Welcome to the Punkhorns (Shepard & Kelly Book 1) Page 4

  Her car had done its best sauna impression while she ran, so she left the door open while she stretched. Warm air escaped and was soon replaced by the cool breezy air that accompanied Delaney on her run. The worn leather seats sizzled against the bare skin of her legs when she sat, which made her dance a little to get them adjusted.

  The morning show host on 99.9 WQRC greeted her and introduced the next trio of songs. She hated how the other stations talked about the news or made jokes when the radio was meant for music. Just music. John Fogerty crooned over a riffing guitar as Bad Moon Rising blared from the speakers.

  The trickle of morning traffic during summer in Brewster started around the time Delaney ended her run. To avoid it, she opted for back roads and side streets. She preferred the scenery and the slow pace of her car as it passed neighbors walking their dogs and heading to the beach.

  She turned onto Route 6A, which passed through Brewster’s downtown and meandered over toward Orleans. A poorly timed blink of an eye and a passerby would miss the one-block section that Brewster sarcastically called downtown. Delaney’s favorite building on the block was the Brewster Store, which had been a popular spot for penny candy when her family would come to visit. She’d eat sour gummy worms until her stomach hurt and sleep it off on the beach.

  Delaney turned into her unmarked driveway about a mile further, and the car jostled over the bumps left from washouts caused by the latest rainstorm. The rental company loved to use the terms “sleepy” and “quaint” in their marketing material and had used both to describe her humble abode. She would have considered it more “tiny” than “quaint” but she understood their intentions. She didn’t need much space anyway.

  A framed photo of her parents at her college graduation was propped up alongside a stack of books on a knee-high shelf next to her couch. The books were part of a surplus that didn’t fit on her bookcase anymore; the rest were stacked next to her nightstand in the bedroom. Despite the inventory, she had struggled to prioritize reading over the comfort of reruns of The Office on Netflix. The untouched novels, organized with care and precision, were nothing more than a constant reminder that she was overworked and short on sleep.

  After a hot shower steamed up the walls of her one-bedroom home, Delaney dug through her tattered cupboards looking for coffee. She kicked herself for forgetting to get more the last time she stopped at the grocery store. She nearly jumped for joy when her hand grasped an old bag of beans hiding in the back of the shelf that was a quarter full. Minutes later, she carried her steaming to-go mug out to the car and began her four-mile drive down to the station, wondering what minor civil mess awaited her today.

  SIX

  Saturday, August 4th

  The grackles and bluebirds harmonized as they glided in the gusts that blew from the pond as Ann put on a kettle and waited for it to chirp. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, spiraling over the terrible decisions that Peter’d had to make. It was a familiar feeling, to take on the problems of the politician partner she knew and loved. Somehow, through all of her unsettled movements, Peter slept like a log.

  She heard him stir and poured the rest of the steaming coffee from the French press into his favorite mug, the ocean blue one with “Son of a Beach” stenciled on the side. The awful joke never failed to amuse him. Peter’s cheesy sense of humor was one of the first things that attracted Ann to the tall, handsome man. Even in his earlier years, he was the kind of person who owned a room the second he walked in. Ann had heard the expression before but never knew what it truly meant until she’d met her future husband. She’d concluded that whoever had said the quote first was talking about Peter Peck.

  Peter hobbled downstairs as though walking on hot coals. Ann watched and chuckled, knowing that he’d insist his Achilles pain had receded, despite the obvious limp. He stretched his arms upward and then reached for his lower back as Ann approached with a hug and the coffee. He smiled and thanked her. “Can’t wait to see what misery awaits me today,” Peter grumbled as he sipped the too-hot coffee.

  “I was thinking. Maybe we get ahead of that misery.” Ann sank into the couch next to Peter’s chair. The beach décor hanging neatly on the walls felt out of place with the sour mood of the previous day’s events.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, how much do you actually know about the Punkhorns? Besides that, the town bought it for conservation efforts in early 2000. Have you ever actually been on those trails?”

  “You know neither of us has. We didn’t buy this house because it was a half-mile from a mysterious parcel of forest. We bought it because of that.” Peter pointed to the view of Seymour Pond filling the floor-to-ceiling back windows that led out to the deck. A sailboat and two kayakers were within sight.

  “Well, I know somebody who can help get you up to speed.”

  “And why exactly am I learning about the very place that I just agreed to destroy?”

  “The protests aren’t going away anytime soon, and you’ll need a baseline to be able to communicate with them. Plus, ‘a good politician never misses an opportunity to understand his base’, as my favorite Senator has said on more than one occasion.”

  “Glad it only took you six years to turn my own words against me. All right, I could use a little fresh air anyway.”

  “Good because she’ll meet us there at nine o’clock.”

  As Ann’s Toyota RAV-4 left their driveway, she realized she wasn’t certain how to get to the parking lot where she’d agreed to meet Sally Zimanski. Peter had a rough idea and guided her down Punkhorn Road and onto a gravel stretch marked by a worn sign indicating Massasoit Trail. Finally, the road came to a dead end. She saw two vehicles parked off to the right.

  Ann had met Sally at the Library, where Sally led the book drive fundraising efforts that brought in a trickle of funding to the endowment that Ann carefully managed. She had always been impressed with Sally’s knowledge of books and classic literature. They’d had an in-depth discussion about whether or not Don Quixote was overrated during their first hours together. Ann sure didn’t know everything there was to know about Sally but knew of her reputation around town as the local historian of the Punkhorns.

  Sally waved and pointed at a sandy spot next to her car. Ann parked. Peter hesitated, and she shot him a look. He soon followed and joined the group. Ann and Sally hugged hello. Sally extended a formal hand towards Peter. “Mr. Mayor. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Well, I promise you none of it’s true. Good to meet you too, Sally. Ann has raved about your contributions to the library, both in revenue and expertise. You really should join the board!” He had rehearsed this line under the strict coaching of his wife on the drive over. Ann beamed as he nailed the delivery.

  “I appreciate that. You’re a charmer, I can tell.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Peter said.

  “Well, I just wish you had used that same magic on Baxter. Or our city budget,” Sally teased.

  “I assure you; I did my very best. I’m truly sorry about your home.”

  “Well, thanks, I guess. Anyway, let’s walk through the Punkhorns while they’re still here!” Sally waved them over to the trunk of her car where she had a hand-drawn map laid out. Sally’s large eyes were bright and the corners crinkled.

  “This is the best map I’ve been able to create of the Punkhorn trails,” she said. “It’s far from perfect, but it hasn’t gotten me too lost yet. I’ve always managed to find my way out!”

  Peter scanned the web of meandering trails that weaved through each other like a spiderweb. “Are these marked along the way?”

  “Not many of them. Some are marked just in the beginning and then the trails crisscross so much you’re not sure which one you’re on anymore. So, I just bring along the map when I venture in.”

  Peter’s eyes began to cross as he tried to find Massasoit Trail, where they’d just parked, and follow it until it hit State Route 6A where the Punkhorns ended. It was hopeless. He turne
d and looked instead at the surrounding flora.

  “It’s beautiful here. The canopies shake in the wind so much it sounds like a busy highway,” he said with a smile.

  “Folks around here would say that’s the Natives welcoming you onto their land.”

  “It’s more spooky than welcoming,” Ann said.

  “Let’s head down the trail a little.” Sally eyed Peter’s loafers. “We won’t go too far but I’d love for you to see what kind of isolation this place provides. It’s addicting, yet haunting.”

  Peter glanced into the thick trees as he followed behind Sally. They stood lifeless and skeletal as if waiting for their turn to die and feed the others. Ann dawdled behind, taking a deep breath of the fresh pine air. The smells took her back to North Carolina, where she’d spent most of the summers of her youth.

  Once the school bell rang to mark the end of the year, Ann and her brother would be packed up and off on the marathon drive from Boston to Durham, North Carolina. They’d spend hazy afternoons skipping rocks on the Eno River that roared behind her Grandmother’s house. After climbing low-limbed pines until their feet were raw, they would soak their legs in the clean, crisp water making its way toward the reservoir. The Punkhorns, much like the mighty Eno, would have been the ultimate playground for her younger self.

  “There are over thirty miles of trail winding through here. Two major roads, both gravel and single-track, split the forest and then intersect somewhere near the middle. Massasoit, which we’re on now, eventually will hit West Gate Road. I can’t say I’ve seen it first-hand though.” Sally spoke as if she’d given the tour a hundred times. Peter and Ann scanned the scraggly trees that shook in the breeze for signs of life. The air was thick and enchanting, but the pine scent was so strong it was like somebody had opened a new pine-tree air freshener in a tiny car.

  “What kind of animals live here? Anything that’s endangered enough to stop this development?” Peter asked with a wink. He had exhausted every avenue that might give him a good enough reason to stop the construction and still somehow provide the capital they needed. A young staffer had even suggested they kidnap a jaguar from the Boston Zoo. Peter appreciated the sentiment but took a few moments to explain how the people of Brewster might not appreciate a predator in their midst. Although Baxter was another kind of predator.

  “Nothing endangered, no. But lots of incredible specimens. Diverse as all get-out too. There are red and gray foxes, raccoons, opossum, muskrat, and deer. You’ll see squirrels and chipmunks racing about before we leave, I’d guess. And then the birds. Oh my,” Sally held her hands over her heart. “Where do we begin?”

  Peter drowned out Sally’s passionate recitation of the different types of warblers and hummingbirds and fell behind the group a bit. He had never been much of an outdoorsman. After all, air-conditioned meetings in Washington were much more his speed than hiking and backpacking. Still, he saw the beauty of such thickly-nestled woods, even if these hollow thickets were more sinister than friendly. He saw birds hopping from tree to tree and heard rustles in the leaves marking the free-form paths that the critters were taking. A squirrel had ventured off his branch and scrambled through the dead leaves that carpeted the ground beside the trail. The creature paused and met Peter’s gaze. The weight of his responsibility weighed on him more than ever.

  “Peter?” Ann was walking back towards him. She saw the worried look on his face. “Honey, come join us. We were just getting into the history of this place.”

  Sally grinned at Peter and Ann as they rejoined her on the trail. “Sally, would you mind talking a bit about the urban legends that folks tell about this place?”

  “There are too many to count but most stem from the undignified story of how this land ended up without any Native Americans on it. As you know, the Pilgrims landed just down the road in Plymouth and so the Cape was a large part of their development as a colony. In fact, Tisquantum, known to most as Squanto, took a tour of Cape settlements and attempted to broker treaties between the Natives on-site and the immigrants. He didn’t have much luck.”

  “Forced partnerships rarely work. That still holds true today,” Peter added.

  Sally grinned. “Anyway, these lands, known today as The Punkhorns, were once home to the Saquatucket Tribe. They hunted and fished the area for thousands of years before the Pilgrims arrived. The majority of these trails, if not all of them, are hunting trails they used centuries ago.” Sally stopped walking and gestured toward the trees that towered to her left.

  “Eventually, like the rest of this continent, we pushed the natives out and pillaged the land. Folks used trees for woodlots and over time, the cleared spaces became grazing pastures for cattle. In the 1800s, the cranberry plant grew exponentially and soon the area was a hub of production for the sweet fruit.”

  “That doesn’t sound that bad. Seems like using the land for something new is almost in the very tradition of the place.” Ann’s optimistic tone was half-hearted. “What do you think, Peter?”

  “I mean, it’s lovely here. Don’t get me wrong. I see why folks love it and I’d love to protect it. But I hear these protesters outside City Hall, and they’re not just chanting about the poor animals and trees that are going to be displaced. They’re also talking about a curse.” Peter couldn’t help but laugh as he said the word.

  “And, am I correct to assume that you do not believe in curses?” Sally asked straight-faced.

  “I don’t. I’ve never been one for the voodoo junk that some believe.”

  “Well, maybe I should tell you the part that I left out.” Sally smiled. “If you can tolerate some voodoo junk, that is.”

  Peter cringed at his own choice of words but nodded. Sally led them back towards the parking lot. “Every industry built on these lands has come to a brutal end. The natives didn’t leave peacefully and fought with every fiber in their body to remain on their given land. It got, well, bloody.”

  Ann was surprised to hear the sudden turn in Sally’s tone. She hadn’t expected to hear a horror story about this little refuge.

  “The fish all died off. The new residents woke up to the entire pond covered with dead fish. All in one shot. Then the timber rotted. Each attempt to farm the land for its wood ended with an untimely accident or trees that seemed to rot overnight. Everything followed suit. The cranberries that once thrived were soon interwoven with poisonous pokeweed. The pickers were dropping like flies as they couldn’t tell apart the two berries.”

  “Geez, okay, no joking around. I get it. Serious stuff,” Peter said. “So, people think that if we build on this land, it’ll somehow lead to more of – well – this stuff?”

  “That about sums it up. If the Punkhorns get developed, logic follows that whatever stands on its grounds will be doomed. Cursed. Plagued,” Sally said.

  “And do you believe that?”

  “I can’t say I fully agree with everything, but I also think it’s unwise to dismiss entirely. As you know, my home was part of the land sale. Mine and three others. We’ve had coyotes and creatures wander out of the woods and onto our land but largely, the Punkhorns have left us alone. It was the people who came in and ruined it. We fought Baxter but the county threatened us with eminent domain. So, I took the check. I have a month to be out of the house I’ve lived in for thirty years. So, maybe the curse just took a while to catch up with me.” Sally looked the mayor dead in the eye.

  “I’m sorry, Sally. I know you blame me-” he said.

  “No, Peter. I don’t blame you at all. The fools in office before you mismanaged this place to the ground. They didn’t even try to hide it from the townspeople. You were stuck without a hand to play or a dollar to spend. I just wish these folks had picked a better spot to develop. Maybe one where my home wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Ann put a hand on Sally’s back as they walked towards the parking lot. The silent gesture was Ann’s best attempt to soothe a wound she felt uncomfortably responsible for. Peter extended a hand for a forma
l handshake.

  “Sally, I’m grateful for your time and stories this morning. I had avoided coming here and seeing this place because I knew what was happening is terrible. That’s surely reinforced now. I truly wish I had a miracle in my back pocket, but we’ve signed everything over. At least Brewster will live to see another day.” Peter’s politician voice cracked.

  Sally turned to Peter and thanked him for coming out. “It’s not easy, I know. I hope you can find peace.”

  He smiled and opened his arms to hug her, grateful for the undeserving understanding of a stranger. Ann and Sally hugged goodbye and Ann and Peter walked to their car. Peter let out a big sigh.

  “What is it, dear?” Ann asked, knowing all-too-well what the answer would be. “Afraid of a little curse, are we?”

  “Damnit if that wasn’t a beautiful little slice of Walden’s Pond.”

  “It was lovely. It is lovely. Thank you for making the time. I’d hoped that it would provide some sort of closure for you.” Ann saw the cloud of dust kick up behind her tires as they left the trail.

  Minutes passed before Peter spoke again. His tone was somber and reserved. “I wish it wasn’t too late. It’ll take a miracle to save The Punkhorns.”

  SEVEN

  Sunday, August 5th

  Delaney heard the call while her mouth was half-full of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d thrown together in the break room. The location was not one she’d been sent to before but she knew it was somewhere near the Punkhorn lot where she parked for her morning runs. She threw the rest of the sandwich onto a paper towel and started her cruiser.

  When Delaney had made detective, she knew that it would mean doing a lot of grunt work. After all, there were only six people on staff in the entire department. There were nine when she’d joined but budget cuts led to layoffs and now they stood as a mighty team of six. One of those six, Officer Javier Ruiz, was on the scene already. In Delaney’s limited exposure to him she thought Ruiz seemed like a capable officer. Ruiz was typically on the night-shift but she knew he was covering for Chuck Littleton, who had chartered a fishing boat for the week.