“Just when the workmen are carting off the last box of garbage, I notice something in all the mess. It was a Bible, a pretty fancy leather-bound thing. Too nice for the trash heap, so I took it home with me. Didn’t think anything of it.
“About three months later, I happen to thumb through it. Know what? It wasn’t a Bible at all. Someone had cut the cover off and stuck it on this book. It was a diary.” Denton drummed his finger on the tabletop. “The diary of David Gowen.”
I had kind of been drifting off during Denton’s life story, but this snapped me back to the present. “His diary? What did it say?”
Denton shook his head. “Not much. I barely glanced through it at first. He was born in the early twentieth century, never married. He was a man of deep faith, he loved baseball, and suffered terribly from hemorrhoids. Apparently he also spoke out against Nazism before most Americans had even heard of Hitler.
“But in 1935, the entries started to get interesting,” Denton continued. “In August of that year, Rev. Gowen was approached by a man named Alanzo. A member of his congregation. This Alanzo was ‘in a state of great agitation,’ to quote the reverend. Seemed he’d become involved in some sort of secret society, and he feared for his safety.”
I was watching Denton with slack-jawed intensity. This was exciting. If I could survive the next few weeks, maybe I could write an article about this, after all. Would I have to share credit with Denton?
“Don’t get too excited,” he told me. “Secret societies were all the rage then. Half of Americans at the time were Masons, and the other half distrusted them. A lot of professional organizations would have ‘secret brotherhoods,’ though most of those were just excuses for the men to get away from their wives and drink. And of course, there was always the KKK.”
“Denton, something tells me this society wasn’t as harmless as the Masons.”
“Masons nothing, they weren’t even as harmless as the Klan.” Denton looked over his shoulder as if he expected to see someone listening. “This guy Alanzo called them the Northern Synod, but that probably wasn’t their real name.”
“What did they do?”
“The diary doesn’t really say. Maybe something sexual, like going to brothels, but Gowen didn’t expound on that point. What concerned him was that Alanzo claimed he’d been threatened when he tried to leave the organization. Said the founder, a fellow named Paul Saberhagen, implied he’d suffer harm if he quit. Alanzo asked Gowen to intercede on his behalf, try to talk some sense into Saberhagen.”
“Did he?”
A man in a vampire outfit passed close to our table and Denton waited until he was out of earshot. “Yes, he did, but he barely mentioned it in his diary. I don’t know what they talked about or how Saberhagen received our friend. But two weeks later, October of 1935, things began to get weird. This is where Gowen went into the greatest detail.
“He had been sitting alone in his office one night when he was attacked. A couple of guys broke into the building. One of them held his arms while the other worked him over. Broke two ribs. Then, when he thought the worst was over, one of them cut out the reverend’s eye with his own letter opener.” Denton paused. “The guy was Saberhagen’s bodyguard.”
I thought back to the nightmare I’d had. The man in my dream had a glass eye. How could I have known that? I remembered what Dan Cooper told me in the alley: The last man who ignored our warning lost an eye. But that had been over eighty years ago!
Denton continued his story. “Gowen tells the police they were robbers, don’t ask me why. Everyone seems to buy that, even though nothing was missing from the church. He gets his ribs taped and a glass eye fitted. But the attack obviously affected him. It’s all he wrote about in his journal from that point on. He was convinced Saberhagen attacked him as some sort of warning about meddling with the Northern Synod, or whoever the hell they were. On top of all that, Alanzo stopped coming to church. Gowen never saw him again.”
I had been steadily leaning forward. Denton had solved more of the mystery than I had hoped. Things seemed a little less scary, now that some of the secrets were out in the open. Except that was all ancient history. Why was I in so much trouble now?
“Then what happened?”
“Gowen took out an ad in a Columbia paper, asking anyone who was familiar with the Synod’s insignia to contact him. He didn’t mention what the insignia was in his diary, but it must have been recognizable. Three men answered the reverend and joined him in Columbia. I think you can guess who they were. The journal doesn’t tell what they had to do with the Synod or why they answered the ad, but they were intrigued enough to show up at Gowen’s church.”
Things were all falling into place. But how did relate to me? This Saberhagen guy would be long dead.
“So what did the four of them do?”
Denton removed his glasses. “I don’t know. Gowen made one last entry, saying they had decided on a radical course of action. That was the last page.”
“What?” Did the trail end here? Gowen was still alive as late as 1937. Why hadn’t he written down the most important part of his story?
“Well, it didn’t end, there were just no more pages. Whoever stuck the diary in the Bible only included part of it. There was probably more, but it had been cut away.”
“Jesus. Do you know anything else?” I was sweating. I wished I’d brought some paper to take notes. So what was a little personal risk when I was about to crack a big story like this? Once I’d published my findings (well, our findings), Dan wouldn’t dare touch me. The publicity would protect me.
“I don’t know much more. Saberhagen was a real guy, a bit of a big wheel in northern Missouri in the twenties and thirties. Had his finger in many pies. Businesses, politics, civic organizations. Bit of a bastard, actually. He had a private security team break up a strike at one of his factories, three people got killed. There was also a rumor that he had supported the Italian Fascist Party before World War II.”
“Did you find out anything about the Synod?”
“No, nothing. Saberhagen died in 1943, apparent stroke. He was sixty. But there was one odd little detail.”
Denton paused and I made hurry up gestures. This was getting good.
“The account of his funeral said he was buried in Irontown, Missouri, near where he grew up.”
“So?”
“So, there is no Irontown, Missouri. Not now, not in the forties. The best I could come up with was an Irontown Logging Camp up north, but it shut down before the Civil War.”
“Could it have been a mistake?”
Denton shook his head. “It was his funeral announcement. Saberhagen was important enough that they wouldn’t have misprinted it.”
I whistled. “Did you ever go to the logging camp site? There could still be a graveyard there, they sometimes outlast a town.”
“I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
I was about to ask him why not, when I noticed something on his wrist. My stomach knotted. “Denton? What’s that?”
Denton tried to cover it up with his sleeve, but quickly realized it was too late. Sheepishly, he lowered the sleeve again, allowing me to see the plastic bracelet. ‘Dubbs, Denton D. Fulton Psychiatric Hospital.’
“Tell me you work there.”
“Would you believe me?”
“No.”
Denton laughed, the embarrassed laugh of a man caught in a white lie. “It’s not what you think. I mean, it is what you think, but it’s not…”
“Before you go all politician on me, Dubbs, how did you get out?” I was too discouraged to sugarcoat the question.
“Oh, that. I didn’t escape, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m allowed occasional unsupervised trips.” He said this almost proudly.
“Really? Um, am I to assume that you’re there voluntarily?” Maybe he was just an alcoholic or suffered from depression. Maybe his whole story wasn’t an elaborate hallucination.
Denton removed his sunglasses and
began polishing them on his shirt. Eventually, he spoke.
“No. I’m there forcibly. But I don’t belong in there. I was set up.” He had a slight desperation in his voice, as if I were not believing a completely logical story.
“Set up.” My attention wandered over to a semi-attractive girl in a Starfleet uniform. I really wanted to believe Denton. It was a comfort to know that someone was interested in my safety, and he certainly knew a lot more about Rev. Gowen and company than I did. But a mental patient?
“Denton, how did you get my name?”
“Internet. Those Missouri history sites you posted on. I hope you’ve had the sense to remove your messages, I’m sure that’s how your persecutors located you.”
“Of course.” Well, I’d meant to.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” asked Denton. “You think I just made all this up and wasted your time?”
“Denton, you certainly know a lot about the Rev. Gowen. It’s just that, in light of your, ah, situation…”
“My situation?” He looked truly offended. “Let me tell you something about my situation, Andrews. When I found that diary, I thought it seemed like an interesting story. So I started poking around, doing a little research, seeing what else I could find out. And then, one night, I come home from work. There’s a couple of guys in ski masks, waiting in my living room. They knock me around a bit, put a knife to my throat, and tell me to lay off.”
“So what did you do?” Denton’s story sounded familiar. Too familiar. It was like he was retelling my own experiences with himself as the main character.
He didn’t catch the disbelief in my question. “I called the cops. They were very helpful, very professional. Two weeks later, the police show up at my work and haul my ass to a mental facility. I’d been declared legally insane! It’s all very official, but no one can tell me who signed the committal papers and ordered me locked away. Someone made me out to be delusional and paranoid, just to shut me up.”
I didn’t answer. This guy seemed to know a lot about local history, but I wasn’t buying this story about why he was in the hospital. Every patient in that facility probably believed they were being conspired against.
Denton stopped talking and looked down at his hospital ID. “Wouldn’t expect you to believe me.” He had an almost theatrical look of offended dignity on his face. “You probably think I spend the day banging my head against a padded wall and drooling.”
“That’s crazy, man.”
Denton cocked an eyebrow at me. There was an awkward pause, then we both laughed.
“Mr. Andrews, could you do me one favor?”
I was afraid he was going to ask for a ride back to the asylum. “What?”
Denton handed me a folded piece of loose-leaf paper. “That’s the location, near as I can tell, of the Irontown logging camp. I’m not allowed to drive and I’m not supposed to leave the county. But you can. Sometime could you go out there and see if you can find Saberhagen’s grave, or anything else?”
“Why? What good would that do?”
He motioned me closer. “Andrews, it’s important. More important than you think. Just go there, and tell me if his grave looks…normal.”
“Normal in what way?”
“Like no one’s been messing with it since World War II. Please? It would make me feel a lot better.” His eyes were huge, supplicating.
“I’ll see. Right now I’m more concerned about my own self.” Denton certainly wasn’t acting like a sane man. What possible information did he expect me to find in a cemetery?
Denton nodded. “I’m going to call a taxi. If you find out anything, or need me for any reason, give me a call at the hospital. Number’s on the paper. I can take calls from nine till nine.”
“Denton, could I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“This is awkward…but if you don’t like being in the hospital, why go back? Why not run?” I immediately wished I hadn’t said that. Maybe he’d think that was a good idea and ask for my help.
My companion replaced his glasses and grinned. “Where would I go? In four months I can apply for release. If I tried to escape, I could kiss that goodbye.” He stood up. “Of course, as a former mental patient, I’ll be lucky to get a job raking leaves.”
Denton started to walk away and two guys marched between us. They were dressed in what appeared to be fake fur coats and helmets made out of jumbo coffee cans, with wooden antlers sticking out of the sides.
“You must chop down the mightiest tree in the forest,” said one, with a strange falsetto and affected British accent, “with a herring!”
“Ni! Ni!” his companion answered gleefully.
Denton watched the pair with amazement, then turned to go, shaking his head.
“And I’m the one they locked up.”
– Chapter Ten –
The sun hung like a gigantic ball of super-dense hydrogen on the western horizon as L.J. and I sped north on Highway VV. Highway 54 would have taken us back to Columbia quicker, but L.J. must have wanted to drive the scenic route. The windows were down and the evening breeze swirled through the car, a refreshing mixture of summer wind, fast food and tobacco. L.J. attempted to light a cigarette with a match. It took him several tries, during which he never touched the steering wheel.
“Did you take care of business at the convention?” L.J. puffed on his smoke and groped around on the seat for a CD.
“Yeah.” I didn’t feel like conversation.
“Were you meeting someone?”
“Yeah.” A mental patient. I pretended to be interested in a road map. It was so old, it had a photo of John Ashcroft as Governor of Missouri. Someone had written ‘I’m watching you,’ in a balloon over his head.
The functioning dashboard speaker blared to life. Apparently we were listening to a CD of Dr. Demento’s Greatest Novelty Songs. Steve Martin’s King Tut pumped out of the speakers.
“So what was that all about?” L.J. pressed.
“Nothing.”
“Hey, you’re not still pissed at me?” he asked, just before we were rammed from behind.
Its lights were off so we never saw the black vehicle coming. There was no telling how long it had followed us. Now that we were on a deserted stretch of winding two-lane road, the driver made his move. Accelerating rapidly, he had smashed into our rear bumper.
L.J, who had not been wearing a seatbelt, banged his forehead on the wheel. His cigarette popped out of his mouth and began smoldering on the dash. “What the hell!” he bellowed.
We’d been doing over sixty. The assailant hadn’t been driving much faster than that, but it still took L.J. a few seconds to regain total control of his car.
I spun in the seat. The outline of the dark car was fast approaching again in the fading light, and I could just make out the bulk of the driver.
“That son of a bitch hit us on purpose!” howled L.J, purple with rage. “He’s trying to do it again! Jesus!”
My testicles retreated inside my body. I had a pretty fair idea of who was in the car behind us and why he was trying to run us off the road.
“It’s the Northern Synod,” I babbled. “I know about what they did to Reverend Gowen. They don’t want me finding out more about Saberhagen.”
Despite the emergency driving conditions, L.J. managed to shoot me a baffled look. “Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do.” He hit the gas.
Highway VV was almost completely empty. There were no streetlights and the road made a series of sharp turns and curves as it wandered its way north. This was hardly the place to engage in a high-speed chase, but we didn’t have much of a choice.
Steve Martin serenaded us as the speedometer climbed to eighty. Our tires squealed like the damned as we careened between the solid yellow stripes and the gravel shoulder.
Fifty yards behind us, the pursuant flipped on the brights and floored it. His car must have been ten years newer than ours and had probably known the occasional tune up. He was go
ing to catch up with us and this was not a situation covered in the AAA driving guide.
L.J. released the wheel to retrieve his still-smoking cigarette. If a car had come from the other direction at that moment, the state troopers would be calling our parents in the morning. In the rearview mirror, the other car was slowly gaining.
“Five more miles,” hissed L.J, his teeth pulled back in a rictus around his smoke. “Then we hit Kingdom City. He won’t follow us into town.”
My sweaty hand touched the cracked vinyl of the dashboard and wondered what it would be like to smash my face into it. The speedometer now said ninety. One tap at that speed and both cars would probably roll over.
As the last rays of sunshine disappeared beyond the horizon, we found ourselves on a straight and narrow stretch of road. Suddenly, L.J. smacked the brakes so hard we almost turned sideways before coming to rest on the shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed. Behind us, our pursuer screeched to a halt, about sixty feet south.
L.J. wore an expression that would have made even Dan step back. “I’m going to bash that bitch’s face in, that’s what.” He groped behind him on the floorboard until he came up with a tire iron.
He stepped out of his car and stood in the glow of the dark car’s high beams, tapping the weapon in his palm. I couldn’t see anything but the dim form of the car behind its blinding headlights. For a few seconds the scene froze, with the highly inappropriate strains of ‘May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose’ streaming from the speakers.
I didn’t hear the gunshot over the radio, but when the side mirror exploded about half a foot from L.J’s gut, it wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. L.J. somehow managed to get the car moving before he was all the way back inside. “Change of plans,” he said calmly, slamming his door and spitting his cigarette out the window.
The lights behind us were fast approaching and our car wasn’t much for acceleration. Pretending not to notice the Christmasy display of red lights blinking on the instrument panel, I looked over at my friend. Maybe he knew some way to get out of the mess I’d gotten us into.
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