False Flag: A Fog of Consipracy Darkens Cape Cod

Chapter 1

The day itself was temptation. It was friendly.

Instead of the blasting gray, unseasonably cool, wet days of this unusual May, today the sky was a clear light blue sprinkled with pure white and cottony cumulus clouds. It was spring fresh yet early summer warm, enticing enough to put the driver’s window down to cruise with an arm on the sill.

Matt Ringwood acted on impulse and drove down the causeway between Minnow Cove and Bridgeview Bay on Cape Cod’s south side. A beautiful little stretch of barely two-lane blacktop, the public causeway, grayed and cracked with age and always fighting small sand drifts at the edges where the thick, green-gold beach grass fails to restrain the windblown crystalline grains, leads to Bartlett’s Neck, a ‘private’ residential community.

Matt hadn’t been feeling too well and found considerable irony that his self-medication of a few shooters during the day did more to keep him on his feet and capable than his doctor’s prescriptions. Taking a few minutes to have one or two of the nips with his takeout coffee, and read the current edition of The Bridgeview Bugle in this serene environment felt right. He had no inkling that this decision would make him a hero.

He was pleased that the lengthy pullover on the Cove side of the causeway was empty, save for a lone maroon Chevy pickup with a gray-bearded driver who stared at him as he passed. Ringwood looked back at the man but did not recognize him at all.

Turning around at the end of the causeway, at the entrance to Bartlett’s Neck with its set of stone pillars, Matt glanced disgustedly at the fancy brass sign mounted on a boulder. It declared everything past the pillars was ‘Private, Residents Only.’ Ringwood wholeheartedly shared the feeling that if the town plowed the roads and dumped the garbage, townspeople should have the right to drive down any road so serviced by collective tax dollars, or use any boat ramp or other sea access directly available from the town roads.

Pulling into a mansion driveway to turn around, he was pleased to see that the old gent in the truck had moved forward, parking as far as possible toward the first stone pillars at the entrance to the causeway. This suited Ringwood; he didn’t mind someone up in front as much as he did someone parked behind. Pulling onto the crushed seashells and pale pebbles, Matt drove his Caddy coupe up close to the line of granite boulders, dropped there many decades ago as rip/rap, defending the causeway against the sometimes marauding sea.

Matt hit the button and his passenger window slid silently down, then he turned the car off. The quiet was immediately soothing. The feel and smell of salt air was comforting. Reaching into the center console he pulled out a pair of Myers rum shooters, uncapping one as he settled down in the seat. The dark rum had a bite, but it was sweet as well; he liked it in his unsweetened coffee. Letting his mind drift with the sound of the wind and the lapping of the water, he heard a male voice in a muffled whisper.

Startled, Ringwood looked around to see a middle-aged man with a yellow-white lab, the Yuppie dog of choice on the Cape, but to his surprise they were just visible on the opposite side of the causeway, near the open water of Bridgeview Bay. He absorbed the scene before turning away, only mildly amazed that the man was about 80 feet distant, shouting to his dog, yet the sound was so completely dispersed by the wind swirling over the calm sea and slipping through the beach grass that it sounded as though someone was talking quietly right at the rear of his car.

His sense of peace only mildly interrupted, Matt looked away to settle back in his seat. Through the windshield he saw that the gray-bearded man in the truck had his driver’s door open. He seemed to be sitting on the edge of the rocker panel with his legs sprawled out toward the ground. Matt quickly realized the old man was putting on waders, obviously intending to do some quahogging or clamming for littlenecks. Ringwood loved this aspect of the Cape. So much had changed, but once in awhile the old atmosphere could still be found.

He downed the second shooter with the remainder of the coffee, glancing at his watch before picking up the paper. His foreman was expecting him, but Matt knew the man could manage the job by himself. Leaning back comfortably against the leather headrest, he again relished the light, warm yet tart bay breeze slipping through the windows to roll over him before escaping again to continue its invisible slide across Minnow Cove to Bartlett’s Harbor, then onward towards Bourne and the Cape Cod Canal.

When he picked up the paper, a headline below the fold caught his eye and he let the paper fall open to its full length. He was surprised. He hadn’t heard anything about a contingent of Bridgeview police assisting the FBI and state police to arrest several men down at Rum Cove.

As he read the story it seemed even more unusual. The men were described as former government agents who were suddenly wanted by the FBI, but the only explanation was an obtuse hint that the men may have been on a rogue mission, essentially as skilled guns for hire.

Later he would realize the story reflected the start of troubles that were brought to Cape Cod this strange summer. But now he simply followed the news story as it jumped to the back of the paper, near the obits, where there was an adjacent, related piece that made Matt first smile, then laugh aloud, feeling that whatever mystery might be involved in the first story, Bridgeview was still Bridgeview.

The second piece, written by Bet Stone, described how an excited young Bridgeview cop, who participated in the early morning arrest of the so-called former agents, had afterwards snapped a loaded, cocked shotgun back into its upright position inside a cruiser. The gun, with its safety off, was forgotten until the early night shift, when Patrolman Fred Fernandes reached across the seat to hand hot coffee and a bagel from the Golden Donut diner to his training sergeant, Jim Perry.

Inadvertently brushing a cardboard tray against the shotgun as he reached over, the weapon discharged, blowing a gaping fourteen inch hole in the cruiser roof, just missing the light rack, and deafening the two cops as the boiling coffee sprayed over them, especially onto Sgt. Perry’s trousers.

Perry, the story explained, had been treated and released at the Upper Cape Hospital, UCH, for a burn in the groin area. Ringwood by this time was laughing so hard that the paper slipped away from the steering wheel and slid onto the floor. After a minute or two, he regained his composure, but he was still smiling to himself as he folded up the paper and put it back on the passenger seat.

Sitting back again, enjoying the breeze in a much better mood, he was staring out the windshield when silently a big gull swooped down to drop a large clam onto the paved causeway. At first Matt watched casually, having seen this ritual countless times, but then he began thinking about the life and death play taking place before his eyes.

Matt watched the scene, feeling that the simple clam must be struggling mightily, in whatever consciousness or intuitive state that a bi-valve may inhabit, in order to direct all its energy toward the muscle holding the shell as tightly closed as possible. It defeated the gull twice. The bird was clearly annoyed. It grabbed the still unopened shellfish from the macadam, spread its surprisingly wide wingspan to catch a gust of wind raising it some 40 feet to where it dipped its head, releasing the large clam from the iron grip of its beak.

Who would ever know if the simple shellfish understood that this time it was unlikely to thwart the impact by the strength of its muscle, or even whether it could feel it had been lifted, this time much higher than before. Who could know?

But the third time did the trick. The gull landed a bit awkwardly but began immediately assailing the lip of the shell with its curved, razor sharp beak. It had won. In only a few seconds of unwanted glory the clam was exposed for the first time to the blue sky. In a flash it was raised to the sunlight, where for a moment it glistened in a white-gold luminescence before disappearing in one large gulping motion of the gull’s head and throat.

Life and death, Matt thought.

Unbidden, Matt thought about himself. And that annoyed him. He was here to avoid those thoughts, to gain a few minutes of peace, not to continue his mind’s restless review of his physical condition. He tried again to read the paper, but got no further than another scan of the front page before again putting it back on the passenger seat.

He looked up and saw that the old man had fully donned his waders and now was standing up with what appeared to be a takeout coffee cup in his hand. He tipped it to his lips, finishing its contents before dropping the cup into the truck bed, after which he began yanking an inflated inner-tube, a round, metal shellfish basket, and a buoyant Styrofoam cooler or box out to the water’s edge. He was slow but methodical.

Matt watched as the bearded man ambled across the pebbled and rocky low-tide beach into the water. Of course all of the accessories were suddenly easier to deal with in the water; they floated and moved smoothly. Not so the old man. No longer was he ambling easily on the beach, through the pleasant air. Now he was plodding heavily into the resistant, still cold water, using the handle of his long rake like a walking stick. Gentle shore waves lapped against his heavy rubber waders, breaking into tiny foaming bubbles as he moved. He looked to be straining.

Nonetheless, Matt appreciated what this probably meant to the old fellow. He was doing something tangible, something productive, outside in one of nature’s last easily accessible wild areas, the shoreline, especially where it was not part of a beach. The old man slowly moved forward, out onto the shallow sandbar, immersing himself inch by inch, foot by foot, until he was waist deep about 100 feet from shore.

It was quiet, yet sound was ever present. The old man’s ears must have been filled with the natural noise around him; the slapping of the water against the inner-tube with its metal basket now in the center and the adjacent Styrofoam box, the muffled but surprisingly clear scrape of his clam rake against the sandy, rocky bottom; the light splashing when the rake was pulled clear of the water and its contents dumped into the basket; then the sloshing as he rinsed the muck from the rocks and captured shellfish, throwing the rocks back in the water and clams into the Styrofoam box, now partially filled with salt water.

Gulls yammered and screeched near and far, but once the familiar natural sounds, carrying so clearly and softly on the mild wind, were interrupted by the whining rpm driven buzz of an outboard motor. Yet it soon died away in the direction of Bartlett’s Harbor. Matt felt relaxed again. The scene was idyllic, perhaps even bucolic in its sense of a timeless food-gathering tradition conducted with a minimum of technology.

Matt idly thought of a comparison between the old man and the gull, both conducting a life and death ritual with the prized invertebrates. But he knew any comparative analogy was invalid. The gull was a merciless hunter and whenever possible an unscrupulous scavenger, but this was how the gull survived. It wasn’t grabbing clams and the occasional quahog from the muddy low water line for a treat, or to sell to the local fish store. It was playing a life and death game to stay alive. Such was not the case with the old man.

He may have been out there for a variety of mostly personal reasons, but he certainly wasn’t digging in four feet of water for the clams and quahogs the gulls couldn’t get because he needed them to feed himself or his family. If his truck had been an old salt-water rotted wreck that bespoke a typically hardscrabble life, eking out a subsistence living from the sea, the comparison with the gull might have some validity. But the old man’s truck was only a year or two old and his equipment was that of a hobbyist, not a professional shell-fisherman.

His work clothes didn’t look brand new, but they were quite a bit closer to the LL Bean catalogue than to the heavy togs regular shell-fishermen were accustomed to wearing, usually bought at discount stores.

The old man was likely there because he wanted to be there, being active and doing something that would have a tangible result, giving him the benefit of fresh air and exercise amid the simple, natural beauty.

It was, Matt surmised, an enjoyable task that could bring a variety of intangible rewards. This was, after all, a lot more potentially productive than the solitary, solely self-serving benefits of jogging or power walking. At the least it might provide some beer or scotch money if he sold the catch to a fish store, but if he brought a catch home it offered the possibility of admiring comments from family and friends over the old man’s ability to confront the chilly water, demonstrating an unexpected practical skill. Such an intangible as that might be particularly valuable to someone facing age.

But in that context it made the life and death struggle between man and invertebrate seem casual, almost wanton, unlike the hard-edged battle between the gull and its prey. With these reflections Matt became restless. The imposition of his rational intellect on the peaceful surroundings was making it impossible to avoid the constant reality of life and death, and it soured his mood. He reached for the ignition.

As he twisted the ignition key he saw the blond man with the golden lab emerge from the scrub pine and beach grass at the pillars marking the mainland entrance to the causeway, about 250 feet away. He made a mental note of their presence and location, knowing he would have to pass them shortly on the narrow road. Then he glanced back toward the old man, somehow wanting to hold the image. But what he saw now froze him as completely as if time stopped.

The old man suddenly straightened up. His arms at first jutted out, the clam rake falling from his grasp, then his hands jerked back toward his chest as he crumpled backward into the water.

It all happened in the time it took Matt’s hand to turn the ignition key. He only reflexively realized the car was running, his mind focused entirely on the old man. Slamming the selector into gear he roared forward, stopping inches behind the old man’s pickup truck. Matt jumped out of the car, his mind racing, filled with possibilities instantly sorted through and discarded for every variety of practical reasoning.

He was on the edge of panic.

Hey, hey, over here, he shouted toward the blond man with his yellow dog. The man didn’t seem to hear. Hey, Help! Matt screamed. The man hesitated and looked back. Matt gestured wildly, waving his arms and pointing to the water. In a moment the blond man was running toward him. Matt noticed that when running he had a pronounced limp that made his attempt at speed take on a ludicrous, loping effect. The dog reached him before the blond man, but by then Matt had made his decision.

It was against all reason. His mind seemed to be screaming at him from every cerebral corner. He knew he was not in the best of health. He knew he was overweight. He knew the water was cold even though the air temperature was mild. He knew that 100 or so feet was a lot even in shallow cold water, and much depended on whether he could manage to wade and walk, not swim. He knew he was not dressed for it, with his Docker slacks, bleached denim shirt, jean jacket and Sears waterproof winter shoes.

But somehow he also understood, deep within, that if he didn’t take this risk, he would always feel diminished. As the blond man lumbered up, Matt had already stripped off his jacket. He yanked his wallet out and threw it on top of the jacket. He looked back at the collapsed old man, surprised to see that somehow his head was visible above the water.

I’m going out to try and get him, he shouted, ignoring the fact the flustered and red faced blond man was now standing next to him, with his yellow-white dog sniffing Matt’s shoes. Take my car if you need to and go get help, Matt said, regaining control and lowering his voice.

You’re not dressed for this, the blond man managed to raspily gasp out. In one of those unusual human moments when people seem to communicate without speaking, they stared into each other. There was no need to discuss the obvious. They both knew that Matt might die if he attempted to wade across the sandbar to the floating old man, hoping to reach him before he slipped under or drifted out to deep water as the tide began changing. They both knew the old man was probably dead; but maybe he wasn’t. Seconds did matter.

Matt silently turned away and stepped to the water’s edge. Go, the blond man finally said, I’ll get help. The blond man watched as Matt appeared to walk resolutely into the water, stiffening at the first cold shock, yet he kept moving, moving toward the mostly submerged body.

But Matt wasn’t at all resolute. His mind was in rebellion. It was all he could do to maintain control. Cold shock flowed up his limbs, through his body. He made himself move more quickly, thrusting his arms forward and backward like a hyper-motivated power walker. Part of his mind now calculated the time he might be able to survive in this chilly water, while another focused entirely on the helpless form in front of him.

The sand bar was treacherous, all the more so since the general use winter shoes he was wearing protected him from the stones and old, sharp shells yet made him unsure of his footing. He could see where the light, green water suddenly turned midnight blue as the depth greatly increased. The old man had been clamming right at the end of the sand bar. Matt cursed him loudly over that fact. The cursing seemed to help, so he kept it up, shouting at the old man.

Goddamit, why are you out so far? Can you hear me, you asshole! he shouted. You son of a bitch, you’re probably dead and I’m going to die trying to save a dead idiot!

But now, as he was near enough to touch the old man, he saw that the old fellow’s face was not in the water. The old man’s head was turned to the side, away from shore. His eyes were closed, yet it was clear he might still be able to breath. But he had a deathly pallor, a blue caste to his features; he looked as though the spark of life was doused.

Matt grabbed the old man’s shirt and pulled. The effort was nearly disastrous as the edge of the sandbar gave way. They both tumbled toward deep water. Matt yanked backwards fiercely and the old man’s body came with him. But this time it almost tipped him over. Matt intuitively knew if he didn’t keep most of his upper body dry, he wouldn’t make it back. He stood up straight, pulling with all his might, but then he understood.

The old man was tall, taller than Matt guessed at a distance. When he collapsed he’d slumped backward as his legs buckled, his feet digging into the sand. His waders, which were like a rubber or vinyl version of Farmer Brown’s coveralls, had filled with water; he’d been storm-anchored in a more or less kneeling position with his head barely floating above the incoming tide.

When Matt tried to pull the old man toward him, he broke the waders free from the sand but the unexpected weight of the filled waders had pulled Matt off balance, therefore when he also dug in for a better footing the edge of the sandbar had started to collapse.

Matt was desperate now. He glanced back toward shore and saw the blond man standing by the truck staring out at him. Another car had stopped on the road with an elderly couple standing near it. The woman seemed to be talking on a phone.

He couldn’t tell what the blond man was shouting, but he could see his gesticulating arms waving him back toward the shore. Staring wildly around him, with his left arm now firmly grasping the old man’s chest, holding his head completely out of the water, Matt knew he couldn’t drag the old man back with the waders full of water. It would be like pulling a huge bucket through the water. He didn’t have the strength.

But just as he was about to despair, the inner tube bobbed against him with its round, steel cage in the center, half filled with seaweed, small rocks and shellfish. Attached to one side was a heavy clasp holding a knife with a six-inch serrated blade.

Matt grabbed the knife, then with considerable disregard for his and the old man’s well being began hacking at the waders. He cut the shoulder straps, feeling a quick release as the old man’s body floated upward, but the waders were still wrapped around his lower body. Matt suddenly had inspiration. He pushed the half submerged body toward shore, grabbing the man’s feet to yank them heavily toward the surface. He crudely and desperately slit the rubber above the sole of the wader boots and peeled the soles back.

Now the old man’s body had more buoyancy and floated with the legs near the surface. Matt immediately turned and began the struggle toward shore, clasping the old man’s chest. The waders were still a drag, but now the water was sluggishly moving through them; the negative pull was greatly reduced, though it still seemed an impossible task.

Matt was becoming convinced he wouldn’t make it. His whole body felt numb. He couldn’t think of anything but forward motion. In his agony he didn’t realize how far toward the shore he’d managed to stumble.

About 20 feet from the rocky beach he tripped, sinking to one knee and soaking his right arm, shoulder and chest as he sought to keep himself from falling headfirst into the water. He felt he’d lost the struggle. Then the blond man appeared alongside him, with his dog. Matt felt the strong arms helping him up, but he never let go of the old man. Somehow the running, splashing presence of the nearly white Golden Lab was reassuring.

When they reached shore other hands were suddenly grabbing them all. Matt remembered little of that, other than a vague sense he had somehow succeeded in what he’d tried to do. He was trembling violently, yet he now realized there were flashing lights and emergency vehicles nearby. In the tumble of voices all around him, he saw police, firemen and EMT’s, several of whom were working on the old man while others were talking to him, trying to help him. He knew most of them but was oblivious to them. He tried to focus on the old man amid the amazing scene.

You need to get warmed up now, a stern voice said and strong arms rushed him toward an ambulance. He felt lightheaded; yet he was conscious of wondering why a second ambulance had arrived on the scene. He was guided to the one with the familiar Bridgeview Fire Department logo on its doors, but the second one pulling up was dark blue with only a small symbol on its side. Despite his condition he thought the blue ambulance had military markings.

As the doors of the Bridgeview ambulance were being closed he glimpsed a tall, silver haired Bridgeview police officer walking towards the blue ambulance, pointing to the men inside. Herb, he thought to himself.

Lt. Herbert Gibbs motioned the blue ambulance up onto the sand and eelgrass before walking up to the passenger door as the two men in Air Force blue were about to get out.

How can we help you? Herb asked, his tone official.

We got a call to come and assist, the sergeant with an EMT emblem said. The man you’ve pulled from the water is a retired general officer. We’ll transport him. Herb was taken aback. In all his years in Bridgeview, growing up and later working as a police officer adjacent to Otis Air Force Base in its prime, he’d never heard of a base ambulance simply appearing. Sometimes base emergency personnel assisted local towns, and vice versa, but only upon official request.

Since the base was now severely downsized, such rare calls for assistance were further limited. But even when the base was in full operation as the largest Strategic Air Command (SAC) base on the east coast, calling upon base resources for assistance only took place when a major incident happened. Herb was confident no one had officially called them, so he considered how these ambulance drivers knew the man was a retired general officer when he didn’t even know the man’s name.

Well, he’s going to UCH, Gibbs said.

We won’t be going to the Upper Cape Hospital, the driver interjected. We’ll take him to the base hospital. Herb’s mood changed. The discomfort he’d had was now magnified into hard suspicion. Turning to wave another Bridgeview officer over, Herb confronted the two men in the ambulance. He’s already on a Bridgeview stretcher, Herb said. You’re not going to be needed.

He’s going to have to be put on one of ours, or he can be left on your stretcher and we’ll return it after he’s delivered to the base hospital, the driver said. Lt. Gibbs’s voice was steady and cool, with command tones the closest Bridgeview officer, Jeff Chadwick, knew well; the inflection meant the department’s second in command had made up his mind.

Maybe you boys didn’t think we’d know, but there isn’t any base hospital any longer, Herb told the driver. This victim is going in our ambulance to UCH.

You’re wrong, the driver said. We have a small hospital in Area Z that is well equipped, and it’s designed to serve situations like this.

Is that so, Gibbs said, thinking through all his experience with the various air police and army military police over the years, as well as his experiences with the officers running the base.

He recalled how after the base was downsized, he would from time to time assist as a Bridgeview ambulance helped base personnel transport an injured serviceman or woman. He concluded his instincts were correct.

Officer Chadwick, now standing beside Herb, perceived the thrust of the discussion and hoped Gibbs would reject the arguments. His wish wasn’t long in arriving.

Enough, Herb said. We’re taking the victim. You can do what you want. The two men started to loudly protest, but they stopped in mid-sentence as Lt. Gibbs issued orders to Chadwick. Get their ID’s, copy everything and run it through the system, then call Col. Thomas at the base, Lt. Gibbs said. His number is 508-868-2200. If everything checks out, then they can go.

We don’t have to show you our paperwork, we work for the federal government, the sergeant closest to Gibbs said.

Oh yes you do! Lt. Gibbs declared. He gave the men a hard glare as he turned to signal another officer, but he almost bumped into the blond man with the retriever. He had wandered close to the blue ambulance and was listening to the give and take. Sorry, sorry, the man mumbled, quickly limping off towards the other ambulance, his pants still soaked above the knees. Herb was momentarily angered, but before he went back to the task at hand his trained eye noticed the man had lifts on his left shoe.

Herb waved to Officer Fred Fernandes, who was walking toward a Bridgeview police cruiser. Pull that car up here, close to this ambulance, he shouted as Chadwick stepped up to the ambulance to demand licenses and military registration paperwork. Fernandes had just opened the cruiser door when the ambulance driver made his decision. He put the ambulance in reverse, gunning it off the shoulder and backward to the turnaround near the Bartlett’s Neck entrance pillars.

All the officers were startled. Fernandes snapped on the light bar, and tapped the siren as he started pulling forward, riveting everyone’s attention. Herb put up his hand and halted Fernandes. Keep the lights and siren off, he said. Just follow them until they’re out of town. Then he turned to Chadwick. Did you get any information? he asked.

Just the military numbers on the plate and those painted on the ambulance, he said.

Ok, Gibbs said, thinking for a moment as he watched Fernandez’s cruiser fall in behind the blue ambulance as it lumbered up the hill, it’s own lights flashing. Turning back to Chadwick, just as the Bridgeview Fire Department ambulance moved up the causeway to turn around, he made perhaps the most serious decision of this increasingly unusual morning.

I want you to escort our ambulance to UCH, and I want you or another officer to be posted near that man; also I want every bit of information you can find on the victim or about him, Lt. Gibbs stated. Do you understand?

I do, Chadwick said.

Good, Herb replied. I’ll be along in a little bit.

Gibbs intended to talk to the blond man but to his surprise when he looked around the man and his dog were nowhere in sight. Herb spoke briefly with some of the firemen as they were repacking their gear into a water-rescue truck, asking them if they’d spoken to the blond man. He found that almost all of them remembered him as the man who first grabbed Matt at the water’s edge, but no one had spoken to him at any length.

Herb walked to his own cruiser, a jet-black, unmarked, nearly new Ford LTD with darkly tinted windows, and as soon as he was in the car he called the station. His first order to the dispatcher involved Fernandes, telling the desk to keep in close touch with the patrolman. Gibbs felt certain the blue ambulance would not go into the base, so he told the dispatcher to call whichever town the ambulance might be passing into—either Bourne or Sandwich—to ask that police department to pick up the tail.

Only after all of that was accomplished, did he ask to be put through to the chief. When he got Lincoln Barlow on the line, his first words were, I think we’ve got a situation, Linc; I’m not sure I did the right thing, but I did what my gut told me to do.

Chapter 2

As Lt. Gibbs talked with Chief Barlow, two other prominent local men, Jack Mooney and Hank Bernard, respectively publisher and chief financial officer of the local newspaper company, were driving toward a critical meeting at The Homestead, as everyone called the publishing family’s estate.

The very different circumstances facing these four men on this unusual day would subsequently bring them together in ways affecting the entire community during what was to become the deadliest summer ever known on Cape Cod.

The house on the bluff was spectacular; perhaps the finest home in Bridgeview, although old Judge James Hall’s place rivaled it. The Matthews’s ‘Homestead’ was built of stone and wood, with arrow-cut shingles on three sides and clapboard and field stone in the front, facing the startlingly white, well-maintained and regularly power-washed crushed shell driveway, which ended in a sweeping oval in front of the main entrance.

A stone pool with a full-size statue of blind justice was situated in the center of the oval with carefully manicured grass around it. Water poured equally out of each of the scales she held in perfect balance, except once every 12 hours when a mechanical clock device moved one or the other side down slightly, to give it predominance. A second, life-size sculpture of a man in a suit, holding a notebook in one hand and a pen at the ready in the other, stood slightly to one side, feet in the pool, apparently studying the balance or lack thereof.

The effect is always shocking to visitors, and that was as Dan Matthews, always the newsman, had intended.

When he’d been asked or challenged regarding the symbolism, his response was always the same: Justice may or may not appear equal, but it’s the spillover that tells the real story of participatory democracy.

The tantalizing ambiguity of the analogy usually halted further questions, leaving the guests pondering whether they had just been inanely patronized or given great intellectual insight. Usually they pursued the issue no further, at least while a guest in the Matthews’ home.

The first time Jack Mooney had seen it he asked the same question of Hank Bernard, who promptly quoted his late friend, Dan Matthews.

Humphh, Mooney had grunted. Justice doesn’t trickle or spill off in equal or even unequal measure into a collective pool; justice runs in rivers of power.

Bernard had not known what to say back then, and therefore said nothing, though he silently wished Dan Matthews had heard that riposte. It would have been the strongest challenge to his postulation he’d ever confronted, Bernard thought; it would have brought out the best in Matthews.

Hank recalled that as they drove into the oval. And as though reading his thoughts, Mooney observed, I see justice is still trickling, at least here.

Hank laughed, despite himself.

The Homestead’s ten-foot, dark-oak doors, set in polished black granite anchored to mottled gray fieldstones, were recessed five feet from the front walls. The walkway was irregular-cut bluestone, framed gray with dun brick, all of which was shaded by large Ash trees, which in turn were complemented by various well-tended shrubs and flowerbeds.

As they walked up the bluestone pathway, the right-hand door swung smoothly open, revealing a huge open space with a vaulted ceiling and a marble floor leading ninety straight feet to a multi-paned, two-story window overlooking Cape Cod Bay.

Both Bernard and Mooney were familiar with ‘The Homestead,’ so as they stepped up and into the doorway they were ready to take the view in stride, but in their hearts they were nonetheless impressed with the Matthews family’s obvious power and resources.

It was also no surprise that the door swung silently open, with Nathan Nickerson standing quietly in the naturally lit hallway, smiling a narrow greeting. His uniform a midnight blue sport coat, black shirt, and perfectly pressed and creased gray slacks, all of which both Bernard and Mooney knew had Puritan Clothing labels.

Hello Nate, Bernard said.

Good morning, Hank, Nickerson replied familiarly. Mooney nodded at him and Nickerson politely ignored him, speaking to Bernard as though he hadn’t seen Jack Mooney. Mrs. Matthews is expecting you, he said, his small Yankee smile unwavering.

She asked that you join her in the solarium.

We know the way, Mooney said as he pushed past Nickerson with Bernard following.

As they walked, in a muffled stage whisper, Mooney said: What an arrogant little prick. Hank grinned at Mooney but said nothing until they were further down the hall, then he spoke.

He’s an old-school Yankee blueblood, he said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid being carried by echoes in the oak paneled hallway. He hates you because you’re an Irishman in a higher position than him, but he can address me easily because I’m a Jew and in his mindset, I don’t count.

Mooney and Hank looked at each other. Hank was pleased to see the reaction in Jack’s eyes and very readable Irish features.

Mooney, now energized by the Nickerson inspired aggravation, didn’t tap on the polished doors, but rather slapped his right hand up against the glistening wood to push the right-hand door to the right. It slid gracefully, nearly silently into the wall, flooding the hall with light from the solarium.

Bernard and Mooney both blinked from the glare, but it wasn’t enough to prevent them from seeing Evelyn Matthews standing, facing the water, with a man next to her with his arm around her. The scene might have been excused as a friendly embrace, save for the fact the man’s hand was resting comfortably and precisely where the black silk, tailored skirt accented the smooth curvature of Evelyn’s derriere.

The quiet yet discernable swish of the door sliding into the wall brought about an immediate reaction, which under different circumstances might have been hilarious. Two very elegantly attired people separated instantly from inelegant positions, offering their visitors an awkward tableau of moving arms and turning torsos in a motion that was embarrassment driven and more than a little ridiculous.

But no one laughed.

Evelyn Matthews had more color in her face than usual, but her poise wasn’t lost under social duress. Straightening her carriage while stepping away from her guest, she tartly observed: How nice to see you both arrive early, though I would have expected Nathan to escort you.

Everyone understood; if Nickerson had escorted them, he would have carefully knocked before entering.

It’s not his fault, Mooney said. He wanted to, but I told him we knew the way.

I’m sure you did, Mrs. Matthews said.

I’m sorry that we burst in on you, Mooney added. It was my fault for not knocking.

I’m sure it was, Evelyn Matthews replied, but it matters little. Let me introduce you to Harlan Cosgrove, a friend I first met in the difficult year after Daniel died. He is also my expected business associate.

Immediately Cosgrove strode forward, extending his hand. Hank shook with him first, looking at Cosgrove’s broad, ruddy face with its full, carefully trimmed salt and pepper handlebar mustache.

In the recovery blur from Mooney’s faux pax, Bernard found himself behaving obsequiously. Nice to meet you, he muttered, overwhelmed by the Texan’s iron handshake and forceful manner.

Good to meet you, Hank. Y’all don’t mind if I call you Hank, do yuh? Cosgrove stated, barreling over Bernard without waiting for a response. Evelyn’s tol’ me about her fav’rit, most trusted accountant, he said, so I’m real pleased to meet yuh.’

Thank you, Hank managed, immediately feeling even more awkward by his weak response, especially since he simultaneously recognized he had been denigrated professionally. He was, after all, the company comptroller and chief financial officer, not simply an accountant for the firm, much less one of a number of accountants, however favored by long friendship with the ownership family.

Without missing a beat, Cosgrove released Bernard to turn to Mooney. But Jack Mooney had now read the situation. He’d taken in Cosgrove’s presence in its entirety, from the finely tailored western cut silver/gray suit that probably cost $2,500 or more to the subtly embossed black western boots, which he knew from traveling in the west were hand tooled and custom fitted, therefore easily worth as much as the suit.

They clasped hands, but Mooney more than matched Cosgrove’s grip. He kept a smile on his face as he gazed into Cosgrove’s pale eyes, watching as Cosgrove’s lids drooped slightly, his eyes hardening to a brittle gray as they both increased their grip. Well, Cosgrove boomed in a deep western accent, here’s th’ famous editor. Whatta’ pleasure!

Mooney didn’t think it was a pleasure for either of them. He was not at all ashamed of his vast editing experience, yet he didn’t like being called editor when he held the reins as publisher. Nonetheless, he stood his ground with equanimity.

I assume the same, Mooney grinned, coldly adding: You seem to have the advantage of knowledge, yet we know nothing of you, although judging by appearance I’d say you seem like the movie image of some Texas oilmen; are you an oil patch billionaire or do you just look like one?

He knows who you are only because I’ve been extolling your virtues, but in manners you do seem to be testing my veracity, Evelyn Matthews interjected, taking control in her normal fashion. Harlan is a very successful Texas based newspaperman; the fact he is from Texas seems to be the only aspect of your observations that can be said to be accurate.

Well, I certainly didn’t intend to offend your guest, just as I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend us, Mooney responded, his voice tight.

I do wish to show at least a semblance of good Eastern manners, Evelyn Matthews said cooly, so let us try to start again.

There was a momentary, uncomfortable pause, but Evelyn was now in command. Come, she said, and led them into the temperature controlled comfort of her walnut paneled library, with its polished dark oak table and matching chairs with their soft, dark green leather seats. The table and chairs were surrounded on three sides by built-in dark oak shelving filled with categorized volumes of hard-cover books, many with leather bindings.

Jack, as usual, was amazed by the beautiful view of Cape Cod Bay visible even from the library, but this time he kept an eye on Harlan Cosgrove, seeking to understand what was coming next. He quickly noticed that Cosgrove seemed unmoved by the spectacular view through the tall, generously paneled windows. Mooney concluded he’d been in the room enough that the view held no surprises for him.

But then Mooney and Hank Bernard saw the adjacent table, carefully filled with newspapers. All of them had typeface similarities. They were tabloids, splashed with color, fanned out in a display that might have been expected at an advertising agency meeting. Both Jack and Hank intuitively understood what the display meant; Jack, however, turned it all upside down. This display tells me Evelyn is thinking of acquiring your papers, Mooney said.

Hank smiled inwardly.

Well, no, not so much, Cosgrove responded, caught by the unexpected. His face colored as he realized the carefully planned presentation was being compromised. Yet he choked it off.

Evelyn stepped into the void. Obviously we’re not buying Harlan’s papers, she said breezily. I’ve called you here today because Harlan is interested in putting the power of his company behind our newspapers.

Ah, the reddest state invades the bluest state, Mooney quietly replied. Mrs. Matthews’ eyes blazed as she angrily stared at Jack. Hank Bernard now thought his unacknowledged publishing friend had forfeited his position and with it any hope that somehow he and Jack could turn the situation into something at least palatable.

Unexpectedly Cosgrove saved the situation, at least for the moment. Spoken ‘xactly as I ‘spected and more’en I could hope fer, he said, his hearty baritone, moderated now by a purposeful exaggeration of Texas inflections. I am indeed interested in becomin’ involved with your papahs, but not without a strong publisha’ like yourself. It’s true we’re conservatives, but so was your newspapah’s founder, Evelyn’s late husband, who I had the pleasure of meetin’ once, mebbe’ twice.

Mooney noted his return to the publisher’s desk. His quick mind already assessed the situation well enough to convince him his world just collapsed; he knew he would never be able to work with, much less for, Harlan Cosgrove. This awareness reduced restraints to his Irish quick temper and sarcastic tongue.

Dan Mathews was an old-style, honorable conservative in the Eisenhower tradition, Mooney said, but it seems to me you’re likely one of the new radical right that hides behind the term ‘conservative.’

I do believe I’m startin’ to feel offended, Cosgrove declared.

Are you still a preacher? Mooney asked. He posed the question with irony, a shot in the dark. The reaction was totally unexpected. Well, uh, only once in awhile these days, Cosgrove answered, losing much of his accent, due to my business interests an’ all, you know.

I don’t know, Mooney said, temper and intellect riding together at an accelerating pace. How does a man of God tend to the newspaper business, which is such a secular, worldly enterprise?

Now it was Cosgrove’s turn to find anger.

Listen up, he nearly shouted, anger increasing his accent, I run damn good newspapah’s, an’ what you’re suggestin’ won’t warsh. I’m not ashamed of any of ’em. We report the news as we find it, but we don’t forget God’s truth that’s before us all an’ in everythin’ we do. My papahs take that into account!

How do you know God’s truth, Mooney said, when God’s truth is whatever someone chooses to believe.

Mrs. Matthews and Hank Bernard stood watching the scene like audience members at a dramatic play. But the spell was broken when Harlan declared: That there’s blasphemy!

It doesn’t sound like it, Evelyn Matthews stated, stepping forward. She glared at Cosgrove. Not only did you not tell me you ever were, let alone remain a preacher, but you told me that you had to take that pseudo religious posture in your Southern papers in order to compete, yet you didn’t believe it was correct and it wouldn’t be a criteria anywhere but down South, Evelyn said, her voice cold, brittle. Now I see otherwise.

Wait, Harlan said, his accent diminished as he tried to recover. I meant what I’d said. I always accommodate the market, but the Christian truth is still impo’tant, even here.

If he hadn’t been already upset and off-balance, Cosgrove might have handled it better; after all, he was known for a polished ability to move among people of all backgrounds. Saying people have to be given the ‘Christian truth’ was something he never would have said to Evelyn had he not been shaken. He knew immediately how it sounded.

Well, you won’t have to tell your evangelical truth to my readers, Evelyn said, at least not in my papers. This meeting is over gentlemen. With that she turned and walked calmly out of the room.

Nathan, she called, her clear voice echoing through the high-ceilinged hall into the library, please escort my guests out, after which you can dispose of the trash in the library.

Harlan took only the moment needed to give Mooney a hate-filled glance, then strode after her. Evelyn, please wait. Let’s discuss this, he said, but as the sound of her heels receded, in a more pleading tone he called: If not now, then when I pick you up tonight; let’s talk before dinner.

I’m dining in tonight, Harlan, she replied, her voice becoming faint, indicating she was well on her way upstairs. You can call me tomorrow, or the next day, if you’d like.

In a moment Nathan appeared, shepherding all of them down the hall and out the front entranceway. He said nothing to Cosgrove, but turned briefly to Bernard and Mooney. Mrs. Matthews would like to see both of you again by the weekend, he said, only the slightest appearance of a smirk on his thin Yankee lips. She will call to give you her schedule. With that he abruptly turned to reenter the hallway, closing the massive door with more than usual emphasis.

Standing outside, Cosgrove turned to Mooney and Bernard long enough to declare: Y’all gotta’ know, I’m not done finished with you boys. He then walked quickly down the steps, his cowboy boots echoing ominously. He never looked back but quickly signaled his driver, who promptly brought Cosgrove’s midnight blue, huge and glistening Mercedes Maybach around the crushed shell circle at the top of the drive.

I heard somewhere once, Mooney said, that, ‘Money talks, nobody walks.’

That over-exaggerated accent and the vernacular is for effect, Bernard said. It’s too early to know who won this, so I wouldn’t be cocky.

I’m not, Jack replied. I didn’t expect this to turn out as it did, but I’m not sorry, even though I know it’s ‘not done finished’ yet.

The drive back to the paper was mostly silent, both men lost in thought, yet as they swung into The Bugle’s parking lot Hank began quietly laughing. Jack looked at him. I still can’t get over Evelyn telling Nathan to throw out the trash in the library, Hank said. My God, Jack, your arrogance turned this entire thing around.

Hell, Hank, Mooney replied, it wasn’t arrogance, it was anger. Remember: the most dangerous man is the man who feels he has nothing left to lose. I figured everything we’d worked for was about to be lost—actually, when I saw that display in the library I figured it already was lost—so I was free to speak my mind. Just as the song says, ‘freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.

They both laughed. Hank understood the point, though he didn’t get the reference to the Kris Kristofferson song. He was nonetheless immensely pleased to hear Jack say he thought everything they’d worked for was about to be lost. He recognized, to his own surprise, how important it was to be included, as a defacto partner, in the publishing efforts.

You remember the cleaning the trash comment, Jack continued, but what I think is the most bizarre part of all of this was us walking in on Evelyn and Cosgrove while his hand was on her very elegant rear-end.

Yeah, Hank said, that was a surprise all right. He didn’t realize how his voice dropped and softened slightly. He suddenly felt depressed. Jack glanced sideways at him. You know what, Mooney said, I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason Evelyn let me get away with challenging Cosgrove is that she wanted to know why she shouldn’t sell shares to him. Hell, maybe she was hoping to get rid of him; I just provided the excuse.

They both laughed. Wouldn’t it be something if that were the case, Hank said, but no matter what, we ought to try to figure out why Evelyn even thought she needed a partner; after all, the company’s making a lot of money right now.

You’re right about figuring out why, Mooney said, but God I love to hear you admit the company’s doing well because the papers are so good.

I only said the company’s making a lot of money right now, Hank replied with a good natured grin. Jack laughed. Well, you can’t blame me for trying to get you to admit it, he said.

The two men were still relishing a bit of controlled hubris as they walked back into the newspaper, expecting the comfortably busy deadline atmosphere that always precedes Friday as publication day. Instead they found the place buzzing. As soon as they entered the office staff assailed them. Carol Wing, the switchboard operator, spoke up above the rest.

Something big’s going on, she declared. The PD scanners are on code now, but they didn’t start out that way. The first stuff came over direct, about some guy who was drowning at Minnow Cove, down by Bartlett’s Neck. We sent Jackie but she called back saying she needed help; Sam sent Bet and Arnie to join her.

This was striking news to both Mooney and Bernard. If Samantha Barlow, the managing editor, had sent two of the best reporters—perhaps the two best investigative staffers—to assist Jackie this issue must have quickly evolved into something important. Just then Sam Barlow appeared, absent her usual upbeat poise, to bluntly ask Jack and Hank to join her immediately. The tone was more demand than request. They both quickly followed her down the hallway.

Chapter 3

At virtually the same time as the Homestead meeting this fateful afternoon, another family drama was unfolding some fifteen miles from Bridgeview, in Barnstable’s upper-crust village of Osterville.

People from ‘off-Cape’ often believe that Barnstable’s Hyannisport is the epi-center of wealth on Cape Cod, but that isn’t true. Several less well known enclaves are home to the Cape’s true wealth, comparatively leaving famous Hyannisport resting in its upper middle-class dust.

Barnstable’s Osterville Village, with its peninsular ‘island,’ Oyster Harbors, is one such place. It is solidly upper class and proud of it. There are less famous enclaves of old and new money further down Cape, but Oyster Harbors is quietly renowned.

Its residents claim to dislike the subtle notoriety, yet most of them secretly enjoy it. Osterville Village bustles now, as summer approaches, yet like many Cape villages it is no longer sleepy even in winter, yet Oyster Harbors is still a refuge. No one who doesn’t live or work there, or who is unable to prove ‘guest’ credentials, gets on the ‘island.’

After driving across the narrow causeway, over the inlet bridge, it is necessary to show identification while providing a reason for the visit. Once a car pulls up to the guard shack an automatic spike strip pops up behind it, so any attempt to back up would result in blown tires.

But on this welcome sunny day there was little traffic, and the spring warmth was making it hard for the guard to stay awake. On the ‘island’ itself, the gentle tide lulling the guard also lapped with subtle rhythm against the silvery wooden posts of the Ricker family pier and the stone foundation of the estate’s boathouse, juxtaposing peacefulness with frightening knowledge as two young men sat raptly attentive to their famous father.

They had begun their unusual meeting in the loft of the boathouse, sitting in leather furniture reminiscent of their boyhood, since these very same couches and chairs had once been in the downstairs den of the smaller of the two main houses; the ‘cottages,’ as the family still refers to them.

Today, however, the Rickers had left the comfort of the old-shoe furniture and moved to the second story deck, as if sitting in daylight near the ocean with its cleansing sea breeze would somehow lighten the conversation, softening revelations of dark history.

The senior Ricker, a tall, angular man with dark gray hair shot with white at the temples and contrasting with a trim, mostly white mustache and dark eyebrows, had commanded his sons attention more than an hour ago.

He had stepped onto the porch of the main house just as they were deciding whether or not to drive to the Hyannis Yacht Club for lunch. Eldridge Ricker was carrying a squat, black leather case in one hand and a bottle of Glenlivit whiskey in the other.

I would like you to put off your plans for a bit and join me in the boathouse, he said, then without waiting for a response walked out the side door, down the brick walkway toward the beach and boathouse. The brothers looked at each other but immediately got up; even though they were both now out of college, a summons from their father required obedience.

Yet Todd, the younger of the two, still managed a delay.

I’ll be right there, he told his brother before dashing away toward the kitchen. Truman, somewhat shorter but as lanky and surprisingly muscular as his father, entered the door of the boathouse moments after his father, finding him standing on the broad wooden walkway surrounding the boat bay. He had stopped alongside their two lapstreak motor cruisers, which were well tethered and gently rocking with the movement of the water.

‘El’ Ricker, as he was usually addressed by family and friends, including several presidents, had placed the bottle of scotch on a shelf, next to the bulky briefcase he was now opening.

Where’s your brother? he asked.

He’s coming, Tru replied.

Almost immediately Todd burst through the door, looking like the rugby player he was in college, carrying a cold six-pack of Heineken as though to an after-game party. His father’s slight shake of the head was nearly imperceptible, as was the tiny, wry smirk that momentarily appeared on his usually stoic, patrician face.

Well, Todd, he said, perhaps you can put your refreshments down to help your brother remove the tarp from the ‘Discretion.’ The mild rebuke was hardly felt and not at all acknowledged by Todd, who was very hardened to his father’s manner.

He and Truman immediately got to work, carefully popping the snaps to remove the boat cover from the handsome, highly polished, 21 foot long and 200 horsepower Chrysler V-8 powered, 1941 vintage, Fitzgerald & Lee mahogany powerboat. This was the craft their father called his own and lovingly kept restored to pristine condition.

The brothers glanced at each other, wondering if their father was going to take the open speedboat out on a day that looked more than a little like the weather could change. But Eldridge Ricker surprised them again. By the time they had removed the tarp, he had pulled a variety of odd pieces from the stubby, thick case and was finished assembling a strange appearing device that looked like an electronic wand imitating a fishing pole.

What’s that? Todd asked.

To the surprise of both brothers, their father put a finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence. He pushed a button at the end of the device and a green light appeared, along with a very low hum. Ricker moved quietly and efficiently around the boathouse, extending the device into nooks and crannies, especially along the rafters. Then he moved to his boat, carefully moving the device around the seats, then to the instrument panel and steering wheel. As he crossed the top of the wheel, the tone changed.

A red light appeared on the wand. Ricker nodded to himself. When nothing else was found, he returned to the steering wheel, climbed into the boat and took a small tool kit out of his shirt pocket; with considerable dexterity, he quickly removed the center emblem on the wheel.

The brothers stared at the small device attached to the inside of the wheel. They both started to speak but were silenced again, this time more emphatically. Their father removed a small, wide roll of apparently padded tape from his pants pocket, quickly cut several pieces and carefully covered the electronic listening device. He then replaced it, snapping the center medallion back into its position.

With hand gestures he motioned for the brothers to pull back the tarp on the Indiscrete, a much more modern, bigger version of the same style mahogany powerboat. The ‘Indiscrete’ is named to accommodate El Ricker’s sense of humor. He had bought the boat for more regular family use, expecting it to be used, as he always enjoyed saying, in an indiscriminate and indiscrete manner, as befits an oceangoing family station wagon often in the hands of youthful drivers.

The Indiscrete was a 32’ Hacker Craft Runabout with twin 350 cubic inch V-8 motors, producing some 600 horsepower. Along with modern navigational equipment, the boat is equipped with a full convertible top and tonneau side curtains, should the weather turn inclement when on a long journey along the coast or to Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard.

Ricker quickly followed the same procedure in the larger boat, but here there were no signs of illicit devices. It was clear