by David Wood
The waitress giggled. “You know, the Freemasons.” She made a face like she was imparting a great secret. “Secret societies and covert men's business.”
Grant laughed and a man at the counter cleared his throat altogether too loudly. The waitress jumped and hurried away. Annoyed, Grant turned to look and the fellow stared at him with hard, dark eyes. He was a bear of a man, with a red and blue checked shirt stretched tight over bulging, muscular arms and a swollen beer gut. Grant held his eye for a few very uncomfortable seconds but the bear was obviously not planning to look away. More frustrated than ever with this backward community, Grant turned back to his food. He cursed his shaking hand as he forked up lukewarm eggs.
Keeping his attention away from the hicks, and determined not to give them the satisfaction of leaving right after his lunch, Grant ordered a coffee refill and sat back in the chair. To give himself something to do he pulled out the demonology book. Inside the front cover he found an inscription he hadn't noticed before:
Brother Andrew,
May the demons always be outside your circle.
In darkness and disorder,
Your Brothers and Sisters of Kaletherex.
Grant furrowed his brow. What the hell was Kaletherex? And if they called him Brother Andrew, was this a gift from the Freemasons the waitress had just mentioned? If so, what did “Brothers and Sisters” mean? In Grant's limited knowledge, the Freemasons were an all-boys club. A sick feeling rising in his gut, he thumbed through the pages, keeping his body between the leatherbound volume and the others in the diner. He didn't want them to see it, to know he had it. If it felt sinister to him, no telling what these hillbillies would make of it. He wondered what they would have made of his dad had they known about the old man’s interest in demonology.
The door bell jingled as a young, pretty redhead came in. Her downcast gaze didn't conceal her red eyes and puffy face. Their eyes met and he flashed her a tight smile. She seemed surprised, gave the merest nod and hurried past. He watched her faint ghost reflected in the plate glass window as she ordered a coffee and took a seat at the table behind him.
She had a creamy complexion, full lips, and body that had not yet succumbed to the local fare of chicken-fried everything. In fact, she was the first person he'd seen in this town whose immediate forbearers, he could be certain, weren't closely related. Maybe this place wasn't all bad after all. Forget Suzanne. Maybe he’d fool around with a mountain girl while he was in town. He hadn’t been with another girl since their Junior prom. Might as well get something good out of this trip.
But the thought of Suzanne dumping him so casually was still a knife in the gut. He turned his attention back to the book and continued to flip through, the pictures growing increasingly horrific. Hideous creatures did despicable things to terrified victims. He read occasional passages about true names, binding incantations, genealogy, as if these things were real. He didn't know jack about the Freemasons, but he was sure this book was not Masonic. Two pages turned at once under the weight of something between them and a yellowed photo slid out. Maybe a bookmark.
The picture showed three men in long robes, with heavy rope belts. Hoods sat piled on their shoulders as they smiled broadly at the camera, each with their hand on the hilt of a large knife, buried guard-deep in the carcass of a goat. Grant stared, horrified, at the grinning face of his father staring back. The man in the middle of the three had a large, heavy-looking medallion hanging low against his chest, the only difference between himself, Grant's father and the man on the other side.
A gasp broke Grant's reverie. He looked around to see the pretty redhead, hand before her mouth in shock, staring at the photo over his shoulder.
He laughed nervously, stuffing it back between the pages. “Just an old film still, I think,” he said, sounding fake even to himself.
The girl jumped up and ran from the diner, half-eaten sandwich and full cup of coffee forgotten. The bell on the front door clattered as she banged through.
Grant sat frozen for a moment before sweeping his things back into his backpack, tossing a ten on the table, and running after her. As he left, he noticed the big man at the counter scowling with undisguised contempt. What was his problem?
The girl hurried down the street, almost running. Sure, the picture was creepy, but why cut and run like that? She glanced back, spotted him, and picked up her pace.
“Wait a minute!” Grant called, moving up behind her. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She jerked away, whirling about to face him. “Just stay away from me!” She backed away from him like he was a rabid dog.
Grant held his hands up in front of his shoulders, palms out. “Look, I didn't mean to scare you. It's just that you seemed really shocked by that picture.”
At the mention of the photograph, she blanched. The girl said nothing, turned away and continued down the street.
“I'm really sorry,” Grant called after her.
She didn't look back.
Chapter 3
The Wallen's Gap Public Library occupied the corner of Main and Oak like a homeless man begging for change. It might have been a nice place back in its heyday, but the peeling paint and crumbling mortar made Grant a little nervous about closing the door too hard when he stepped inside. Past the threshold, the familiar smell of dusty tomes calmed his jangled nerves. A faded poster of President Bush, the first one, greeted him with a sun-bleached smile and the words, “A Thousand Points of Light.” Bush the Elder held a copy of either The Sun Also Rises or The Sound and the Fury--the poster was in such bad shape it was hard to tell.
“Can I help you?” The speaker was an elderly woman with a face like a Venetian blind and shockingly yellow hair. Her tone said she had little interest in assisting anyone. She stood behind a battered mahogany counter topped by a stack of romance novels. He wondered if she was reading or preparing to re-shelve them.
“Yes, I was wondering if you have a public computer I could use. With internet access,” he added. No telling what sides came with your entrée and what was a-la-carte around here.
One of the folds on the woman's face puckered into a disapproving frown. “You have to have a member number to log on to the system.”
“Okay, can I get a number?” He put on his most winning smile.
“You have to have a library card to get a member number.”
“Great! Can I get a library card?”
“You have to fill out a form and show identification.” Her voice was so dull and her expression so flat that he honestly couldn't tell if she was trying to give him a hard time or not.
“Okay,” he said, working hard to keep his tone friendly, “where can I get a form?”
“You can download it from the website.”
Cracks formed in his calm demeanor and the back of his neck prickled. He gritted his teeth and was formulating a suitable reply when the woman actually cracked a tiny smile. Had he uncovered actual humor in this town? Alert the media!
“Or you can get one from me.” She slid a form across the counter and even provided a pen without being asked.
He completed the form and handed it back along with his driver's license.
“Shipman,” she mused. “You any kin to Andrew Shipman?”
“My dad.” He was afraid to say more. What if his dad had been as unsavory a character as the photograph seemed to indicate? No telling what his reputation had been in such a small town. But the sheriff had called Andrew a “good man.” Grant didn't know what to think.
“Are you living in his place now?” Her tone and expression remained neutral.
Fearing some rule about not giving library cards to out-of-towners, he answered in the affirmative. A few minutes and a donation to the elementary school library later, he was the proud holder of a Wallen's Gap Library card. He stifled a guffaw when he saw his membership number was a whopping three digits long. Not too many readers around here.
The comput
er kiosk only held three units, but they were up-to-date and the internet connection crisp. He began with a simple web search:
Brothers and Sisters of Kaletherex
His shoulders sagged when he saw the results.
Your search- brothers and sisters of Kaletherex- did not match any documents
He tried “kaletherex” alone and in combination with “wallen's gap” but achieved no better results. He hated to admit failure so quickly. He considered for a few minutes, and a thought sprang to mind that sent a chill down his spine. He set his jaw and typed in “andrew shipman brother of kaletherex wallen's gap.”
This time, he got a single hit. It was a cached document containing the phrase “Brother Andrew Shipman.” No mention of Kaletherex, but it was something. He clicked the print icon and heard the whir of the printer... behind the front desk. Lovely.
He logged off and hurried over to the desk, taking out his wallet as he went. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't like the idea of the woman knowing what he was looking at. She handed the paper to him, her eyes passing only a quick glance across it before she handed it over. He thought he saw the ghost of a shadow pass over her face, but it could have been his imagination.
“Twenty cents, please.” She held out a withered hand.
He handed her a dollar bill.
“I don't have change.” She didn't sound the least bit apologetic. In fact, she looked affronted that he didn't have two dimes in his pocket.
“That's okay. You can owe me.” He gave her his best conspiratorial smile, but she just stared at him. “Uh, keep the change. Thank you for your help.” Duly cowed, he let her disapproving stare chase him out the front door.
Out on the street, he took a deep breath of mountain air. Foremost in his mind was a single thought. The red-haired girl in the diner had reacted to the picture of his dad. She knew something. He had to find her.
Reluctant to go back to the cabin early, Grant wandered around the block from the library. Across the way, a playground occupied a scrubby patch of grass and windblown dirt. He smiled as he caught a flash of red hair. Could he be that lucky? He stopped at a lamppost, acting as if he read the printed sheets in his hand while he covertly watched the redhead. It was definitely her, playing with two little girls who looked like twins in floral print dresses, their chestnut hair tied in bunches. They couldn't be more than four or five years old. The redhead pushed them on swings and chased them from one piece of play equipment to another. She looked to be having fun, but something about her demeanor made Grant a little sad.
He drew a deep breath, hoping he could talk to her rather than scare her off. He started across the road, forming what he hoped was a pleasant and friendly smile on his face. She saw him coming and scowled, glanced quickly to the twin girls and back again. She looked like a rabbit, cornered and ready to bolt.
“Hey,” Grant called out, as casually as he could. “You're the girl from the diner, right? I'm Grant.” He dared a broader smile, hoping it would work better on her than it had on the librarian. No such luck.
Her eyes narrowed. “Cassie.” She seemed a little reluctant to give him even that single word.
“These your sisters?” he asked, still trying to be friendly but not pushy.
She shook her head. “My neighbor's girls. I baby-sit.”
“We're not babies!” one of the twins said in high-pitched indignation. She folded her pudgy arms and tapped a foot in disapproval. Grant wondered where she'd picked that up.
“Of course you're not, sweetie. It's just a figure of speech.” Cassie favored the girl with a smile and, for a moment, the weight lifted and it looked like the sun shone on her face. But only for a moment. She looked back to Grant, eyes wary. “You're Andrew's son.” It wasn't a question.
He nodded. “You know him?”
She shrugged.
“I didn't really know him at all,” Grant said. “He wasn't much of a dad. He left when I was little and never came around after that.”
Cassie gave a half-smile. “I wish my dad would leave sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
She clammed up again. Grant looked uncomfortably around the park, across the road to municipal buildings, along to the corner dominated by a tall brick building with a bright white facade. His roving eye paused as he caught sight of the square and compass motif. Block letters raised in the stonework read MASONIC TEMPLE.
“That's where they meet,” Cassie said quietly, making him jump. She half-smiled again at his discomfort.
“They?” he asked.
“Loads of the men in town. Freemasons. They think they're some hot shit secret society or something. Losers.”
“Your dad among them?”
She nodded. “And yours. Well, he was...”
“Yeah, I know. I found some of his stuff at the house. Just the men?”
Cassie frowned, scuffed her ragged sneaker in the dirt. “Yeah. Womenfolk not allowed apparently.”
“Do the women have a society of their own?”
She barked a laugh. “Not unless you count gossiping after church or at the grocery store.”
Silence descended again. Cassie watched the twins run and play. One of them swept past with a swish of dress and said, “We live next door to Cassie!”
“So I heard.” Grant smiled at the little girl, momentarily charmed by the precociousness of youth.
“Right next door to the church!” the girl announced seriously, like this was essential information.
Grant smiled. “That's nice.”
“Run along and play,” Cassie said, her voice a little hard.
Grant saw her expression was guarded. Perhaps she didn't like the girl blurting out where she lived. He decided to change the subject. “I'm sorry that picture bothered you earlier.”
Cassie's face closed, like a shutter had come down. “It's nothing.”
“Sure. But even so, sorry about that.”
“I just didn't like it, that's all.” She seemed spooked.
Grant felt bad for her, but clearly something else was happening here. She knew more than she was letting on. “Did you recognize any of the people in that photo?” he asked. “Besides my dad, I mean.”
Cassie opened her mouth to speak and another voice cut across them.
“This guy bothering you, Cass?”
A tall, rangy guy, with greasy hair in a scruffy ponytail strolled up to them and laid an arm across Cassie's shoulders, a blatant act of ownership. She flinched ever so slightly at his touch. He wore a grubby, checked flannel shirt and jeans that looked as though they'd never been washed. Heavy, scuffed workboots made his feet look three sizes too big for his skinny legs. His eyes were red and droopy, his mouth a little slack.
Enjoy your lunchtime bong? Grant thought to himself, but chose not to say anything.
“No, he's not,” Cassie said, looking at Grant. Her eyes seemed to hold a warning.
The newcomer was about Grant's age, maybe a year or two older than Cassie. “We were just having a chat about nothing,” Grant said. “I'm new in town.”
“That right?”
Grant nodded, unsure where to go from there. “My dad died recently. He was a local here.”
“That right?” the stoner said again.
Grant couldn't repress a slight smile. Such witty repartee! He held out a hand. “I'm Grant. Grant Shipman.”
The stoner's eyes narrowed. He shook hands, though without any real conviction. “Carl. You Andrew Shipman's boy? He died recently.”
This guy was a real Sherlock Holmes. “That's right. Did you know my dad? I didn't know him well at all.”
“You need to leave my girlfriend alone. C'mon, Cassie.”
Cassie shook his arm off as he tried to turn her around. “Carl! I can't go anywhere, I'm watching the girls.”
Carl seemed to find the situation suddenly difficult, his face twisting into a confused frown. Grant swiftly sized things up. If Carl felt like his authority was being tested, he looked the sort to reac
t badly to it. Cassie couldn't go anywhere, so Grant would need to break the tension. He clenched a fist, tempted to break the tension by breaking this loser’s nose, but bit it down. His temper was another thing that stressed Suzanne out.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I'd better be off. Gotta lot of stuff to do up at my dad's old place. That's where I'm staying for now.”
He gave Cassie a reassuring smile, sneered at Carl, and strode off across the scrubby park without waiting for a response. There was something very uncomfortable between those two and he didn't want to get Cassie in any kind of trouble. And if Carl was anything other than stupid, it was trouble. Frustrated, he headed back to where he'd parked his Camaro, wondering what kind of answer Cassie would have given about the photo if they hadn't been interrupted.
Chapter 4
A soft knock at the door rattled Grant from dark thoughts. He hesitated, then decided anyone who meant him ill probably wouldn't announce their presence so boldly. Then again, who could tell with these locals?
He drew back the curtain just far enough to peer outside. A woman of middle years stood on the doorstep holding a cardboard box packed with food. Silver streaked her blonde hair, and wrinkles creased her forehead and the corners of her eyes. She saw him and smiled.
“I'm so sorry to drop in unannounced like this,” she said while the door was still opening, “but Andrew turned off his home phone years ago and we didn't know any other way to reach you.” She bustled in like an expected guest, chattering as she headed to the kitchen. “I'm Mary Ann Stallard, Pastor Edwin's wife. The sheriff told us you were in town, and we wanted to make sure you were welcome. Have you had supper yet?”
Grant caught a whiff of fried chicken and his stomach answered the question for him.