“My sister has become his incentive.”
Geoff raised his head and peered past three shiny leaves. They looked like mafia dons in conference while their bodyguard idled along in the car behind them.
“She’s left him,” said Doug.
Nance laughed. He had never met Geoff Hilyard or his wife or kids, and he laughed, the bastard.
“If he can’t find the log, what will he do next?”
“Protect the bones,” shouted Geoff from the brush.
Nance dropped into a crouch, as though somebody was about to shoot him. “Who said that?”
Nance’s driver sprang from the car, gun in hand.
“Morning, gentlemen.” Geoff decided to march straight out of the brush. Act as if he owned it, because he did.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Doug.
Geoff ignored him and went up to Nance. “I’m thinking of an archaeological survey, to protect the bones.”
Nance looked at Doug. “The brother-in-law?”
Geoff kept talking. “Did you know the best collections of Indian artifacts on Cape Cod belong to backhoe operators?”
“You’re going off the edge, Geoff,” said Doug.
“How many backhoes do you have, Nance?”
“None. I’m a venture capitalist.”
“And my island is your latest venture?”
“Our island,” said Doug.
Geoff slipped the rose from Nance’s lapel and inhaled its aroma. Let him know he wasn’t frightened by bodyguards and rich men in white suits. “I didn’t think the Bigelows and Cousin Blue could develop this island by themselves, Dougie… but Strip-the-Plants Nance?”
Nance looked at Geoff as though he were a job seeker, not the obstacle to the job. “Only idiots call me that, people who don’t know any better, like your uncle.”
“Let’s see… there’s the Mount Hope Mall, built on a wetland in Rhode Island, and that monstrosity in Sandwich, right on top of the watershed—”
“All legal.”
Geoff studied the sleek features and the perfect tan. Sometimes the ones at the top didn’t show a trace of the struggle to get there. He decided to throw something out and see how it played. “Nance, Iron Axe, and charcoal on the floorboards.”
That was the strangest entry on Rake’s list, but Nance just looked at him, as though he made no sense at all. “This is the guy the project hinges on?”
Geoff looked around him. “ ‘Whose woods these are…’ are mine. That makes me the guy.”
Nance stalked to the car and opened the door. “You need an architect, Douglas. If this guy isn’t interested, find someone who is. And if this guy won’t sell, we’ll build around him.”
Geoff watched the Cadillac disappear around the bend. “Does your father know about him?”
“We need deep pockets on this one, Geoff.”
“I thought your father and that guy had a grudge—”
“I’m running things now. Besides, grudges are wasteful, as wasteful as pinning your future on a myth.”
“Pin it on a principle. Know the truth before you act rashly. Then you won’t be acting rashly. If you talk to Janice, tell her that.”
iii.
Doug talked to her in the sitting room of the Bigelow 1700 house. She was wearing a red bathing suit under a wraparound skirt. She had not slept well, but she looked composed and serene.
“It might be a good tactic to stay away from him a bit longer,” said Doug.
“You may have played the breakup of your first marriage like a game, Doug, but that’s because you’re a man.”
“Low blow.”
“I think a little differently.” She tucked her feet under her, though the ancient Victorian settee was not quite made for the posture. “Geoff and I, we’ve started seeing the world differently. I don’t know how or why, but it’s happened.”
“He said he was doing this because of principles.” Douglas laughed.
That word again. Janice looked at the letters on the table. Hannah had lectured Sam about foolish principles. Yet she had done a few foolish—and principled—things herself when she got older.
“Let him stew a while longer,” said Doug. “If not for me, for Dad.”
“For Dad. For the future… I want to look to the future, and Geoff keeps looking to the past.”
Doug got up. “I’m going over to the island. We’re doing wetlands prelims on Clara’s land. Emily and Arnie are hot to trot.”
That she did not need to hear. She sat there for a long time, looking at her purse, wondering why she didn’t just get rid of that damn will. It didn’t carry any legal weight, and it felt as heavy as a soapstone sink in her purse. But she couldn’t do it.
iv.
On summer nights, up and down 6A, candles flickered in the windows of the inns where Yankee sea captains once lived, and where chefs now put raspberries on chicken, cooked duck in orange sauce, and did things to mussels that no self-respecting Cape Codder would do to a barnacle.
At the Bell-in-Hand you could still get a fisherman’s platter—deep-fried seafood with a side of slaw for $9.95. Add to this a salad in a little wooden dish, dressing from a bottle, a big highball in one of those heavy glasses, and serve it on a paper place mat featuring a Cape Cod map. Not that the locals cared about maps. The Bell-in-Hand didn’t even have windows.
There was, however, a jukebox filled with fifties rock, and somebody was spending his week’s pay on Buddy Holly songs.
Geoff preferred to eat at the inns, but they were one more sign of what he called the creeping chichi of Cape Cod. They had been catering to tourists for nearly a century down here, but it had only been in the last twenty years that Off-Capers had rubbed away the character of the place, that sense of stiff-spined, chowder-eating independence that had made Rake Hilyard such a hard case right up to the night of his death.
“If I were you, I’d be looking for my wife. Not the log,” said George. “I do have a sense of priorities. Once I found her, I’d take out that list and look for the log.”
Maybe so, thought Geoff. But a bad night’s sleep, the day’s revelation, and three beers had left him pretty depressed. Not even “Peggy Sue” could cheer him up. That was why he had called on his friends to do the job. George was chowing on the fried clam plate, and Jimmy was on the way. “Let Janice look for me.”
“She won’t want to if you hang around that museum director,” said George.
“The museum director is in it for herself. I wouldn’t trust her any more than those guys over there.”
Four big guys, in work shirts, jeans, and mortar-stained boots, were at the bar watching the ball game on television. Geoff would not have noticed them, but sitting in the middle of them was the Humpster, working a beer and a shot.
And they didn’t notice Geoff until the door opened. Guys at a bar always checked out a new arrival, because it might be a pretty girl or a troublemaker or an Indian named Jimmy Little, wearing jeans, T-shirt, and a new Red Sox baseball cap. They watched Jimmy go over to Geoff’s table, and someone whispered something in the Humpster’s ear.
Jimmy pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards.
Geoff gave him the once-over. “I thought you wore a blue blazer after five o’clock.”
And Jimmy said one word: “Nance.”
Geoff nodded.
“This changes things. If Nance is in it, I might occupy that island myself.”
“Was Nance one of the plaintiffs in the ’77 land suit?” asked George.
“He’s the guy. Dirty fighter. Tried to make the Indians look like a bunch of lazy reds, screwin’ the good white developers just to get their land. All we were trying to do was save it.” Jimmy raised his hand and called for a beer.
Geoff had always liked Jimmy because he was so cool, a perfect foil for George. But there was no cool tonight. The name of Nance had touched something in the old alligator brain or, more likely, in the ancient anger that most Indians carried around whether the
y knew it or not. “Do I smell vengeance in the wind?”
“A little vengeance is good for the soul,” said Jimmy. “It gets us in touch with our roots.”
“Unh, I signed on for a treasure hunt,” said George. “Is this thing going to get ugly?”
“If Nance is involved, it already is ugly. But he papers over the ugliness with money.” Jimmy ordered a beer. “When the Wampanoags brought the land suit, I was the young crusader, ready to get something back for all that the tribe had given up. But we weren’t quite as high-powered as the other guys.”
“Money won the fight,” said George.
“It always does. And the idealistic young lawyer went off to Wall Street to get some money of his own.”
“And Ma’s still mad,” said Geoff.
“More disappointed than mad.” Jimmy snatched a fried clam from George’s plate. “She doesn’t think they care too much about Mother Earth down on Wall Street.”
“Mother Earth…” Geoff sipped his beer. “I’ve always liked the way Ma talks. She’s known all along what this is really about.”
“She says Mother Earth is the spiritual center of everything. Indian mysticism. Simplistic, but it works.” Jimmy took another clam from George’s plate. “Respect Mother Earth.”
“And order your own clams,” said George.
Geoff drained his beer. “I guess that’s what I’ve really been trying to do here.”
“Order your own clams?” George played his role as the one who kept things light.
“Respect Mother Earth,” answered Geoff. “But I’ve let a good commission slide, my uncle’s gotten killed, my wife’s walked out…”
“Mother Earth as bitch goddess.” George looked at Jimmy. “So how is Nance’s money helping the Bigelows to scar Mother Earth’s face?”
“Blue Bayou” was playing now. A couple of people were singing it at a nearby table. The noise level was rising as the supper crowd came in.
Jimmy drained his beer and ordered another round. “As far as I can tell, Nance must have saved Bigelow Development from Chapter Eleven. He probably figures that the 1904 subdivision will let the Bigelows slam dunk every agency in the county, from the Cape Cod Commission on down. Any that stand in their way get hauled into court, because Nance has deep pockets. Once they get all the permits, that land will be worth a fortune.”
“I’d love to see the written agreement between Nance and Bigelow,” said Geoff.
“I’ll go to the county registry and check the mortgage listings tomorrow,” said Jimmy.
“And if you find something, where does that leave Geoff?” George fished through the bread basket for a hard roll.
“Right where he is. He can do the deal they offered and live like a king, sit back and watch the Bigelows develop from his designs in conjunction with Nance, who does quality work, the bastard.”
“Especially to old men on Suicide Six.”
George stuffed a breadstick into Geoff’s mouth. “Don’t say that too loud. The walls may have ears. They certainly have some ugly fixtures.” George smiled up at the Humpster, who had pushed his way through the tables and smoke and now stood over them, all belly and beer breath.
“Blue Bayou” ended and “True Love Ways” began.
The Humpster gave that choke-a-dog grin and leaned over them. “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub, a faggot, a Mo-nig, a fool.”
An old man at the next table looked up, then slid his plate of fried clams to the other side of his table. His wife twitched around to see what was going on.
“What did you call me?” said Jimmy.
“This is a family place. Let’s step outside and me and the boys’ll tell you there. We’ll tell you all about how tough it is when there’s no work because of faggots, Mo-nigs, and fools.”
“Mo-nig” could light Jimmy’s fuse faster than “Nance.” They were outnumbered, but Geoff knew that wouldn’t stop Jimmy now. “Easy,” whispered Geoff.
Jimmy slipped off his chair and looked the Humpster in the eye, even though he was a head shorter.
Geoff slid to the edge of the booth and prepared to spring. He noticed George slip his knife and fork into his hands and eye the roll of truck-stop kidney fat peeking out over the back of the Humpster’s belt. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
But this was a family place, the town hangout, and before anything else happened, the flannel shirt of Bill Rains appeared between the Humpster and Jimmy. He smiled at both of them. There was tartar sauce in his beard. “It is not a good day to die, Jim. And, Clarence, over in the corner is off-duty Brewster police officer Bob Shine, straightest arrow between here and the Mashpee Indian Museum. If he decides to administer field sobriety tests in the parking lot, you could lose your license for a year, under Massachusetts law. You couldn’t even drive a bulldozer.”
The Humpster’s big eyes roved around the room until he saw the cop, then he glugged the rest of his beer, almost in defiance. “Bulldozers. Yeah. We can’t live without them, can we? Bulldozers comin’ real soon to Jack’s Island. Brrrrrmmmmm.” He splattered his lips together and made the sound of an engine.
The old man at the next table put his napkin over his plate like an umbrella.
“Watch out for my bulldozer.” Using his beer bottle as a gear shift, the Humpster turned himself around and brrrrrmmmmed all the way back to the bar, where his three pals were laughing their asses off.
When the spit-mist had cleared, the old man took the napkin from his plate and looked up at Bill Rains. “Blue Bigelow says it all the time. His kid’s a stupid son of a bitch.”
“Yeah,” said Rains. “Too bad he’s so big.”
“We may cut him down to size.” Geoff threw a twenty on the table. “Him and John M. Nance.”
“Nance?” said Rains.
“So even the Conservation Commission doesn’t know?”
“Strip-the-Plants is in on this?” said Rains.
“Go finish your clams, Bill, before they get cold,” said Jimmy.
“And count on seeing us at Jack’s Island the day after tomorrow,” said Geoff.
“And, unh”—George put the knife and fork back on the table—“thanks. I don’t know what I was going to do with these.”
Buddy Holly sang “It’s So Easy.”
In the parking lot, Jimmy turned to his friends. “Okay, Rake may have known he was up against Nance along with the Bigelows. So he needed big medicine. So what happened three hundred and seventy years ago that matters today?”
“Whatever it was got him killed”—Geoff pulled the list from his pocket—“just when he was figuring it out.”
Jimmy studied the list and scratched his head.
George begged off. “I’ve done my share for the night, guys. And there’s a young man up in Provincetown who thinks ‘Legal Eagles’ is the best show on television.”
“Be careful,” said Jimmy.
“Don’t worry, James. These days I no longer rely on the kindness of strangers.”
“That’s not what I mean. Don’t trust anyone if Nance is around.”
“Better yet, stick around.” Geoff waved the list at him. “We could find the log if we put our heads together.”
George laughed. “Heads. Yeah. One in particular that I’m thinking about.”
The Humpster and his pals were coming out now. It was time to leave before any more trouble started.
George jumped into his Bronco and headed for P-town.
Jimmy drove Geoff back to Jack’s Island. And as the car crossed the causeway, Geoff felt the eloquence in a few extra glasses of beer. “I guess an Indian lawyer has to be the most careful guy on the block, but you know better than anybody what this island was, what all of the Cape was.”
“What?”
“Freedom. Thoreau said a man could stand here and put all of America behind him.”
“He said that about the outer beach, not Brewster. This town was built by hidebound Yankee shipmasters who would have laid Georgie’s backbone bare just
because of who he was.”
“But the island, Jimmy… before the shipmasters, it meant freedom, for Indians, for Quakers.”
The headlights bumped along the road, skittered over the front of Rake Hilyard’s house, and lanced into the back.
Jimmy said, “No place meant freedom for Indians—Hey!”
In the glare of the headlights, a man raced out the door of Rake’s barn.
“Who’s that?” said Jimmy.
Geoff was already out of the car, running down the shaft of headlights into the woods behind the barn. “Hey!” he called, and he ran without thinking. The darkness closed in quickly around him. He stopped and tried to listen. All he could hear was Jimmy’s thrumming engine and the slop of the waves.
Then a thought cleared his brain and dropped him onto the path. He’d had an arrow shot at him. Somebody had killed Rake. Somebody could be taking aim at his white shirt right now. He waited for a time as his eyes adjusted. Then he rose to a crouch and saw a big black spot expand, right in front of him… but not in front of him, inside him. The blood and beer rushed so fast to his brain that he almost passed out.
He waited for the spot to fade. Then he heard footfalls behind him, pounding down the path from the house. Jimmy? He almost said the name. He saw a flash of nylon, a logo, a puma—then a knee struck him. His nose cracked and stars burst around it. He landed on his ass and grabbed the leg. Like steel cable. But Geoff held tight, and the man thudded onto the path, kicking cold sand into Geoff’s face.
Geoff leaped at him and an elbow caught him right in the sternum. This took both his wind and his enthusiasm and the man scrambled off. A moment later Geoff heard an outboard pull away. From the sound, it was heading toward Rock Harbor. He cursed and kicked the sand. But what would he have done if the guy had had a knife?
Jimmy was at the barn door, looking very angry. “Son of a bitch blind-sided me. I haven’t been blind-sided in years.”
He pointed to the trapdoor in the middle of the floor. “It looks like they went through the whole house, then came out here.”
Geoff aimed Rake’s work light into the hole.
“What’s down there?”
“Don’t know.” Geoff took a rusty old gaff from the wall, led with the tip, and lowered himself.
Cape Cod Page 50
