Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  “It is an anniversary of sorts,” he glumly stated in the direction of his glass.

  “Anniversary of what?” she enquired.

  Dan answered with a resigned shrug. “My divorce.”

  “Well then, this Sammy is on the house,” Rachel offered in a sympathetic tone.

  Dan raised his glass in salute. “Well, I have wonderful company tonight, Sam’s finest in a mug, and Pedro is on the mound.”

  Rachel took a sip of Coke and returned the cheer. “This is our year!”

  “Here’s to that. What about you, Rachel,” Dan said changing the subject. “I see you have a University of Massachusetts ring on but you are helping this sad sack of bones wash away his sorrows.”

  She leaned her head back and answered wearily, “Divorced with a precocious three year old, Sam. The choice was career or motherhood. Returning to the Cape, living with my parents, seemed to be the best place to make that decision.”

  Dan picked up the wine menu. “That bottle of Chianti Classico looks awfully tempting.”

  “I can confirm, Mr. Burdett. Absolutely fabulous,” Rachel said spouting a British accent.

  He caught her eyes and held his gaze for a pregnant moment. “What time does your shift end, Rachel?”

  The full moon illuminated Falmouth Harbor. The placid waters sparkled as the cabin cruisers, yachts, and small crafts spent a quiet evening. There was something mystical about the first full moon of autumn. It was a beacon for the impending winter yet still sauntered through the sky with a summer smile. Romantic, nostalgic, yet with a whisk of danger.

  This night deserved better from him. The last full moon had Chief Nickerson on his boat far out on Nantucket Sound. He was not alone. He was also not a sentimental man. Yet a tear meandered down his cheek. His niece, Bess Chadwell, had done what he could not. This, if nothing else, alerted him to the fact that his career was winding down to the final curtain.

  He could have inspected the photos of the crime scene the forensic unit had delivered to his office. There was no use in that. Dead was dead. In any case, he already knew the culprit. But this crime was part of a grander conspiracy and of that he only had a sketchy outline and a hunch.

  The crime scene photos were stuffed back in the manila envelope and pushed aside. He turned on his computer. A series of pictures jumped brightly onto the screen. Again a full moon caught in all its majesty and the beaming face of Rebecca Leary smiled back at him. Another tear began its serpentine journey. If he didn’t have the stomach for the day to day minutiae of the office anymore, he had little trouble in drawing on a full tank of revenge.

  With that in his heart, Chief Nickerson picked up the phone. It was time to hurdle knee deep into that conspiracy’s cove.

  Ok Ellu bak,

  at lét hinn’s sat,

  Ívarr, ara,

  Iorvik, skorit

  The chanting of this old Norse verse confounded Lane Morgan.

  And Ella’s back,

  at had the one who dwelt,

  Ívarr, with eagle,

  York, cut.

  This brute of a man was attempting the blood eagle! And to his horror he was the victim of this brutal torture. He could now feel the blade rip into his upper back where the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings would be cut. Morgan could hear the faint chuckle of Sinclair. The madman was watching the perverse ritual, macabrely hovering over his ritualistic death.

  Kilkenny slowly circled Morgan. His chant was in a low but husky voice. First in the Norse tongue then recited in English. This only served to heighten his unimaginable situation yet seemed to have a calming influence on his executioner.

  “Morgan, I hope you are still with us. I trust this will settle our heated discussion we had so many years ago. As you’ll recall, many historians, me included, accepted that the blood eagle was deeply unpleasant but very real. You, on the other hand, have, rather convincingly, stated that the blood eagle was an invention of later chroniclers to provide drama for their sagas.”

  Henry Sinclair could see that Morgan was still alive. This was important. Under the circumstances it was not surprising the eminent scholar would not be in the mood to engage in debate. Clearly he was in a state of deep agony and despair.

  Now John Kilkenny began to hack Lane Morgan’s back with his razor sharp ax. He traced the vicious yet precise swings from the top of the back down to the bottom. Blood spurted in all directions.

  Kilkenny stuck his hand in a nearby jar of sea salt. He liberally spread the salt throughout the exposed wounds. The shriek of excruciating pain filled the room. ‘Yes, it is working!’ Sinclair realized. His body began to swell with excitement and unbridled pride.

  His man then continued to hack. The ribs were severed, one by one, from the spine. With gusto John Kilkenny, Johnny Kill, then pulled the bones and skin to each side creating a pair of ‘wings’ from the Professor’s back. Finally, and with great care, Kilkenny reached inside and pulled the exposed lungs out of the body and placed each one on a separate ‘wing.’

  There, in front of his own eyes, Henry Sinclair witnessed the sight of a bird like fluttering as Professor Lane Morgan passed from this realm to another.

  He dropped to his knees and prayed to his guardian god, Odin. A torrent of tears flowed forth. His vision was indeed real and the blood eagle, as he had thought, was no mere myth.

  They gazed up at the moon which shone brightly over the beach as the waves came crashing onto the shore. The crisp rich taste of the Chianti Classico seemed to fit the occasion. Dan had supplied a blanket from the inn. Rachel had accepted his invitation for a nightcap and had bundled up some left over goodies from the Embers kitchen.

  “So this is where the young Dan Burdett patrolled the shore?” Rachel asked as Dan filled her glass.

  “Indeed. Some twenty years ago. Great summer job it was. I still love to come down here, mostly in the winter, for a walk.”

  Rachel tilted her head. “In the winter?”

  “Yeah. You know, it is peaceful. Best of all, I’m usually alone or, on a lucky day, with my kids.”

  “I think you, Dan, are a romantic. Long walks along the beach on a wintry day.”

  “Romantic?” Dan said with a shake of his head. “Nah. Maybe nostalgic. Looking back, you know, the ‘what if’ of life.”

  “Romantically nostalgic! How’s that?”

  A thought took root in his mind. “A question, what did you study at college?”

  A hearty laugh crashed into the ocean’s comforting early fall breeze. “You got me, Counsellor. I majored in psychology and no I am plying my trade on you.”

  “No, no,” Dan said waving his hand aloft. “This is interesting. Actually I am working on a case where your expertise could come in handy.”

  Rachel straightened up and crossed her legs in the Indian position. “The night gets more intriguing. Billable hours!”

  Dan laughed. Witty, attractive, and with spirit. Rachel brought a lot to the table. “I’m just a small shop, one shingle, so be kind. Seriously, can a romantic form of nostalgia go to an extreme? What I mean is, can this become unhealthy?”

  “Sure,” she answered straight away. “Any form of emotion can turn into a ‘fatal attraction.’ But not a rare winter’s walk on the beach harboring wistful thoughts. That, in fact, is healthy.”

  Dan refilled both glasses to the brim. “Ok, I’m all ears. Give me healthy and unhealthy!”

  Rachel could see Dan was serious. “This case, it is important to you isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “Ok. I’ll provide you my thoughts and you can steer me in the direction you think will be most helpful. If I had known we were going to get this deep I’d have brought two bottles.”

  Dan gestured up on to the bluff. “My weekend castle! A balcony, two chairs, and a couple of Whales Tale ales in the fridge.”

  “And, hopefully, one gentleman.”

  “Your wish is my command, Lady Rachel,” Dan said with an antiquated flourish.
<
br />   He had washed up. Cleanliness. Yes, it was a virtue. Especially before sitting down for a feast. It, the feast that was, could only be described as a gift. Grilled bluefish, brown rice, and a bottle of wine. His lord, Henry Sinclair, had told him that he would be rewarded in both small and big ways. The bounty was appreciated.

  John Kilkenny looked at his watch. His work was not yet finished for the evening. And while this was not a spread to be rushed nor wasted it was not his intention to dally. So with measured excitement he consumed his meal. Then, with nary a glance back at the gory masterpiece he had created, Kilkenny got in his car and made his way for Falmouth.

  Elizabeth pensively looked at her watch. She awaited the arrival of John Kilkenny who was integral in accomplishing the plan Henry Sinclair had devised. She had wanted to complain that Kilkenny was late. However, by the sound of Sinclair’s voice, his henchman had just done something momentous. The phone call was brief. The message was clear: “Bring me that Templar Crossbow!”

  Sinclair wanted the theft to be done quietly. No harm was to come to Captain Mick Beckham if possible. She kept an eye open for any activity. It seemed as if the Captain had retired for the evening. A solitary light from upstairs had been out for over an hour. Early to bed early to rise she reckoned.

  A car slowly came to a halt. Elizabeth noted with approval that it arrived without much sound and with the lights off. Perhaps this Kilkenny was less of an oaf than she had first thought.

  The plan was simple. John Kilkenny was to make his way stealthily into Mick Beckham’s house, quietly walk up the stairs and proceed straight to the study. There, to his right and attached to oak paneled wall, he would find the historic and precious Templar Crossbow.

  If the plan was a simple one to follow, it would not be easily accomplished. The Captain was a serious man and one not easily caught by surprise. Elizabeth loaded her Glock. She would provide the backup should Kilkenny run into trouble.

  There was a sweet sadness to him she thought. His eyes betrayed the great loss he had suffered. “John,” she said with a wide smile. “We finally get to join forces!”

  Kilkenny responded with a toothy grin. For the first time since he cared to remember, in the presence of Elizabeth, his heart skipped a beat. She grazed his hand. He shyly cast his eyes towards the ground. The moon brightly lit the harbor while they hid in the shadows of the majestic chestnut tree which had stood sentinel for over a century.

  Elizabeth understood the spell she cast on this man. “We’ll have time together soon enough. You, me, alone. But now we must carry out our duties.

  John Kilkenny stiffened his back. He checked the six inch dagger he had secured on his belt. Should the occasion arise, it would be sufficient. He crouched low and began his way towards the home. There was no alarm. In his former life with the Winter Hill Gang, he had become adept at picking locks. This door proved as easy as the rest. His greatest concern was the staircase. This house had old bones. Like a body, an old house will growl and moan, creak and sway, at the slightest wrong step. His previous occupation had taught him a very valuable lesson. One wrong step could lead to your grave.

  He moved slowly, carefully, until he found himself in the Captain’s study. The moonlight became his ally. The Portuguese fisherman had not lied. The Templar Crossbow was exactly where he said it would be. With cautious haste he unfastened it from the wall and retraced his steps down the staircase. The ancient weapon was heavy. It took all his concentration to maintain his balance. Once on the first floor John Kilkenny made a mad dash out of the house onto the lawn.

  “Hey,” he could hear the shout. Captain Mick was giving chase. Kilkenny could feel the footsteps gaining on him. Then a shot. He turned to see Captain Mick Beckham crumble to the ground. Clutching the crossbow he continued to run to the chestnut tree, to Elizabeth. She had saved his life.

  “John, quickly, here,” she gestured trotting towards her car. Elizabeth opened the trunk while Kilkenny gently placed the crossbow in his backseat. Then he returned to help her lift the large coffin shaped box and place it in the back of his truck. Their lungs heaved with exhilaration. Then they broke into muted laughter. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. He wrapped his arms around her in a loose hug.

  “John, off with you,” Elizabeth said in a frantic yet caressing voice. “Back to the island. I will meet you soon.”

  Elizabeth was correct. They needed to be away from the scene as quickly as possible. He to the marina. Elizabeth to her next assignment.

  Rachel laid out the appetizers on the small balcony table. The smell of Embers house special, bruschetta along with prosciutto wrapped scallops, mixed with the salty sea air. Dan handed her a beer.

  She relaxed into her wicker chair. “Nice view.”

  “Yeah, it is. I picked a nice spot. Even better is this sauce. What is it?”

  A hearty laugh hopped onto the breeze. “I know. I’ll get fat working at this place. Let’s see, that is a ponzu dipping sauce and for the bruschetta a walnut pesto. But don’t ask me how to prepare it. I am a complete imbecile in the kitchen.”

  “I’m getting better,” Dan replied with a hint of pride. “Living alone will do that I guess. Besides, I’m not billing you to be my personal chef.”

  “Romantic nostalgia,” Rachel said directing them to the point. “Fire away.”

  “Ok. It is a charming term. But can this type of nostalgia become dangerous?”

  “Interestingly enough, in the nineteenth century, it was considered a mental illness,” she stated.

  “Really,” Dan said in surprise. “That theory has changed I would assume.”

  “Back then too much attachment to the past was considered unhealthy. But today, it can be seen as a good thing,” Rachel commented clearly warming to the subject.

  “How so?”

  “Well,” she continued, “Depression is a serious medical concern in the modern world. Sometimes, nostalgia can bring a person back to an emotional place where they were happy. Successful even.”

  “And this can perhaps lead somebody to think better things are on the way. A light at the end of the tunnel so to speak?”

  “Very good, Counsellor. I am addicted to Law & Order so you passed your first audition.”

  Dan looked puzzled.

  Rachel explained. “My husband and I are separated. I haven’t sorted out a lawyer for the divorce proceedings yet. Are you busy?”

  He offered a sad smile of understanding. “For you, no. Come by my office and we can discuss your situation. Still, no need to ruin this delicious plate.”

  “Not at all. How does this notion of romantic nostalgia fit into your case?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. It is just a hunch. But, can a person become so attached to an idealized moment in the past, I mean an historical past, a time that they would consider pure, that would lead them to murder?”

  Rachel picked up a scallop and mulled over the question. “Interesting. Actually, I did my graduate work at Boston University. I took a course in criminal psychology. It isn’t my field, but it did eat up three units. In any case, we did a case study on something similar. I won’t bore you with the details. To answer your question: yes. In this case, a person was so attached to an event, a crime which was never quite proven, that they became obsessed with it. And not just with the crime, the subject became emotionally attached, in a very real way, with the person suspected of committing the crime.”

  Dan was transfixed. “And?”

  “The subject carried out the crime, detail for detail, to prove it could be done.”

  “He was successful?” Dan asked.

  “Quite so. I shall not go into detail as it certainly would ruin our late night snack. I hope I helped.”

  “You have. It is, I think, a crucial piece to the puzzle,” Dan mused. “One more beer and your lawyer will advise that you should head home.”

  A lifetime at sea had provided him with a unique skill set. The art of survival, an expert at first aid, was at
the top of the list. The bullet had grazed the top of his left shoulder. The skin had been torn away but the bone unscathed. The salt and rubbing alcohol guarded against infection while the whiskey soothed his nerves.

  It was not the first time a bullet had been sent with his name on it. Most likely, on Tuesday night, worse would be on its way. Captain Mick Beckham was undeterred. The raid would be swift. The bounty would be great. Perhaps even historic. His brother would, if all went according to plan, receive his recognition, fame, and vindication. He preferred the anonymity. The black market for historic items was booming. Attach ‘Viking’ to the underground auction and the sky was the limit.

  He placed a call to Mark Burns. “How many men?” the Captain barked.

  Burns had come to despise this crude man. He would be well rid of him in a few days though. With his pockets stuffed. “I have six good men. Roughriders. They expect to be paid but they’ll follow orders.”