Secret Histories yrj-1
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“Why’d he cal you ‘Deadeye’?” he asked as his father unbuttoned his shirt.
“Did he?”
“Yeah. Does that mean you were a good shot in the army?”
He slipped out of his suit pants and hung them on a hanger. He was wearing light blue boxer shorts beneath.
“We don’t discuss the army or the war, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.”
“Walt told me he was in a mental hospital once.”
Dad gave him a sharp look. “When?”
“After the war.”
“No, I mean, when did he tel you?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Why was he in?”
“From what Kurt tel s me, he came home from ‘Nam saying he could heal people with a touch. The VA hospital in Northport diagnosed him as a
paranoid schizophrenic, but harmless. He joined a faith-healing tent show in the South, and Kurt was told some wild story about him real y curing people
until his drinking got him kicked off the tour. They say he’s harmless, but stil … keep your distance.”
Heal with a touch … was that why he wore gloves al the time?
As Jack watched his father hang up his pants, he spotted the metal box on the top shelf of the closet. He’d seen it a mil ion times but now it took on
special significance.
“What’s in the box?” He’d asked before but it never hurt to try again. “Nothing important.”
“You always say that.”
He pul ed off his undershirt and Jack spotted the scar where he’d had his appendix removed.
“That’s because the contents don’t change.”
Jack was sure now that Dad kept his marksman medals and other cool army stuff hidden there.
First chance he got, he was going to sneak a peek.
8
After dinner, Jack turned on the living room television and started switching through the channels. Cable TV had arrived in Johnson during the winter, and
Jack’s family had signed up the instant their street was wired. For as long as he could remember, Dad had been complaining about the poor reception
from their aerial. At last he had a cure.
The real y neat thing about cable TV was the remote that came with the box. Their living room set was an older model where you had to get up and
cross the room if you wanted to change the channel. Al he had to do now was stand back and press a button. He loved it.
An al -news channel cal ed CNN was on, showing some comments by President Reagan fol owed by a story on Hurricane Alicia. Tom stopped to watch
on his way out the door. Jack kept an eye on him in case he had some sort of vengeance in mind for the pistachio episode.
After a few minutes his brother said, “An al -news channel? Whose stupid idea was that? Won’t last a year—I guarantee it.” Then he turned to Jack.
“And don’t think you’re home free, numbnuts. I never forget. Reprisal is on the way. It’l hit when Miracle Boy least expects it.”
Jack waggled his hand. “Ooooh, I’m shaking.”
Tom’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to throw a punch. Jack readied himself for evasive maneuvers.
But Tom only pointed a finger and said, “It’s coming. Get ready.”
As he slammed out the front door, Jack resumed switching channels. He’d decided to skip Steve’s tonight and catch some TV—maybe Cheersand
Taxi.They were always good for a laugh.
“Hold it,” Dad said.
Jack jumped and looked around. He hadn’t heard him come in.
His father pointed to the set. “Go back one.”
Jack did and saw a man in a blue blazer, a light blue shirt, and a patterned yel ow tie sitting at a desk and talking to the camera. His hair looked funny:
He’d parted it just above his right ear and combed it al the way across the top of his balding scalp to end above his left year.
“Who’s that?”
“Ed Toliver,” Dad said, snorting. “Mister Big Shot, tel ing everyone the surefire way to get rich in real estate.”
Carson’s father … that was why he looked familiar.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“According to him, the only sure way is to give him your money and have him invest it for you—and then let him take a hefty cut of the profits.”
Jack stared at the screen. “Wel , he must do pretty wel if they’ve got him on TV.”
Another snort from Dad. “That’s a public access channel run by the local cable company. Toliver gets a weekly slot because he claims his show is
educational. My eye.”
“You want to listen?” Jack prayed his father would say no.
“You kidding? See what else is on.”
As Jack’s thumb moved toward the channel button, he heard Mr. Toliver say, “I’d liketoclosetonight’sinstallmentalittledifferentlythanusual—witha
fewimportantremarksabouttheSeptimusLodge.”
He paused to listen.
“Iknowthiswillsoundstrangecomingfromabroadcastaboutrealestate,butI feelitmydutytospeakout.Thisweekhaspresenteduswiththree
deadmembersoftheSeptimusLodge.Onewasmurderedyearsago,andthe pasttwodayshavewitnessedthesuddendeathsoftwomore.”
Jack spun to face his father. “Was Mister Haskins in the Lodge?”
When his dad nodded, Jack turned back to the screen. Haskins was a member too! And he’d visited another Lodger last night—Mr. Brussard.
“Ithinkwe’relongoverdueforanswersfromtheSeptimusLodge.Diditorany ofitsmembershaveanythingtodowiththemurderofAntonBoruff?
AlthoughthecauseofdeathofmembersSumterandHaskinsappearsnatural,it seemsoddthattheycoincidesocloselywiththediscoveryof
AntonBoruff’scorpse.Idon’tknowaboutyou,butIhavequestions—questions thatwillnotbeansweredifIaloneaskthem.ThatiswhyIamcalling
forapublicinquiryintotheSeptimusLodge.”
“He should know better than that,” Dad muttered.
“Why?” Jack asked.
“Because he’s not going to get anywhere.”
“Inthisdayandageofafreeandopensociety,thereisnoplaceforexclusive andelitistsecretbrotherhoodsliketheSeptimusLodge.Haven’twe
learnedanylessonsfromWatergate?Orarewedoomedforevertogoon repeatingthesamemistakes?ThatiswhyIamcallingontheSeptimus
Lodgetoopenitsrecordstothepublic.Andiftheywillnotdosovoluntarily, thenIamcallingontheBurlingtonCountyDAandthestateattorney
generaltoinitiatelegalactiontoforcethemtodoso.Whathavetheygotto hide?”
Jack turned to his father. “Do you real y think the Lodge has anything to do with—?”
Dad shrugged. “How can I answer that? Nobody except its members knows anything about the Lodge—and there, I believe, lies the crux of Toliver’s
little tirade.”
“He doesn’t like secrecy?”
“No. I think he’d love the Lodge’s secrecy if he was in on it, but he’s not. They gave him a thumbs-down when he tried to join and I don’t think he’s ever
forgiven them.”
That surprised Jack. “But, like you said, he’s a big-shot real estate guy. I’d think they’d wanthim.”
Dad shrugged again. “Everything about that Lodge crew is odd. Membership is by invitation only. But they’re not like some exclusive country club that
admits only folks of a certain religion and a certain color with a bank account of a certain size. They’ve got whites, blacks, yel ows, Jews, Catholics—you
name it. Rich, poor, and everything between.”
“Then what was wrong with Mister Toliver?”
“Who knows?” Dad smiled. “Maybe they don’t like his comb-over.”
Jack wasn’t sure if asking might embarrass his dad, but he needed to know.
“Did you ever try to join?”
“Me? Nah! They tried to rope me in back in the early seventies—used a ful -court press—but I wasn’t interested.”
<
br /> Jack stared at his father in shock. “They asked you?”
Dad laughed. “What? You say that like you think there’s something wrong with me.”
“No … I just … I don’t know … you never said anything.”
“What for? We went ‘round and ‘round for about a year, them asking, giving me tours of the Lodge—”
“You’ve been inside? What’s it like?”
“A lot of old furniture, odd paintings, and that strange sigil everywhere you look.”
“What’s a sigil?”
“Their seal—the thing over their front door. They must love it because it’s on everything.”
Jack shuddered. “Yeah, even its members.”
“Oh, so you heard about that.”
“Yeah. That dead body we found had one, and I saw it on Mister Sumter’s back after they gave up trying to revive him. Burned into their backs—ugh!”
“If that’s part of being a Lodge member, they didn’t mention it to me. But let me tel you, even if I’d wanted in, that would have changed my mind. That
would have been a deal-breaker.”
“I can’t believe you turned them down. They say anybody who’s somebody is a member.”
Dad smiled. “Wel , maybe I’m as much a somebody as I want to be. Besides, it’s easy to say anybody who’s somebody is a Lodger because no one
knows their membership. They’re secretive as al hel about that and everything else. I mean, if an individual member wants it known that he belongs, he’s
free to tel anybody who’l listen. But if not, it remains a secret guarded like Fort Knox.”
Jack shook his head. “But I stil don’t see why you didn’t join.”
Dad shrugged and headed back toward the kitchen.
“It’s a secret society. Too many secrets can wear you down.”
Wearyoudown?Jack thought after he was gone. Did that mean hehad secrets? How many?
9
“That’s gotta be the suckiest game ever made,” Steve said as they walked through the growing darkness.
“I thought the Pac-ManI got last year was bad,” Jack said, shaking his head, “but this was even worse.”
He and Steve had spent the last couple of hours on Eddie’s Atari trying to make sense of his ET:TheExtra-Terrestrialgame.
Steve waved his arms. “How do you take such a great movie and make a boring game out of it. Boooooring!”
This was the Steve Brussard Jack had grown to like over the past few years—funny, kind of loud, and very opinionated.
“And who designed ET? He looked like a pile of green Legos.”
Steve shook his head. “Enough to drive you to drink.”
Uh-oh.
Jack landed a friendly punch on his shoulder. “Come on. We had laughs without any of that.”
“Yeah, but we’d’ve had more with a toot or two. But it turns out you were right.”
“About what?”
“The booze. My old man asked me today if I’d been ‘sampling’ any of it.”
“What’d you tel him?”
He grinned. “‘Who, me?’”
“Which means you need to stay away from it—unless you’re looking to get busted.”
Jack hated sounding like Steve’s conscience, but he didn’t mean it that way. He was talking common sense here. When you see someone heading for
the edge of a cliff, you warn him.
“I amstaying away. Got no choice. He locked the liquor cabinet.”
“But what if he hadn’t?”
Steve grinned. “Wel then—different story.”
“Wel , then, maybe it’s a good thing it’s locked.”
“Wait,” Steve said, stopping and looking at him. “You think I’ve got some kind of drinking problem?”
Jack hesitated, then went ahead. “Wel , you’ve been hitting it pretty hard.” “There’s no problem, Jack. I just like it, is al . I can stop anytime I want.” Jack decided to back off. He wasn’t getting through anyway.
They resumed their journey toward Steve’s house—maybe tonight they’d make some real progress on the Heathkit—and were just crossing Quakerton
Road when Steve pointed off to their left.
“You see that?”
Jack fol owed his point but saw nothing.
“What?”
“A guy walking toward the lake. Looked like my dad.”
Real y …?
Jack looked again. Streetlights were few and far between in Johnson so it might be a while before whoever it was passed under another.
“Does he go out for walks much?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Probably not him then. But just for the heck of it, why don’t we fol ow and see?”
Because if it was Mr. Brussard, Jack wanted to know what he was up to.
His stomach tingled as they hung a left and hurried along. Tracking an unsuspecting man … kind of cool.
Then a strol ing figure passed under a light ahead.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Steve said. “Let’s catch up.”
Jack spotted a light in Steve’s eyes. He seemed to real y like his dad.
Jack felt a growing sense of disappointment. Mr. B wasn’t doing anything other than walking. Looked like he was heading for Old Town, most likely to
the Lodge.
They were getting closer as he came to the Old Town bridge, but instead of crossing over he veered right.
Interesting.
Quaker Lake was real y a pond, but “lake” sounded better with Quaker. It had a sort of dumbbel shape with the bridge crossing the narrow point. Mr.
Brussard stood on the bank of the south section, staring across at the Lodge on the far side.
As they approached Jack saw him reach into a pants pocket, pul something out, and throw it into the lake.
Whoa! What was that al about?
Jack mental y marked the location of the splash. He might want to come back sometime.
After another moment or two of staring—watching the ripples fade?—Mr. B turned and looked around and spotted them. He looked surprised and
concerned, but his tone was pleasant.
“Hey! What are you two doing here?”
“We were on our way home and saw you,” Steve said.
Before Mr. B could answer, a stocky man with longish black hair strol ed up. They shook hands and Mr. B introduced him as Assemblyman Vasquez.
Vasquez … Mr. B had mentioned him last night. Jack had the impression this was a prearranged meeting because neither seemed surprised to see
the other.
“Mr. Vasquez and I have things to discuss back at the house. What are you boys up to?”
“We’re gonna work on the computer,” Steve said.
“I think I’l take a rain check on that,” Jack blurted. “I’ve got a couple of lawns to do early tomorrow.”
True, but not why he was begging off.
“Later,” he said, and trotted away.
But instead of heading home he began running through the shadows. Sure as night fol ows day they’d be walking back along Quakerton Road. To avoid
it he cut through backyards, setting more than one family dog to barking. Jack wanted to reach the Brussard house first.
10
Now I amacting like a boy detective, he thought as he crouched in the shadows of the Brussards’ yard. How lame is this?
But so what? He had nothing better to do. TV offered only summer reruns anyway.
The man he’d seen with Mr. Brussard last night had dropped dead, and now this Vasquez guy they’d mentioned shows up. He sensed something going
on, but couldn’t say what.
No way he could talk to his folks about it—they’d think he was crazy.
Hey,Dad,there’sthisthingcalledaklazenthat’skillingmembersoftheLodge andMisterBrussardthinkshecanprotectpeopleagainstitbuthe’s