The Solar Antiquities

April 22, 2000

Nahant is an old affluent island community that lies twenty miles north of Boston, connected to the mainland by a man-made causeway that pierces through Lynn Harbor, protecting it from the Atlantic Ocean.  Nahant, itself, actually consists of two islands connected by a spit of sand that forms the perfect curvature for a beach.  A large Coast Guard Rescue station sits squarely in the middle, designating the end of one island and the beginning of the other.

The largest of the two is simply called Big Nahant, the smaller one, Little Nahant.  Where once rose a robust fishing fleet, now shelters a fleet of luxury yachts and pleasure craft.  The old Captain’s homes have been converted into half million dollar estates sitting one atop the other all along the coastline.  The largest homes sit on the northern edge of Big Nahant, mostly newer structures designed to withstand the fury of the sea and the arctic blasts of the Northeast winds that batter the islands for much of the winter.

Here, at a point known as Land’s End, in the shadows of the enormous sand dunes that define the northernmost point of the island sits one rather large Cape-style home.  In the pre-dawn light it produces a gray silhouette against the slowly brightening blue sky.  A white car slowly pulls out of the driveway; easing onto the main street, backing up against an old wooden fence that separates the road from the steep precipice that drops off into the ocean some thirty feet below.

Lt. Colonel George Webster checks his watch.  It is six fifteen as the car pulls away from the curb and begins the journey down to visit his brother, Pete, who lives in Everett, before making his way to Logan Airport for an afternoon flight to Washington where business awaits.  The trip across Big Nahant should take only a few minutes, especially before the morning Rush Hour begins to clog the tiny island streets.

In a matter of minutes he has passed the Coast Guard Station and is cruising across Little Nahant, then onto the causeway that will bring him into Lynn and the antiquated highway that leads South towards Boston.  At the end of the causeway, connecting the road to highway C1 is one of those quaint rotaries that make Massachusetts driving such a challenge.   George eases his car onto the outermost lane and begins merging with the traffic coming from the Cape Anne communities of Swampscott and Marblehead.  The traffic is light, he easily slips into the flow of moving vehicles.

He is headed South when he looks over at the passenger seat and realizes that he has left his briefcase back at his home, hopefully not on the ground at the end of his driveway.  Angered at himself, he pulls into a gas station and sets about retracing his steps.  Within ten minutes he is back on Big Nahant, turning onto the long street that leads to Land’s End and his retirement hideaway.

The sun has slowly illuminated the eastern sky so that along with the slight chilling breeze the morning is vibrant, alive.  George pulls into his driveway and gets out of the car leaving the engine running and the driver’s side door open.  Walking around to the rear of his home he approaches the deck, bounding up the stairs, head down retracing his steps.  At the top of the three-step approach he found himself staring at the open slider at the rear of his Living Room.  The slider had been jimmied off the track.

Years of military service taught him how to be cautious and years of retirement had not dulled his reflexes.  Crouching low, he positioned himself against the wall extending from the edge of the door.  He heard movements inside the house and waited patiently for the intruders to exit.  Looking around for a weapon, cursing himself for leaving the briefcase containing his own sidearm in the house, he spied a long metal spray bar attached to his garden hose.  He leaned over the side of the deck and detached the rod, brandishing it as he would a mace or bat.

The slider moves back and through the billowing curtain a short, stocky man flies out carrying a heavy leather satchel.  George wields his club and smashes it across the bridge of the intruder’s nose, breaking the wand and bone and cartilage.  The satchel hits the deck with a thud as George lands a crushing blow across the back of the neck of the kneeling man.  Knowing he no longer had a weapon and that the advantage of surprise was now lost, he searched the ground around the fallen thief.  Nothing there, he turned to brace himself for a second attacker.

In the long pause he was able to push the satchel to one side.  It was open.  He looked inside and saw the familiar shapes of three Mayan Jade and gold statues.  There were five in all, collectively known as The Solar Antiquities, so named by the Spanish monk Hidalgo De La Pena back in 1521.  The discovery of his most secret and prized possessions in an old musty leather case distracts him long enough for a shot to ring out, catching him below his right arm, momentarily stunning him.  The second thief comes flying out of the house, gun raised, catching George across the side of the head.  He is dazed as the attacker moves past him to his fallen comrade.