet-black Jeep’s oversized tires slowed to a stop at the street end of the gravel drive. Rachel took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel tight. She turned to her boss, Bart “BJ” Baxter Junior, who sat up straight as an arrow in the passenger seat with his eyes fixed on the crowd of protesters obstructing their path to Brewster City Hall. BJ was grumbling to himself when he noticed Rachel’s stare.

  “What the hell is this? I thought the Cape was supposed to be full of retirees and vacationers.” He shot a look at Rachel in the driver’s seat. She loosened her grip on the steering wheel and tucked a few strands of her brown hair behind her ear.

  “You and I both knew this was a possibility. We can’t expect them to be thrilled that we’re developing part of their land. Especially when it’s been protected for so long. So, what’s the move, BJ?” She tried to force away her knotted brow that her sister had gleefully labeled a “resting bitch face.”

  “If I said to gun it and plow through the crowd…” BJ kicked at the discarded Dunkin Donuts travel cups that blanketed the floor of the passenger side. The sound made Rachel’s stomach turn; her tyrannical gremlin of a boss overruled her preference for clean, tidy spaces. The smell of old coffee on the rubber floor mat stung her nostrils.

  She glared at her boss. BJ’s auburn hair was tightly gelled back, gripping his scalp as if clinging for dear life. His cologne wafted through the car as he grinned ear to ear. Jesus, he has such a big head, it’s so massive I’m surprised it hasn’t taken things around it into orbit, Rachel thought.

  “I’d laugh at what better be a crappy joke,” Rachel snarled. “Keep it in check, and we’ll be in and out of here in a month. I’m going to park off to the side. Let’s try to avoid the crowd on our way in.” The years of torment from her older brothers Rachel had survived had left no room for bullshit, even if BJ was her boss. Rachel could feel her fire inside grow with the slights hint at condescension.

  BJ seemed to look at each of the protesters one by one. Sizing them up. Rachel hoped the City Council members inside wouldn’t mirror the feelings of this angry mob. BJ couldn’t afford another gaffe. His father had assured him this development project was a sure thing; if he fumbled this project, he was out. Plain and simple. Done. This piece of land was apparently a barren wasteland with no hope of further growth. The perfect spot for another Baxter Resort property. If BJ went down, odds are he’d try to take Rachel with him.

  “Let’s go,” BJ said to Rachel. “While we’re young.”

  Rachel eased onto the gas pedal, and the Jeep coasted up the drive. She fumbled for the radio, feeling a newfound embarrassment of the classic rock that had kept them company on the hour-and-a-half journey out from Dorchester. She ran through all the worst-case scenarios in her head, but none of them materialized. The protesters only raised their signs and chanted louder.

  “Baxter the Bastards!” and “Protect the Punkhorns,” were the two refrains that the crowd chanted. Rachel guessed there were twenty people in the group, maybe fewer. Rachel assumed most of these folks were from Boston, and had come when they heard of the construction. She steered to the right and felt the tires sink as they shifted from heavy gravel to the soft soil. She slid the Jeep into park.

  “Sure is a nice City Hall for a town that’s going bankrupt,” BJ said with a snort.

  “Think about how you’re helping them stay afloat by bringing this project here. Stay on that train of thought. Do not mention that you have other options, because we both know that this is it. It’s either rip out the Punkhorns, or find a new job.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” BJ rolled his eyes.

  “Remember, ignore them, and let’s get inside. You know the press will catch wind of any blow-up that happens here. We don’t need another scuffle like in Mashpee. Keep it in check.” She did her best to speak with a tone of warm optimism, but knew BJ was no man for sugar-coating. His temper was notorious. Both of his ex-wives had testified to that fact in civil hearings as they bled him of his family money. He scoffed at her and reached for the handle to step out of the car. Rachel braced for the worst.

  The protesters swarmed, and Rachel did her best to push through with her head down. She pulled BJ along behind her. She heard him muttering under his breath and shot him a look. He didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he pushed her hand off and spun to face the protesters. Rachel fought the crowd to move back towards BJ but he was out of reach. The crowd pushed her out like a pack of vultures surrounding roadkill. She found herself on the City Hall steps, looking down at the heated horde of organized citizens surrounding a volcanic BJ.

  BJ dusted off the shoulders of his tailored suit, and a wide grin spread across his face. Rachel had seen this look before. She’d seen it in Mashpee when a vocal protestor got too close for comfort, and BJ had pushed him down a small flight of stairs. She knew that nothing positive had ever followed that look.

  “Get out of my way!” BJ choked out the words while maintaining his Cheshire-cat grin. The crowd chanted back. “Protect the Punkhorns, you Punks! Protect the Punkhorns, you Punks!” BJ’s grin was replaced with a scowl. He ran his hand through his coal-black hair and turned back to the crowd.

  “If a single one of you punks try to stop my project, I’ll wipe you off the face of the earth so fast you won’t have time to cry home to your mothers!” BJ barked with glee.

  The protester’s shouts quieted to a whisper. BJ stepped through the crowd, entered the large wooden front doors of the building, and disappeared inside. Rachel let out a sigh and shuffled inside behind him. As the doors closed behind them, Rachel saw the protesters whispering to one another, shocked, but when she turned to confront BJ about his blunder, he was nowhere to be found.

  Rachel wandered the high-ceilinged halls and enjoyed the artwork decorating the walls. Finger-paintings of the beach and pond came from the local Kindergarten. Rachel noticed one toward the end with dark green canopies on brown stems, with skinny stalks of young pine trees underneath. It was labeled “The Punkhorns.” Rachel’s heart sank.

  She knew that construction projects rarely avoided damaging the land and surrounding ecosystems, but this project felt especially impactful. Some of their development plans in the past had been questioned and petitioned against, but never on the level Rachel was seeing in Brewster. It was clear people loved the Punkhorns; maybe it was time for BJ to take the hint and move on. Still, Rachel’s guilt would evaporate when her bi-weekly paycheck arrived and eased some of the mountainous student loan debt she’d hidden from the world. Somebody would be developing this land one way or another, might as well be me.

  She walked further down the hall until she heard BJ’s voice around the corner. He was standing in a conference room with the four City Council members, asking them about golf tips for Ocean’s Edge and its three sprawling eighteen-hole courses. He barely acknowledged Rachel as she joined them.

  “Hi, I’m Rachel Spokes. I’m the Regional Director in charge of the Cape for Baxter.” She shook hands with the four men and immediately forgot their names. Rachel knew none of it mattered; this was a done deal, and BJ would not leave without a signed agreement. A tall man with white hair joined them and introduced himself to Rachel first.


  “Mayor Peter Peck.” He extended a hand.

  “Rachel Spokes, Regional Director.” She took his hand and returned a firm handshake. “Good to meet you. You’ve got a great team here that was a pleasure to work with.”

  “Likewise, ma’am. Baxter has some of the friendliest lawyers I’ve met so far, and I’ve met a lot of lawyers.” He faced the rest of the group. “Any last-minute changes, or is the deal the same as it’s been? I’d need my team to review any adjustments.”

  “Same purchase agreement as your team approved prior. No reason to string this along any further, Mr. Mayor. What’s done is done,” BJ said. The mayor shot BJ a look that filled the room with unspoken tension. Rachel stared at the table in front of her, afraid to look up and see tears in the man’s eyes, or a slimy grin on BJ’s face.

  The company’s decision to pursue treasured land protected by the local conservation society had put Rachel in an awkward position from the get-go. Her role as Regional Director for all of Cape Cod had put her front and center in the negotiations with a town desperate for cash. BJ had insisted on running the show and had left Rachel out of the bulk of the negotiations. She had been given a background role in the deal which was a pleasant change of pace for her.

  Baxter Construction had selected Brewster with the intent of taking advantage of its dire situation. Then BJ had manipulated every detail until the deal was in his company’s favor. Rachel was appalled by the contract she’d reviewed and submitted to the legal team. It was the first she had seen of Baxter Construction’s sly maneuvers, but once the walls had come down, she’d learned this was common practice for the group. The firm took from the needy to make their shareholders rich. A local Boston journalist had described them as “The Anti-Robin Hood”.

  A small replica of the lavish Sandy Shores Resort sat on the table in the center of the room. Pristine swimming pools lined both the east and west edges of the property. An eighteen-hole golf course weaved around the perimeter and snaked past a clubhouse with a three-story restaurant and bar. High-rise condos to the north poked out above a small tree line of young pines. Rachel found it hard to picture such an extravagant property on the land where the Punkhorns now stood.

  The drab 3-D model stuck out like a sore thumb next to the maps of conservation land and hiking trails that covered the conference room walls. Even the name made Rachel shiver. Sandy Shores. Yeesh.

  Papers were signed and hands were shaken. Rachel felt a weight lift from her shoulders, thankful that BJ hadn’t somehow screwed this one up. She’d worked hard for this and could already see the bonus check she’d collect for seeing this project through. Her loans would be cleared with enough left over for a trip somewhere for her to practice her middling Spanish.

  Rachel and BJ made their way to the double-doors they’d entered through and the sound of the protesters echoed through the hallway.

  “Move quick, don’t be a jerk, and we’re both home-free. Okay, BJ?” Rachel had wondered how she’d ended up as a professional babysitter. BJ scoffed and pushed open the doors.

  Just as BJ stepped outside, an egg spattered against his front-breast pocket. Another hit his Armani sunglasses. Rachel pulled BJ aside and his suit nearly tore at the seam from his resistance. She got him over to the Jeep, but he brushed her off and turned back to the protesters.

  He wiped the eggshell off his jacket and huffed. Rachel braced herself for what he would say next. She wondered if the ink was even dry on the contract they’d just signed.

  BJ paused for a moment and then grinned his cheeky, rat-like grin that Rachel saw in her nightmares. He pointed towards the crowd of protesters and then reached back and slid his finger across his neck, mimicking the motion used to slit one’s throat. Rachel fumbled for the car door handle.

  She pushed him inside and started the engine, but BJ had already lowered his window before she could child-lock them. He shouted out towards the protesters.

  “Every last one of you. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll all feel my wrath.”

  THREE

  Friday, August 3rd

  Ann Peck checked the clock and then her phone. Still no word. She opened the oven and set the dish inside, whispering to herself that he could always heat it back up when he got home. As she heard the beep indicating that the ideal temperature of 350F was met, she turned and checked her phone once again.

  The rear windows of their custom-built home showcased the glimmering waters of the neighboring pond so pristine they looked like pictures hung on the wall. If it wasn’t for the misty breeze that seeped through the screen door, one might just assume they were at an art gallery during a summer showcase. The duck calls and clamoring geese only occasionally broke the pleasant hum of life by the water.

  Ann had hoped that the long nights and extended hours at the office for her husband would have ended with his senatorial campaign’s unsuccessful re-election bid six years prior. Instead, the hours grew longer and less consistent as Peter worked to get his private practice off the ground and bulked up the retirement fund for the two of them. It had taken her over two years to convince him to retire and move full time to Brewster. They’d had the summer home for so long, but he was always trying to split time between the Cape and the city. Finally, she put her foot down.

  For six months, they were retirees enjoying the beaches and ponds that made Cape Cod such a great place to spend retirement. But the newly-elected Mayor’s heart attack had surprised the entire town and one thing led to another. Now, Mayor Peter Peck was a household name throughout the little town of Brewster, Massachusetts. Which, in turn, led to a string of invites to ladies’ clubs and community boards for Ann.

  She’d rejected them all except the Library’s invitation to join their board. “Books deserve every protection,” she wrote in her acceptance letter and read with unwavering confidence during her subsequent speech before the Volunteer Board of Directors. The title of Chairman was the first thing Ann replaced. Chairwoman Ann Peck officially spent six hours a week supporting the local library’s efforts. Unofficially, there were countless hours spent leading disoriented patrons through the towering stacks and rearranging the bestsellers table so it had room for a few local author’s self-published works.

  Just before arriving home, Ann had been lost in the fiction A-J stacks, helping a book-hungry teen search the shelves for a novel about werewolves. She knew if she didn’t keep busy, she’d be watching the clock with all of her energy; telepathically sending well wishes to her adoring husband, who was presently getting raked over the Mayoral coals for somebody else’s mistakes. Werewolves, for the moment, seemed more straightforward than the realities of Cape politics.

  Ann heard the sound of gravel kicking up beneath tires and was excited to greet her husband after his hellish day. The three-bedroom cottage was designed with the pond as the focal point, thus leaving the driveway obstructed from the kitchen windows. Ann crouched to see below a small floating shelf from which hung a family portrait with “PECK” stenciled beneath. She was delighted to see the car approach and stepped out of the front door to greet her husband.

  Peter slid out of the car and pulled his laptop bag from the passenger seat. He smiled at his wife. “Always a treat to see your face after a day like this one.”

  They hugged and he kissed her on the cheek. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his forehead, just beneath his gray, close-cropped hair. She’d always teased him for being the only senior-citizen in a twenty-mile radius with a buzzcut.

  “Ziti is in the oven,” she said as she opened the screen door for him. As it slapped against the wood behind him with its usual emphasis, he set his bag on the side table and slumped onto the tan fabric couch.

  “So, do you want to talk about it?” Ann asked as she opened the fridge to pull out a bottle of white. She’d become well-practiced in the delicate dance that being a politician’s partner required. Sidestep here. Divert attention there. There was so much that had to be left at the office, but also so much that need
ed to be vented and shared with a supportive ear. She’d learned that it was best to ask if he wanted to share or let it slide.

  “There’s not a lot to talk about. We couldn’t get the votes to block it. Baxter starts building the lovely Sandy Shores Resort on Saturday.” He groaned as he spoke, but smiled as he took the wine glass from Ann’s hand. “Thank you, dear.” Peter rubbed his eyes as he set the wine glass on the porcelain teal coaster. The coasters, part of a set, were a small detail Ann had pursued with great interest as she put the finishing touches on the beach decor of the cottage. Starfish and seashells engraved on wooden planks and canvas filled the walls between the windows.

  “How’d they take it? I heard from Grace Lee that there were a lot of protesters on the front steps.”

  “About as well as you could expect. People love that piece of land. And the pond. I think it’s hard for them to see that the town needs the revenue and we don’t really have another option here. It’s this offer or Brewster goes bankrupt.”

  Ann nodded and sipped her wine. She’d always waited until Peter came home to uncork a bottle and pour her first glass. It somehow made that first sip even more magical.

  “Plus, the Baxter kid went ahead and threatened all the protestors before he came in. That sure helped calm the tensions a whole lot. Told him he’d kill anybody who stood in his way.”

  “An empty threat, I’m sure. I thought Baxter was around our age?”

  “The founder is. Bart. His rambunctious son, Bart Junior, is mostly calling the shots on the Cape now. Goes by BJ. Hard to take a forty-year-old named BJ seriously.” Peter let out a chuckle.

  “Any chance this all falls through?”

  “No, it’s done. The paperwork is being finalized by legal, but it’s out of my hands now. The Punkhorns’ days are numbered.”

  “And what about yours as Mayor?”

  Peter shook his head and sighed. “Unless I resign, I’ve got another year to carry the burden of this awful outcome. Unless the protestors do me a favor and tear down City Hall. How did this whole Mayor gig become more difficult than Congress? Yeesh. We’ll see it through. Although, this is not what I signed up for.”