Brotherhood of Gold

by Ron Hevener

  As they say in so many novels, the silence in the room was deafening, except for Sidney Leigh and the usual roar of energy around her joining them now and reaching for a glass.

  What came next was Wembly reaching for his briefcase, opening it and pulling out a recent copy of the Wall Street Journal. “As you know, DeCroy’s is an advertiser in the Journal,” he explained. “It was quite by coincidence that I was looking for our monthly ad and came across this article about mineral deposits in North America.”

  “I never knew you were interested in geology,” Sarah said, wondering how this had any connection to Ezra and The Ridge.

  “Until now, I wasn’t,” Wembly said honestly. “But, look!” he said to them. “Look at this map and see for yourself!”

  There, marked in red, was one of the biggest known deposits of uranium-rich iron ore on the North American continent. In the very center, Wembly had circled none other than the designated site for Phantom Lake Wildlife and Recreation Park.

  Hushed now, emotional and strained, he explained. “A wildlife recreation park. It’s perfect. Something so innocent and pure the American public would never object to it. A beautiful ruse. The absolute perfect cover-up for a secret mining operation of something almost forgotten.”

  “How secret?” Sarah said, reaching for whisky.

  “I think what Wembly is talking about is the secret ingredient for nuclear power,” Ben answered, with a sinking feeling in his gut.

  “So, it’s the military,” Sarah said, pouring for all of them. “They knew about it and they wanted the farms. Well, it’s out of our hands now.”

  Wembly didn’t move.

  “It…is,” she said, looking at him with a question in her eyes, “out of our hands?”

  “Unfortunately, not in the way you might wish,” he finally said.

  “Well this is exciting,” Sidney Leigh said, with a slight quiver in her voice.

  Wembly took a breath. “We have reports of uranium being sold.”

  “Excuse me?” Sarah said, still not seeing the connection. “How do we have reports about it?”

  “One of our investments is a trucking company,” he said, “and one of the managers in the billing department became suspicious about regular shipments going to Philadelphia for containers headed for the Middle East. He alerted security at the docks and they told him another container from the same place was loaded onto a ship heading for a port in Singapore. He tracked the shipments leaving Philadelphia for several weeks and checked the past shipping records from our trucking line as well. None of the shipments were being delivered to any known military facilities, nuclear power plants, research centers or domestic shipping ports.”

  “You’ve really done your homework,” Ben said, not knowing what else he could say.

  “OK,” Sidney Leigh said, “that tells us where it’s going. But who’s the traitor selling this stuff?”

  “I’m afraid you will not like the answer,” Wembly said. “An accountant for BG Investments,” he said, “informed me that one of our contractors—a big company—was losing money on a certain government contract. He told me the contractor is locked into clauses in the agreement forcing him to lose money. It turned out they are making him haul truckloads of dirt about fifty miles away from the site.”

  “Phantom Lake,” Ben said, feeling it all making sense. “Those people we saw, sifting through the dirt at the old junkyard.”

  “They’re looking for iron ore!” Sarah said, putting together the pieces now. “Just like Ezra and Ruthie did.”

  “But,” Sidney Leigh said, “even if Ezra knew, he didn’t do anything with those farms.”

  “Sure he did!” Ben said. “He bought them up and kept anything like this from happening!”

  “But thanks to Ruthie, now it has!” Sarah said. “But what about the contractor?” she asked.

  “Like everyone else,” Wembly said, “he believes it is a scientific experiment of some kind. But this contract is making him go over budget and he is losing his business. As you can imagine, he wants out of those costs.”

  “And?” Ben asked, still thinking about Sidney Leigh’s comment.

  “He is trapped,” Wembly said. “He obtained an attorney and could not get anywhere. After that, when he refused to haul the dirt, the tires on his landscaping equipment were slashed, forcing him to fall further behind schedule. He is only paid as the job is completed by phases and after government inspectors give their approval.”

  “But I still don’t see how this affects us now,” Sidney Leigh said. “Aunt Sarah’s right. No matter how it happened, we don’t have anything more to do with that land. And I’m sorry about the contractor, but none of this is our responsibility. This stuff is for the C.I.A. or the F.B.I. Am I the only one who can see that?”

  Wembly took an even deeper breath and looked directly at Sarah, but no one else. “As I explained, it is a trap,” he said. “You want to know why? Because every acre of that land was bought with money from a special fund that the U.S. Treasury has been trying to get its hands on for many—many—years. Ezra was part of that missing fund. And it was used for far more business ventures than here in Steitzburg.”

  “Those people at the funeral,” Ben said out loud.

  Wembly put a comforting hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You are beginning to understand now,” he said.

  “Well I don’t,” Sidney Leigh said. “If legally the land is out of Ben’s hands, how can any of this hurt us?”

  Perhaps it was how Wembly took another breath before answering that made them brace themselves. “Because, Sidney Leigh,” he said, “if there is anything illegal happening at Phantom Lake…anything at all…we are involved.”

  “Exactly how…involved…are we?” Sarah wanted to know. She wanted to know now, and only the very truth would be allowed.

  It was Ben who saw the picture now. “Because,” he said, “every bulldozer knocking down the houses of those families. Smashing the trees. Digging the lake. Every chainsaw cutting the branches. Every crew being paid to set the bonfires. Every one of the trucks hauling away the dirt—all of that…ALL of it—belongs to the general contractor,” he said. “And, I’ll bet we’re the ones who started him in business.”

  Wembly looked at the map on the table and said, “Fifty-one percent.”

  Had the four of them realized they had just stumbled across the issue that would mandate the rest of their lives, each would have covered their ears, closed their eyes tight and run as fast as they could.

  *

  That night, driving Wembly to the airport after a long and intensive strategy session, Ben asked, “If we’re on our own, when do we start?”

  “In a sense, we already have,” the man ever-more important to him said. “Remember, we can work on levels that even a government cannot. We can work on public levels. With a holding company like BG Investments, we have international access, Benjamin. We must work wisely. As if we are bringing out a new line of clothing, perhaps. We must be discreet. You can do this, Benjamin. I am here for you. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ben said. “I mean, what do we do in the meantime? Now? Tomorrow?”

  “For now, we use Theodore Trimble’s influence. Sarah is right. He is still our corporate attorney, no? We have given him an assignment and he must report back to us. Even if he does not report the truth, he must tell us something. And if he is involved, our questions will alert the ones we, ourselves, cannot reach. And perhaps may never know. But—they will know the giant is awake!” He paused to let the seriousness of it all sink in. “Who in the world could ever hate the beautiful farms and friendly town of Steitzburg so much they would tear it apart this way? Who could be so bitter? We can go to the authorities only when we are certain the authorities, themselves, are not involved!”

  “I guess this means my career as a truck driver is over,” Ben said.

  “Can you really believe that is all I hoped for you? As your friend, Benjamin, I am asking you to
be careful in these dark and dangerous waters.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” Ben said, hoping to leave their farewell on a good note.

  Wembly smiled. “A healthy sense of humor you may very well need! Now, go to Sidney Leigh and she will help you with that. We do not know what lies ahead.”

  “Safe trip!” Ben said, giving Wembly an impulsive, good-natured hug.

  “I shall have.”

  “When do I see you again?” Ben asked.

  “That is up to you. First, we must wait for Theodore. Let him accomplish the immediate objective for us: to frighten away the bandits from our beautiful Phantom. Is that not the very first thing we would do ourselves? We pay him very well. Let him save us the work! We must deal with other important things now.”

  Somewhat surprised, Ben asked, “What can be more important than uranium in the wrong hands and no authorities to go to?”

  “Perhaps an advertising campaign for The Good Life? Perhaps the beautiful Mattison racehorses and handsome clothing and all the fine, wonderful things in this world that would be lost if hateful extremists have their way. Benjamin, you must live and you must live well! And everyone must see you loving it! Do all the things you really want to do. Show others how to enjoy this wonderful world. Play with Sidney, yes? Smile! Have sex and laugh!”

  How could Ben enjoy life knowing it was threatened by radical militants? Uranium! The most essential ingredient needed for nuclear power. Stolen from their own backyard and they were the ones digging it up and handing it over! He imagined people screaming, crying desperately as they scrambled to survive—and right in the middle of it all was Wembly DeCroy, merchant extraordinaire, selling high-fashion clothes and fancy racehorses to a world that doesn’t really give a damn. Maybe Wembly was the real danger now in a society that had outgrown the principles that once served it so well. Knowing better, he almost laughed: Wembly DeCroy’s answer would simply be a new line of clothing.

  Who were these terrorists anyway? Were they “Haves” or were they “Have-nots,” taking whatever they could from the “Haves” as if they deserved it, because it was too hard for them to invent, earn or win it on their own? Maybe he was the one in danger now—maybe the whole thing was a plan to box him in, compromise him, force him to break up the financial empire his grandfather had put together and bring the holding company to its knees.

  Shaking inside at the notion that Wembly could be serious—that something as flimsy and ethereal as an advertising campaign for the “good life” could ever defeat a sinister network smart enough to hide its face in the shadows, Ben stepped back. “I thought you took this seriously,” he said to Wembly now. “First, you tell us what a mess we’re in and then you tell us to wait? Like nothing’s happening? We were happy until you found this out! We just had a big lake in our backyard, that’s all.”

  “Yes, Benjamin! Be angry! But for now, we must live, yes? No matter what you think now, living well, and proudly, is the very best way to fight back! They will see us! They will know what we are doing. And the public will choose how it wants to live—not have it forced on them!”

  “You call that a fight? Why don’t I join the army or hop a boat and see for myself where this shit’s going!”

  “How very idealistic of you, Benjamin. And how very wasteful. When it comes to battle, what army do you know that does not destroy more than it ever saves?”

  “Well, it would be a lot better than Emperor Nero fiddling in Rome while it burns! Or just slopping around in soap suds, taking pictures for magazines!”

  “Benjamin!” Wembly pleaded. “You have power! Use it to remind the enemy what life is worth—and, perhaps one day the enemy will not be so fast to destroy it! Can’t you see this? We do not know who they are! We cannot see them! We must try to reach the masses and outnumber them!”

  It was idealistic. It was heartfelt. But was it possible? Armed with nothing more than a bunch of magazine ads against a network of nuclear terrorists? Who was anybody kidding?

  Yet, as a designer, Wembly DeCroy had mastered the game of advertising. If it was psychological warfare they wanted, Benjamin could see a missile aiming right at their heads.

  Back in town that night, Ben wondered if staying alone at Ezra’s house on Main Street was something he’d ever get used to. He dreaded going inside now, greeted by silence so big it sucked him in like a huge feather pillow. Sleep. That’s what he needed, and plenty of it.

  Flipping on some music, he showered and washed off the day. If only forgetting everything was that easy, he thought. Finding a robe, he checked the fridge and found some of Esther’s casserole. Good old Esther. Still here. Still cooking. Still cleaning. Silent, loyal Esther. Every house needed one.

  Finding his favorite station, he crashed on the sofa and the music rolled over him. Music. Sofa. Cold casserole. Tired.

  So tired he didn’t hear the glass cutter on the window.

  So tired he didn’t hear the first foot stepping onto the floor. Or the second. Or the third and fourth.

  By the time his eyes broke open, two men in masks were coming out of the shadows and he could barely get on his feet.

  “Pretty Boy!” one of them laughed.

  “Shut up!” the other warned. Voices could be remembered. To remember anything, Ben knew it meant he’d have to be left alive. It was his last thought as he was pounded, smacked and kicked to the floor. Kicked in the ribs. Kicked in the gut before he could throw a few punches of his own. A fist bashed his face and he tasted blood. The crude, handwritten note they shoved up his butt put it bluntly: “Quit poking around where you don’t belong!”

  It was Esther who found him the next morning. “Ben? Bennie! Oh, no! No!” She rushed to him as fast as her arthritis would allow, wanting to lift him, rock him in her arms. “Bennie…your face!” she said, untying him. “Your—” she gasped at the blood. “Oh, no!” she said, covering him with his robe.

  “Don’t!” he moaned at her touch.

  “Can you make it to the bathroom?” she asked.

  Hacking up phlegm, pouring out a ragged sigh, he slumped against the arm of the sofa and managed, “My legs,” he said. “I can’t feel them.”

  Police? Hospital? Esther grabbed for the phone.

  “No!” he said.

  Disbelief on her face, she dropped it. “What?”

  “Wembly.”

  “You need a doctor!” she said.

  “I need Wembly!” he hissed, wobbling toward the bathroom. And it was Sarah she called.

  *

  Sunlight speared through venetian blinds now, as the two women tidied up the place, picking up scattered books, straightening lamp shades and ordering plants back to their workstations. Maybe plants didn’t do much besides grow, but they made a place nicer to be in.

  “He won’t go to a doctor,” Esther said.

  “Would you?” Sarah said, incredulously. “Just help me clean up this place. Look at all this!” Sarah cringed at the blood-soaked sofa. “Why? They didn’t rob anything. Why did they do it!”

  “To teach him a lesson. Why else?” she said, touching the mahogany of a Lindeman grand piano wounded during the night.

  “I’ll take care of that, Esther said. “A little furniture stain and some polish, and it’ll be good as new.”

  “Wish I could say the same for Bennie,” Sarah said, placing the feet of the piano bench into their impressions on the carpet.

  “Time heals all wounds,” Esther said, lifting the lid of the piano bench and counting the scores. “No matter where they are.” She was thinking of Ruthie. “Mary taught Ruthie how to play, you know. That girl used to sit here playing for hours.” Standing now, she ran sensitive fingers making shiny streaks along grand curves. “Ezra had me buy all her favorite songs so she could practice her singing. And I kept the piano—polished, just in case she ever came back.”

  “She never will,” Sarah said, pacing now. “Ben should sell this place.” A knife couldn’t have stabbed Esther deeper. “He belongs with me at
the farm. I need him.” Suddenly, she stopped. “Esther. Did Ezra ever say anything to you about the properties along The Ridge?”

  “No,” Esther shook her head. “Other than him and Ruthie hiking there a lot.” She pushed her glasses in place and stood limp, unobtrusive.

  “Well, I’m here now. I guess I should go through his papers and stuff.”

  At the talk of papers, Esther’s face went whiter than usual. “Oh! I can’t believe it! He wanted me to give you this and I forgot!” She ran for the kitchen, snatched up her purse and pulled out a letter. “It’s for Bennie.”

  “But it’s open,” Sarah said.

  “Well,” Esther confessed, “it wasn’t sealed.”

  “After you looked at it, you mean,” Sarah said and Esther had no comment. “So, are you gonna tell me, or do I get to read it, too?”

  In the scratchy, familiar writing, Ezra’s voice came back to her.

  “Dear Ben, Martin Luther King wasn’t the only one with a dream. I have one, too. Mine is to open a time capsule I planted a long time ago. I guess, if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t live long enough to find out. (That’s a joke.) But I’m not kidding when I say how much I love you. Promise me something, Ben. Just promise you won’t ever be ashamed of yourself, no matter what. Guilt can drive you to the nut house if you let it. Ask Mary. Don’t bother asking Ruthie, because she never understood any of that. (I’m joking again.) Please thank Sarah for being with me at the end. (I know she was.) Tell Esther I always knew. (She’ll know what I mean.) And you sure looked great in that new suit of yours, Lucky One. Remember those words with my love…Grandpa.”

  Through a blur of tears, Sarah held the letter in her lap and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll give this to him when he wakes up,” she said softly, her hands trembling, her stomach tight. “Let’s find those papers now.” She shook her head in disbelief. “All these years and I never asked him.”