False Flag: Dead Reckoning

By V.M. BRADLEY

False Flag is a complex story of politics and power, yet its also the story of the remarkable people of Bridgeview, the sixteenth town on Cape Cod.
How the people of Bridgeview react to a treasonous plot, imposed on their community by conspirators based in Washington D.C., illustrates the strengths and weaknesses and remarkable resilience of average Americans.
At first, the quiet, tourist oriented seaside town is the scene of a near drowning, but when the local police prove more astute than expected, everything changes.
As the political mystery unfolds, investigators are led inexorably toward an unexpected and at first hardly believable conclusion: that is, rogue government officials are seeking to create, on U.S. soil, an incident that can be used to justify American military retaliation against another nation.
To the conspirators, Bridgeview is perfectly located in a world renowned resort area, and it abuts the Mass. Military Reservation, still called Otis. Known as Edwards Army Base in WWII, when it was the jump-off spot for the War in Europe, and as Otis Air Base, a huge Strategic Air Command facility during the Cold War, it is now home to multiple armed services detachments, as well as special op training facilities.
However, while the massive runways and the central facilities remain well maintained, other areas of the 22,000 acre base are nearly forgotten, creating a perfect situation for the conspirators to exploit.
False Flag reaches deep into Cape Cod history, but also into the Washington beltway, the Pentagon, and various government agencies. In the process the designs and machinations of a powerful group of NeoCon government conspirators is revealed. This shadow group of high officials and military officers is intent on changing American and global politics and establishing permanent power bases for themselves. The people of Bridgeview thwart their plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491832608

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© 2013 V.M. Bradley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/25/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3261-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3259-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3260-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919536

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Character Index

Dedication

THE FALSE FLAG BOOKS are dedicated to my family and friends who have been so supportive of my efforts to produce this complicated work and my attempt to illustrate how the machinations of corrupt power in a great democracy might be shockingly manifested in a local American town, in this case a seaside community.

Special thanks goes to my exceptional wife, Lucia Fulco, who has been supportive from the start and despite her own hectic schedule always found time to read, make comments and suggestions, and most of all be consistently supportive. No better proof reader/collaborator could be found.

I am also grateful for and appreciative of the technical help of my friend, James D. Sullivan, MD, as I sought to make every aspect of the False Flag books accurate.

Another ‘special thanks’ goes to Marcia Huyette, an extraordinarily talented artist and former newspaper group production chief with over 30 years experience in the graphic arts, printing and publishing industry, serving as artist, illustrator, editorial cartoonist, writer and art director. Marcia provided the dust jacket art for the covers of both False Flag books

And finally I must add that while the False Flag books are fiction, every effort has been made to portray the settings and situations realistically, therefore any errors of fact or omission of salient details remain entirely my fault. I certainly hope I have minimized if not eliminated such problems.

V.M. Bradley, 2013

About the Author

V. M. BRADLEY IS a former reporter, editor and publisher who worked in both daily and weekly newspapers. He also owned and operated a media company that did business with Time and Newsweek, and was a group publisher for a large publishing corporation.

After leaving publishing, Bradley worked for a number of years as a publisher’s consultant, serving as a troubleshooter and problem solver for independent newspaper owners throughout New England and New York. Often a publisher needed to expand, or open another edition or a separate paper, but could not afford to hire from outside to accomplish that goal, Bradley says, but the publisher could bring me in to organize the effort and train existing personnel, so that when the project was complete I would be gone and people inside the organization would be promoted, but all at less cost than permanently hiring from the outside.

Bradley holds academic degrees in journalism from Boston area colleges and universities. He helped himself through college by working as a police officer, principally working the night shifts as a cruiser patrolman.

A Cape Cod native of what is known as the Upper Cape, Bradley’s parents and grandparents lived in the Town of Bourne, the first town on Cape Cod, where he grew up. His college educated, adult children were raised in the old family home, which itself is steeped in Cape Cod history, as evidence indicates the home was built in 1793.

Having retired from newspaper consulting, Bradley and his wife, Lucia Fulco, a former government executive, live in the old family home and remain active in town activities.

Chapter 1

IT WAS A QUIET, cloudy, dull gray this early Sunday morning, July 3rd, yet the air was still and sticky. The day showed every promise of becoming unusually hot and humid just as the long holiday weekend moved toward its apex.

Tomorrow, the actual holiday, would be short for many if not most of the vacationers and July 4th visitors to Cape Cod, people who would have one eye on the clock and the traffic reports, especially on this bloody weekend. Many had already left.

Leaving the Cape on a summer weekend is never easy, but on a holiday weekend it is always a patience taxing experience. Yet for residents and visitors to Bridgeview this Sunday, and for those who watched the news everywhere else, this was still a most remarkable weekend, filled with stories of gun battles and grisly death on the famous, sandy peninsula known mostly as a vacation paradise.

The well publicized kidnapping of Todd Ricker, the son of former Asst. Secretary of State Eldridge Ricker and his girlfriend, Bridgeview native Roberta Maloney, seemed to have been successfully resolved yesterday, with the two young people rescued safely following a wild gunfight and its related carnage on the back streets of Bridgeview.

Not surprisingly, the Saturday events were still reverberating throughout the town this Sunday as they were being recapped on the Boston TV channels and the national networks. On one channel a picture of the now vacant site of the rescue and another of the police station were regularly shown as a voice-over told of the shootout and rescue.

‘Bridgeview Police Headquarters’ was of course boldly chiseled into the old, polished granite header over the main entranceway of the handsome, 1930’s era building of brick and stone. Yet the building itself, which had been enlarged twice since the Depression, seemed listless this quiet morning, as though everything that happened Saturday had drained its officers of energy and left the building empty, depleted, as though vacant.

Yet as quiet and still as it was, it wasn’t empty.

It was unusual for him to be present on a Sunday, but Lt. Herbert Gibbs was sitting alone in his office before 8 a.m., trying to think through yesterday’s events while letting the air conditioned air roll over him. He kept the air cool, not cold, since he would undoubtedly be back outside in the stifling heat as the day came alive.

The hot, muggy weather would offer a trigger for easy misunderstandings and short tempers as the various raucous parties and July 4th celebrations got underway, especially since the celebrations were likely to be all the more enthusiastic and ebullient now since the entire town seemed to believe a crisis had ended and a pall over the community had been dispelled.

The two largest celebrations, Jack Mooney’s huge annual party in the afternoon, at his family’s generational home, and Bridgeview’s substantial fireworks display later in the evening behind the high school, were still scheduled and expected to be even more well attended now that the community was in full celebratory mood.

At first, given the terrible events of Saturday, cancellations were considered. But then it was argued that after all, the kidnapped couple was now safe, therefore despite the horrors that resulted from the torching of what was apparently a ‘safe house’ and the gunfight deaths related to the rescue, it would nonetheless make sense to capitalize on the town’s sense of relief and catharsis by holding the Mooney party and the town’s fireworks show as they were planned.

Of course for the police and fire departments, this meant more work for their already exhausted personnel, with little chance for downtime. But they too were imbued with a sense of relief, so the extra work seemed like relaxation.

The time it takes to close out a long holiday weekend on the Cape is usually dictated by nature. If the weather turns gray or, worse, wet and stormy, the exodus of thousands of tourists will begin early and all the roads leading to the bridges will likely be clogged by noon of the last day of the holiday weekend, if not before, with all the minor accidents, frayed tempers and real or apparent emergencies attendant.

But if the weather on Monday, July 4th, the final day of a long weekend, turns out to be pleasant, filled with clear skies and sunshine, the exodus during the day will be low to moderate, and the full force of the exiting visitor traffic won’t be felt until evening, often continuing into the following morning, mixing with local traffic heading to work on the Cape and the commuter traffic of residents who work in Boston, Worcester and even Providence, Rhode Island.

That too would be fraught with problems, but of a different sort.

So far, this particular holiday Sunday, the jury was still out; weather on the Cape often started out gray and then dissipated into magnificent, clear skies complemented by sea breezes. And of course this time there was another factor; that is, the visitor responses to the dramatic end of the kidnapping saga; an unknown number had already left during the night.

Late the previous evening, when the strange and spectacular events of Saturday had begun to quiet down, Lt. Gibbs had written his own notes and observations on a large, roll-away marker board used for accident reconstruction scenarios and crime scene sketches.

Now, having studied the notes again, Herb was leaning back in his comfortable desk chair, looking out the window at the foggy, overcast sky, and mulling how all the disparate aspects of this bizarre situation could fit together when, with the briefest of knocks, Lincoln Barlow strode in, totally unexpected at this hour, especially on a Sunday.

Well, this fuckin’ weekend’s not even hit its prime yet, he said without salutation or preamble. What else do you think can go wrong? Barlow rarely used profanity, so when he did the effect was galvanizing. Herb swung around in the chair, grinning at the chief.

It’s just another fine day on Cape Cod, he said.

The police chief didn’t answer, but slumped down in a comfortable chair next to Gibbs’s desk.

I made an outline last night and I was just starting to review it, Gibbs said. Why don’t I go over the notes on the board here and maybe between us we can at least fill in the dots, even if we can’t make out a picture.

Barlow nodded agreement.

I want to figure out what’s really behind all this, the chief said. I’m not one of those who’re now celebrating, assuming whatever began around Memorial Day is all over.

I agree, Herb said, pleased as usual in the chief’s broader view.

Here’s what I’ve got so far, Gibbs said, walking over to the large, white marker board and rolling it into the center of the room. He grabbed an erasable black marker and a small pointer. I’ve gone back a few days and tried to note everything, including stuff that may not be relatable or seems of little importance, so I don’t miss a piece of the puzzle.

Linc nodded appreciation. Herb continued, reading from his notes while indicating with his pointer.

"One: State Trooper Bud O’Neil, our old friend, and a trooper in training named DiCarlo, observe a three star general’s car go into the base on Friday. Bud later talks to Rocky Grant of the Matthews newspaper group, and a young assistant also from the newspapers, who tell him a car carrying Lt. Gen. Michael Fitzgerald did enter Otis.

Two: mid-morning on Saturday we get a call about possible gun shots off County Road, then before noon we get an anonymous cell phone call from a guy who sounds emotionally upset, maybe also drunk, to report that a man named Virgil Picket was shot to death at a house off County Road. We send two cars, but they first pull in the wrong driveway. But when they find the right one, a narrow, largely hidden and almost overgrown drive leading to a house set way back, the place essentially blows up as they get close to it.

Looking away from the board for a moment, Herb added: We’ve now been able to determine the cell call came from the general area of Forest Lane, and we’ve pinpointed a house off Forest Lane, on Pine Drive, where a bunch of construction workers live. I went out there early this morning, but there wasn’t anybody around, yet there’s an old Pontiac registered to a Virgil Pickett; I’m going out again later today.

Turning back to the board, and speaking over his shoulder, he began again.

Three: Early Saturday afternoon, as the house blaze and the threat of a forest fire are finally being brought under control, the station gets called by Kate Ringwood, who tells Jane Crowell on dispatch that the Raikainins and a bunch of other local people are on their way from Toot’s clambake to Pine Drive. She says they’re on the way to rescue Donnie’s daughter and Bert Jones, who are holed up in the old Raikainin bus barn while there’s a gunfight going on outside.

The story sounds so fantastic that if it wasn’t for the fact it was the Ringwood girl calling, it would’ve been considered a crank call. But it certainly wasn’t.

Jane made the right decision, Chief Barlow said, but you need to go back to insert the The Bay View incident, where that armed woman was scooped up by two guys in a silver Ford.

You’re right, Herb said. That happened around 12:30 and that woman fought back hard. We have a complete picture of all of that thanks to Bet Stone and her sister, Janney. He then wrote the incident in a space alongside the text and drew an arrow to indicate the correct timeline.

Put an asterisk there as well, Barlow said, because we’ll need to refer back to it. Herb did and continued.

Four: You and I arrive at the accident scene on Forest Lane and Pine Drive in time to help Bud O’Neill, Fred Fernandes and Jimmy Hardickson keep the Asian-American guy, Vin Cai, from being man-handled or worse by the crowd that came from Toot’s bake.

Gibbs paused before adding: In the end, all of that effort by Hardickson, Bud and Fred was especially good, since it turns out Cai and his associates actually rescued the kids up by the bus barn, so if he had been hurt by the crowd it would have been unjustly; imagine the black eye that would have given the town?

Yeah, I thought of that, Chief Barlow said.

Gibbs nodded, smiling grimly before going on.

Then, in the clean-up, we discover that only two guys were dead in the silver Ford that rammed Donnie’s truck, Gibbs said. The driver is banged-up but alive because he ducked down across the seat as the car slid under the flatbed. Everybody thought he was dead because he was knocked out and covered in blood and gore from the guy in the passenger seat, who got decapitated as he was held in place by the seatbelt. Further, it seems the guy in the back seat died from facial gunshot wounds that occurred before the accident, obviously during the bus barn gunfight.

Also, that guy had on a bulletproof vest—as did all the guys in those silver Ford LTD’s—and slugs were imbedded in it, Lt. Gibbs noted.

But we later found another guy shot to death up by the bus barn, Linc said, without a vest.

Yes, Herb said, but even with all those wounds he had I recognized him as the guy who was on the beach when Matt Ringwood dragged our disappearing patient, Charles Washburn, out of the water around Memorial Day. That we now know was the first assassination attempt, and I’m almost 100% sure he’s the guy who got in the gunfight with Brian Fitzgerald at the hospital after he tried another assassination attempt on Washburn.

I know, Linc replied. I’ve ordered pictures taken to Brian for identification.

With the information Alice and Bert gave us, we were able to begin the search for another guy, probably one of the kidnappers, who fled up into the salvage yard, Herb said. The sheriff’s office provided a unit with a handler and a search dog to help.

Yet an unsuccessful search so far, Linc said with a sarcastic tone. Herb knew of Barlow’s contempt for the highly touted value of the sheriff’s canine unit, so he continued.

Five: Last night—Saturday evening—we’re confronted at the Upper Cape Hospital by El Ricker with a battery of lawyers and private security personnel, after which Todd Ricker was moved to a medical facility in Boston by private ambulance.

Gibbs paused, and then added: We’ll have to work with the DA to arrange a time to debrief Todd Ricker.

Similarly, two attorney’s from the same fancy Boston law firm arrived here to announce that they represent Vin Cai and he will not be speaking to us, Chief Barlow said. He’s now at the sheriff’s lockup on the base, in a special holding cell for protected witnesses, but we expect he’ll be released as soon as the courts open on Tuesday.

The driver of the second silver Ford, the one that rammed Donnie’s truck, is identified as Norman Hollis, Lt. Gibbs continued. He’s in intensive care at UCH and can’t speak to anyone; nonetheless we have been notified that he too is represented by counsel. But we are fortunate in having Bobby Maloney. Even though Ricker offered to make his lawyers available to her, her father flatly refused and both her parents are supporting her in telling us everything she knows.

Finally, Herb said, flipping the now filled board around and continuing on the other side, we also know that the two silver Fords we have impounded are registered to a company called Silent Security, Inc., or SSI, that’s based in Boston’s Kenmore Square; interestingly, the license number Bet Stone gave us from the silver LTD used when the as yet unidentified woman was grabbed at The Bay View is also registered to SSI.

Yeah, Linc said. Yet she’s something of a questionable victim. She fired a gun at the scene, but maybe more importantly, she was driving a car that turns out to be a rental from Hyannis, signed out to a Brian Galvin with a Virginia license, but the local address was where the house burned in yesterday’s fire.

Herb sighed and sat back down at his desk. We’ll know a bit more on Tuesday, he said, as though hoping to find something positive, when everything is back open and we can trace the corporate ownership of that security company, then we’ll get a warrant for that house on Pine Drive and get the DA to help us with that guy Cai and the Ricker kid.

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Barlow and Gibbs weren’t alone in believing Bobby Maloney and Todd Ricker’s Saturday rescue had not ended the strange events, but they were greatly outnumbered. Parties were already scheduled for today, Sunday the 3rd, as well as on Monday the 4th, that weren’t planned on Saturday, the 2nd. There was a general sense the malaise was lifted. The surprising result was an infectiously joyous, even raucous sense of well being.

Police and fire personnel, plus various others either involved in the cleanup or close to the people most directly affected by events, woke up to face another difficult day slogging through the aftermath from Saturday, while most others awoke convinced the curse had been broken, the great drama and the overweening crisis resolved.

Those who believed the worst was over were ready to party, and today there were many options open to them.

Impromptu parties, with plenty of additional eating, drinking and socializing, were being held, all in addition to the huge open party that Bugle Publisher Mooney traditionally held in the afternoon of July 3rd. That party was long scheduled and prepared for at the old Mooney homestead.

And then of course there was the town fireworks display planned for the evening.

It became clear no one had fully understood how virtually the entire town had been oppressed, but it was suddenly apparent—partly through the anger expressed toward Vin Cai, a paid rescuer mistaken for a kidnapper—that throughout Bridgeview people had been quietly enduring much the same tension. Now that tension seemed relieved and the emotional eruption was galvanic.

Churchgoers this Sunday, whether devoted or perfunctory, found themselves engaging in friendly conversations with people they normally only nodded toward; old friendships were renewed and some old wounds were finally healed. Romance, of course, got a considerable boost. A classic example of Bridgeview’s changed spirit was unexpectedly provided by Janney Stone.

After partying back at Toot’s late Saturday night with Jimmy Hardickson, her sister Bet, Matt Ringwood and most of those who had made the rescue run to Forest Lane, plus latecomers and still others who had never left Toot’s annual clam bake, Janney decided at the end of the evening to take Jimmy aside.

She walked back into Tootanian’s garage to find a quiet, shadowed spot in the center of the bays to tell him she was going to join Bet with her nephew, Russ, in church at 8:30 Sunday morning.

Predictably, Hardickson seemed mildly surprised, but assumed a non-committal stance. Janney grinned. I very much want you to come with me, she said. He looked stunned. He stammered, involuntarily stepping back, almost falling over an electro-welder Toot had left in the middle of the floor. I can’t, he managed to mumble, lamely adding: I’ll prob’ly be hung-over in the mornin.’

Well, I really do want you to come, Janney said, looking directly at him. It’ll mean somethin’ to me. She reached up, lightly kissed him, and turned on her heels to briskly join Bet. I’m all set, let’s go, she announced.

Bet explained to everyone that she’d been called in for a meeting at the newspaper late Sunday morning, before Jack Mooney’s famous July 4th weekend party, so she had to go. She didn’t explain that it was also her custom to take her son to church early Sunday morning.

Janney pointed to Bet as her ride, then with a smile and a laugh they were in the Mustang and gone. Janney told Bet what she’d done as they drove. Bet broke up in laughter. He’ll never show up, she said.

He might, Janney quietly answered.

What is this? A test of the poor guy? Bet said. Since when did you get religion? You don’t go to church.

I’ve got as much religion as you, Janney shot back. The only reason you go is to make sure Russell has some religion in his life.

Okay, that’s true, Bet said, subdued. But I’m religious in my own way.

So am I, Janney said flatly.

Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bet said. You just surprised me, especially the business with Jimmy; you put the guy in a corner, he probably wouldn’t even know what to wear, or have anything to put on if he did. Bet glanced at Janney, but to her surprise saw a coy, almost smug smile on her sister’s face.

We’ll see, Janney said. We’ll see; you may be surprised.

That much is certain in any event, Bet said.

It was silent for a few minutes, until Janney dramatically changed the subject. I see that guy Matt Ringwood seems to like you a lot, she said, adding tartly: He was sniffin’ around you all night.

At first it didn’t seem Bet heard her or was going to respond, but then she took a breath, glancing toward her sister as she decided what she might say.

We’ve been dating, Bet said softly.

You mean those nights I’ve been babysitting because you had to work, you’ve been screwin’ around? Janney said.

Some of those nights I’ve had dinner and even gone dancing with Matt, Bet replied in a cool voice, if that’s what you mean by ‘screwin’ around.’

Sorry, Janney said, that was rude. I was just shocked; he must be at least thirty years older than you.

He’s a good deal less than twenty years older than me, Bet said. And he’s the nicest guy I’ve gone out with in a long, long time, maybe ever.

They rode in silence again for several minutes, but as they approached Ice House Way it was Janney who broke the silence. How’d you manage to date him and nobody in town know about it? she asked.

Bet smiled broadly, her mood again as ebullient as when they first left Toot’s. We’ve mostly been going down-Cape to Brewster and Orleans, she said, but once in awhile we’ve risked going to Woods Hole, yet there’s always a greater chance of bumping into people from Bridgeview when you’re in Falmouth.

Good for you, Janney said, putting her informal imprimatur on the summer/fall romance. The sisters laughed together as they pulled into the driveway. They could see Sally Akin walking toward the door as she heard the Mustang. They also saw the glimmer of Russell’s nightlight in his window upstairs, so they knew he was in bed.

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Both Bet and Janney moved slower than usual when 7 a.m. arrived, but by 8 o’clock they were dressed and Russell was very presentable in his beige short-sleeve summer dress shirt and dark pants.

Neither Bet nor Janney said a word about Jimmy, even when Russ expressed surprise that aunt Janney is coming? They went out the back door and had walked around toward the front, where the Mustang was parked, when Russell shouted, Its uncle Jimmy!

Russ immediately ran up to the tall figure, standing quietly, patiently next to his old but glistening pickup truck. He was quickly scooped up and twirled around.

Bet had to re-tuck Russell’s shirt, but she didn’t mind very much; she was impressed not only that Hardickson had appeared, but with how he appeared. She recalled her comment about Jimmy not having anything to wear. Now she understood her sister’s coy reply, ‘We’ll see.’

Hardickson was immaculate in a midnight blue summer blazer offset by a creamy white, button down shirt, open at the collar, coupled with oyster colored, pressed linen slacks. His black dress shoes gleamed. He was clean shaven, smelling subtly of quality cologne.

They quickly split up, with Janney jumping in the pickup with Jimmy and Bet and Russell in the Mustang. As soon as Bet started the car, she dropped the top. Janney smiled to herself. Bet didn’t usually put the top down to drive to church. Russ turned as they followed each other out the driveway onto Ice House Way. With a huge grin he waved and they waved back.

This is all new for me, Jimmy said. Not very old for me either, Janney answered, moving closer to him.

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About 30 miles away, some half of that over open water, another local couple also prepared for this Sunday, but without pleasant expectations and, ironically, with no knowledge their return trip would be by different paths.

It had been different when they approached Martha’s Vineyard Saturday afternoon, after a leisurely cruise along the Cape coast before heading across the sound.

Terri Anderson had been mildly surprised when instead of heading into Vineyard Haven, Tim Ringwood followed channel markers toward the dock at Oak Bluffs.

I like the Bluffs, Tim explained, it still feels like the old Vineyard. There aren’t as many big shots, or would be big shots, tryin’ to push their way to the beer first. Terri had laughed at and with Tim.

As he was docking she slipped into the cabin, grabbing a wraparound denim skirt with a dark blue pullover halter top from her overnight bag. She put them on over her two-piece bathing suit, fixed her hair, and never once looked in the locked cubby that held her pocketbook, credentials, gun and phone. She was not a federal agent today. She was willfully, necessarily on vacation.

It was a fabulous Saturday. They capped the long day on the water by alternately playing tourist and native, slipping in and out of shops to look at much yet buy just a little, while regularly visiting the more obscure, tourist forbidding local watering holes on side streets off Circuit Avenue.

Terri learned in short order that Tim was something of a regular to ‘the Bluffs.’ A great many locals knew him; some had even bought cars from his little dealership back on the Cape. In no time at all, the afternoon disappeared into the evening.

The day was filled with good food, libations of all types, sometimes great conversation but always enjoyable company.

The mix of people is always more diverse in Oak Bluffs, since it has long been the summer colony of well to do and upwardly mobile middle-class black people, which makes the handsome island port seem somehow a bit less inviting than Vineyard Haven or Edgartown to some white visitors arriving on Martha’s Vineyard, and with only a little acknowledged irony, this suits most of the regular Bluffs residents, of all colors.

Terri quickly perceived that no such criteria applied to Tim. He went where he pleased and was welcomed everywhere. He clearly relished his time in the Bluffs. They had some of the best clam chowder in the country, and enjoyed freshly made, stuffed quahogs, followed by sea water boiled lobsters with fresh corn on the cob.

Along the way Tim sampled various ales and Terri discovered a taste for Bluff Coolers, a summer drink adapted from Vineyard Coolers; Oak Bluffs bartenders had, simply and logically, replaced white Bacardi with Myers Rum, and mixed in some Quantro along with the cranberry juice and crushed ice.

It was a glorious summer cocktail, and of course what Terri didn’t realize, at least initially, was that since she was with Tim the bartenders often poured liberally. But she had long ago proven her ability to drink with the boys.

By the time the evening was deepening they were cozily ensconced at The Harborside, which true to its name was adjacent to the harbor.

Unlike many other Vineyard bars and restaurants on or near the water, though, ‘The Side,’ as its regulars called it, catered almost exclusively to islanders. Tourists weren’t turned away, of course, and were treated well when they happened to wander in, but they weren’t sought out.

Visitors would soon realize that they had stumbled into a local restaurant and bar, but care was taken not to make them feel too awkward and, sometimes, they became a new sort of regular themselves.

Nonetheless, being able to call oneself an islander, especially if there was a family root extending generations, was optimum at The Side, although being a Cape native was considered passable, if not quite as good, yet Tim again seemed to have a special rapport.

Saturday had been grand, with both Terri and Tim still in full party mode as eleven o’clock approached. Just returning from the polished, hard-wood dance floor to their comfortable, dark red naugahyde high-backed seats at the far end of the bar, they quickly began kibitzing with the bartender, a tall, broad shouldered yet lean young man from Bridgeview, Joe Mooney.

Mooney, who normally made his living playing and teaching saxophone on both Cape Cod and the islands, was filling in for his friend, Hank Daggett, a native islander taking some time off to prepare his boat and himself for the annual shark catching contest.

Terri immediately realized that Mooney and Ringwood knew each other well, but of course Mooney’s name with its obvious Bridgeview connection didn’t escape her. Almost as quickly she had come to like the darkly handsome young man, who was surprisingly articulate.

Mooney and Tim were now immersed in a discussion of tidal currents, hidden rips, and how to use such natural phenomenon for maximum effect with minimum problem when driving a powerboat, then they seamlessly switched to talking about high performance cars, and what was the most unusual available today.

When Mooney was called to the other end of the bar, Terri asked: This guy seems to know all about boats and cars too, but he’s got to be only about thirty, yet you two act like old friends; so how do you know him?

Tim, who had by now switched from beer to rum and coke, sipped his drink and saluted her with his glass. Joe began hanging around Toot’s when he was in high school, he said, even though his parents, especially his mother, made sure he learned music, but he clearly loved cars, so I let him work at the lot.

Okay, Terri said, not entirely satisfied.

Tim took a long swallow, glanced at the TV over the bar as an announcer intoned that the 11 o’clock news would follow shortly.

I got to like him a lot, Tim said. He’s honest and smart, so I taught him what I could. He absorbed everything like a sponge, to the point that he began asking me questions I had to think about or research when he wasn’t around. Then, at one of Toot’s Friday night events, Robbie Blackwell and Joe turned out to be great friends, so I learned that he’d also been working part-time at Blackwell’s Boat Yard.

A very busy boy, yet in the end you say he’s a musician, Terri said, enjoying herself greatly, but not seeing what all of this history had to do with anything.

The kid’s pretty great at whatever he does, Tim said quietly. She had to strain some to hear him. He’s got a college degree yet aside from me, he’s one of the greatest street drivers I’ve ever known, plus he handles a boat maybe as good as me, and I’m pretty fuckin’ good.

And modest too, Terri said. Maybe I’m with the wrong guy.

Tim smiled broadly. Experience still pays, darlin,’ besides, he don’t love you.

It was said; it was out in the open. Tim was grateful to all the powers when Joe Mooney suddenly strode back to their corner. Well, that little tourist deluge is over, he announced. Shall I refill these?

They both assented, nearly simultaneously. Mooney laughed. It’s hard to imagine how dry one end of the bar can get when I’m at the other end, he said over his shoulder. In a minute or two he was back, with refills for them and a Ketel One vodka and club soda for himself. Perks, he said, toasting them.

They all laughed and clinked glasses, but then the newscaster’s voice swept over them to announce: More on the breaking news from Cape Cod. As we reported earlier, a young couple, Todd Ricker and Roberta Maloney, who were kidnapped several weeks ago, were recovered safely today after a gunfight on the back roads of Bridgeview, a small town on the Upper Cape. A house fire that nearly set the town’s extensive woodlands ablaze is believed by officials to be related to the shootout and recovery of the kidnapped couple.

Pictures were shown of the burned out Cape-style home, as well as the brown, singed trees around it and a burned out hulk of a van. Then the picture moved to a scene on a wide, well groomed dirt road that was blocked off by police tape.

Parked cruisers were visible, lights flashing. Viewers could also see a flatbed wrecker diagonally across the street, and a smashed silver Ford halfway under it. A voice-over inaccurately told viewers this was where the kidnappers were brought to bay.

The actual story would appear later in the print media.

Wow, Tim said. We go away for a day and all hell breaks loose.

Yeah, Joe Mooney said, but I’m glad Bobby Maloney and that other guy are okay. I know her dad, Biff, from playing at Juniper’s; he’s a really good guy. Terri was silent, yet when they looked at her they were both taken aback. She was pale and looked stricken.

What’s the matter? Tim asked.

I don’t feel well, she said. Please, let’s go back to the boat.

Sure, Tim said. He glanced toward Mooney, raising his eyebrows and shrugging slightly. What’s the tab? he asked. Twenty ought to do it, Joe said, adding: I hope you’ll feel better quickly, miss. She nodded.

Thanks, Tim said, leaving a twenty and a ten on the counter, knowing that even at that he’d hardly begun to cover what the tab would have been for some other couple who spent more than an hour drinking and snacking at The Side. If you talk to your father about all of that news, say hello for me, Tim said.

Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I at least will be seeing the old man tomorrow at his big, annual July 3rd blowout back at the old house, Mooney said, then with a mischievous eye and knowing grin, noted: If you’ve overlooked the great event this year, remember its free booze and good music, but if you don’t make it, I’ll fill you in on the real news.

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Tim held her hand as they walked down the narrow, paved way to the dock, accompanied by the rhythmic sloshing of the incoming tide against the seawall.

Fog had been rolling in for more than an hour. It lent a surreal appearance to the street as its wispy tendrils seemed to circle the amber street lights while drifting around the old, gingerbread porches and eaves of the clapboard and shingled homes overlooking the harbor, creating mysterious shadows across what would normally be the warm, inviting light emanating from tall, late 1800’s style living room and parlor windows.

It also insidiously covered everything with a cloying dampness. Terri soon dropped Tim’s hand and snuggled close to him; he put his arm around her and they ambled down the way in something of the haphazard manner of an inebriated couple, which of course they were.

With Tim’s boat now visible ahead, she asked, What was that all about when Joe was mentioning his father, or some big event tomorrow and telling you the ‘real’ news?

His dad’s Jack Mooney, publisher of The Bugle and the other papers the Matthews family owns, Tim said. Joe’s dad always throws a big summer kick-off party, which honestly I forgot about, so Joe’s likely going to learn exactly what happened back home, as compared to the newscast.

Oh, she said, and was glad that he couldn’t see her face as she digested this unexpected information. She really had been away for a long time. It’s your fault, he said playfully, that I forgot that party was comin’ up, but we could still go to it if you’d like and the weather cooperates.

Let me think about it and see how I feel, she said quietly. When they climbed aboard the boat, she immediately excused herself, heading toward the small forward cabin. Let me have a few minutes, she said.

Of course he agreed. As she closed the wooden door, he found a bottle of dark rum in the galley cabinet, poured himself a drink then went back up to the afterdeck, where he turned the cushions over on a deck chair so he could sit down on the dry side.

Inside the forward, double-bed cabin, Terri immediately unlocked the cubby and frantically dug through her pocketbook until she found her phone. She opened the phone as she sat back on the bed, but immediately her worst fears were realized.

There were emergency messages saved; she didn’t need to be reminded what her failure to respond would mean to her career as an ‘agent in charge.’ One by one she went through the messages, feeling more despondent each time she heard the familiar voices. What had happened? How was it possible that everything came apart in one day?

She had wanted it all to be over, and she thought when her boss, Mike Spellman, returned they would figure out a way of freeing themselves of responsibility for the prisoners, perhaps by turning them loose somewhere in one of the surrounding towns.

Now everything was changed. The early news report said most of the kidnappers had been killed, and that too she found hard to believe but had to accept, at least for now.

Anderson knew if she belatedly responded to the ‘all call’ emergency number it would probably result in a disastrous log entry at ISD headquarters in the Pentagon. It would illustrate her tardy response while simultaneously creating suspicion, which would result in greater internal problems for her, yet she felt an overwhelming need to determine if anyone among the team members was still able to respond. She never for a moment thought any such call might be tracked by a source outside her own agency.

Terri made the call. After a number of rings she almost hung up, but then the phone was finally answered. The deep voice of Michael Spellman came on the line, his tone of voice indicating suspicion, which seemed appropriate since as soon as he answered Terri felt certain she heard a telltale sound. The line was not secure. Under protocol she should have used her ISD badge with her identification number, but she was still inebriated and now completely rattled, so she blurted, This is Terri.

Are you free? Spellman asked.

Yes, yes, I’m fine, she said.

Meet me mid-afternoon tomorrow where we stayed before, Spellman said, but before she could respond the phone went dead. She sat on the bed with the phone in her lap for a long minute, lost in thought, before flinging the phone into the cubby and leaving the cabin. In the galley she saw the bottle of rum with the half liter of Coke and mixed herself a strong drink before climbing the steps back up to the afterdeck.

Hey, glad you’re feelin’ better, Tim exclaimed.

Huh? she answered. Oh, yeah, sure. Yeah, I’m fine, I guess.

He quickly set up another deck chair for her, but her casual, absent response had thrown him off. He was quiet now, considering her along with everything that had happened since the 11 o’clock news. She was so preoccupied that she didn’t notice. She simply sat down to drink in silence, staring into the fog. But suddenly, as though coming to a conclusion, she turned to him. Can we go back to the Cape tonight? she asked.

Jesus, Terri, look at this stuff; you can’t even make out the houses on that hillside, he replied, a bit brusquely, then softening added: We’re socked in! This crap’ll probably burn off in the morning, but I wouldn’t want to be stumbling around out in the sound in this soup even if it was daylight; I’ll bet you can’t see ten feet past the bow once you’re outside the harbor; hell, in this muck you might not see that far even in the harbor.

She lapsed into silence again, finished her drink then abruptly stood up. I’m going to get some sleep, she announced. Without further comment she went below. Tim sat nursing his drink and thinking.

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Janney followed her sister and Russell, her arm looped through Jimmy’s in a formal escort posture. She could sense the tension and almost feel the reticence in him with each step that took them closer to the granite steps leading to the wide open oak doors of the plain but handsome church. His face had assumed a stoic look; he moved with the courageous determination of a man facing the gallows.

She thought of various things that she might say, but in the end said nothing. She simply held onto him. They made a very handsome couple, the tall, well dressed and exotically handsome young man and the lovely, 5'8" blond woman, holding her head high and letting her spirited eyes move casually right to left.

Slender but lithe and athletic in a light gray sheath skirt, a pale blue blouse and matching leather clogs, she complemented the tall, broad shouldered native-American perfectly; they were a striking, even cosmopolitan couple to those who stared at them.

As both Bet and Janney feared, there was a stir among the parishioners already seated when they walked in, followed by a low murmur, but to their great relief it was a friendly, receptive buzz that followed.

People turned and looked at the four of them, but especially at Hardickson and Janney, yet to a person they either nodded cordially or smiled acceptingly. Jimmy nodded and occasionally offered a small smile when he made eye contact, but Janney smiled broadly enough for both of them. Nonetheless she was relieved when they were all seated.

Not surprisingly, during the sermon the pastor spoke of the community’s good fortune in the safe return of the kidnapped couple, of course giving attribution to the Almighty for the deliverance. After the service, Jimmy was clearly ready to leave immediately, but the totally unexpected happened.

Woodrow Jenkins, Bridgeview’s town clerk for fifty years until retiring only a few years ago, now in his eighties and a bit stooped but still sprightly, was wearing his trademark black suit and dress blue shirt with a red bow tie as he ambled down the aisle.

They saw him coming so they all politely waited for him to pass, but the well respected figure stopped abreast of the Stones and Jimmy Hardickson, partially blocking the aisle and backing up a line of churchgoers behind him.

In a voice a little creaky with age yet still carrying authority he looked directly at Jimmy to ask: You’re that young Hardickson fella,’ aren’t you?

As Jimmy straightened up, bracing himself, Janney’s heart was racing, now fearing that having pressed Jimmy to come to church had been a terrible idea. Yes, I am, Jimmy said plainly and clearly, obviously prepared to take whatever might be coming his way. But it wasn’t what they expected.

Well, young man, Woody Jenkins continued, I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you lately. I’m pleased to meet you here today. With that he extended his hand. Jimmy was so stunned that he seemed frozen and Janney had to nudge him before he took the older man’s hand, thanking him for his kind words.

The old man nodded then moved on, but to their further surprise others came up expressing similar sentiments, many of whom wanted to shake Jimmy’s hand. Young Russell, beaming from ear to ear, quickly positioned himself close to his Uncle Jimmy.

When they finally followed the dwindling line of worshipers down the aisle, Jimmy was clearly lost in thought, yet he hadn’t changed his mind about leaving quickly. When Bet suggested they find out when and where the impromptu events were going to be held, which had been referenced by a number of people in the midst of invitations, Jimmy was quick to emphatically state that if they wanted to hang around, he would meet them back at the house on Ice House Way.

But as they emerged through the oak doors, getting away wasn’t that easy. The pastor himself, Rev. Earl Perry, was standing on the granite steps and now he turned his full attention toward Jimmy, which attracted those parishioners who had yet to leave.

Excuse me, Mr. Hardickson, he said. I am Pastor Perry. I would like to add to what Mr. Jenkins said. Jimmy smiled and shook hands with him, by now on something of an internal autopilot, the entire experience having dazed him. I’ve also heard about some of the things you’ve done recently, the pastor said. I particularly want to express my gratitude for how you prevented the good people of this town from harming that man who was driving the car holding Roberta Maloney and the young Mr. Ricker.

I dunno,’ rev’rend, Hardickson awkwardly began, I didn’t do much but help Bud O’Neil.

That’s not what I’ve heard, Pastor Perry said. The reports of people on the scene quite clearly indicate it was you who protected that man, Mr. Cai, I believe, against a very angry crowd of our townspeople. You saved this community from a deep black mark against its good name, especially since Mr. Cai was not a kidnapper but was apparently involved in rescuing young Mr. Ricker and our Roberta Maloney.

Jimmy shrugged, completely at a loss; he was much more accustomed to being thought little of than lauded. Now the situation was compounded as the people who were clustered around began clapping.

Janney and Bet were amazed as they saw Jimmy start to turn a dusky red with embarrassment. This time Bet stepped in, quickly moving up to the pastor, thanking him sincerely. She then turned to the small crowd, declaring: We’ve got to get this young man home before he melts from this unexpected praise.

Everyone laughed, but Janney and Bet, with Russell’s proud help, quickly ushered Hardickson through the remaining crowd out toward the parking lot, acknowledging as they went the many invitations to parties later Sunday and on Monday, the Fourth.

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While the church services had been underway in Bridgeview, the fog had begun to burn off the waters of Vineyard Sound. Steamy tendrils wafted upward from all the small pools and wet surfaces on the boats, the dock, nearby streets and the rooftops of Oak Bluffs.

Tim had slept little on the padded bench seat in the main cabin and was up early, prepping the boat for the return ride to the Cape. He was a bit primed himself, since he’d terminated the start of a hangover with Stoli and V-8 juice, so when Terri emerged from the forward cabin after a fitful, unpleasant night’s sleep, filled with ugly and awkward dreams, he was not in any mood to be graceful.

When can we get going? she asked as her morning greeting.

As soon as I decide we can, Tim answered.

Anderson turned and slid into the boat’s narrow head, but when she emerged she tried to recover. Sorry I was abrupt, she said. I just need to get back.

We all have needs, Tim replied.

Well, I’m sorry if I didn’t accommodate yours last night, Terri caustically shot back at him.

Tim stopped what he was doing. Jesus Christ! he declared in exasperation. That’s not what I meant!

She started to turn away, moving back towards the forward cabin, and he lost his temper. God damn it, he shouted. What the fuck is goin’on? We were havin’ a great time yesterday, or at least I thought we were, until the 11 o’clock news came on!

She turned to look at him. In his face she saw more anguish than anger, which somehow crumpled the wall she’d been putting up. She sat down on the cushioned bench seat in the galley of the main cabin. Tears, unexpected and unbidden, began to course down her cheeks. Her silent dismay dissipated whatever righteous anger he’d been mustering.

Tim came to her and knelt before her, putting his hands on her shoulders, making her look at him. I don’t know what’s goin’ on, and I don’t give a damn, Tim said. When you came back in my life a week or so ago, I realized just how much I’ve always loved you, and I still do! Very, very much. I even tried to tell you last night at The Side, before that fuckin’ newscast came on.

I know, she said softly, lifting her hands to gently stroke his face.

She bent forward, kissing his forehead and hugging him to her, not wanting to look at him. It isn’t going to work, she said softly, surprising herself by having to choke back a sob with the words, I’m not who you think I am.

He gently pushed her back. I don’t buy that, he said, staring into her wet eyes. We’ve been together for nearly two weeks, almost all the time, and you’re the same person I knew before you left Bridgeview. She stared back at him, his sincerity reaching her in ways she thought were lost, stirring, strengthening the deep, unexpected feelings she first discovered when she stepped into his dealership to find a usable old car for a few weeks.

At first she sought to fool herself, thinking it would simply be fun to have a fling with someone she actually once had true feelings about, thereby collecting warm memories to bring with her when circumstances demanded she leave again. But by this weekend, she knew she was in trouble; she was having too wonderful a time, feeling vibrant and happy in ways she had largely forgotten. It was becoming clear that leaving Tim would be far harder than she had ever considered.

Then the news had slapped her back to reality. She was a clandestine government agent involved in criminal activity. Depressingly, she knew her employers were likely to disavow her in the current circumstances. The department itself was considered ‘black ops,’ with its records hidden, making it easy for those in charge to erase or permanently archive what they feared. She realized, in her dark reverie of the night, that at this point the hierarchy of the Internal Security Division of the Department of Defense probably did not want her coming back; it would be better if she were dead or disappeared.

I’ve become involved in things, she said.

I don’t care, Tim answered. I just love you.

She sobbed then, crying uncontrollably, something she had not done for many years. She saw a life she had disdainfully walked away from that now looked bright, wonderful yet unattainable, but the life she had chosen and proudly, even haughtily immersed herself within now seemed illicit, not just tainted but criminally immoral, actually dirty. Her despair was only matched by her regret.

As she recognized such reality she lost control, sobbing in near hysteria, in the end throwing her arms around Tim to desperately clutch him to her.

He held her, confused yet somehow pleased, strangely proud that her emotional catharsis involved him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly but moving his right hand calmingly, lovingly over her back.

Whatever terrible truth was hidden among her wracking sobs, he thought could somehow be resolved if only she felt the same way about him. As she clung to him, her fingers pressing hard into his shoulders it was ever easier for him to believe he could deliver her from whatever crisis she faced, so long as she wanted him as he wanted her.

But then there was a quick knock. A resonant yet