F. Wilson - Secret Histories

possible from Old Town on the east, its residents had started cal ing their neighborhood “New Town.” The name never caught on with anyone else.

A little after nine-thirty, Weezy swung by Jack’s place with the cube and the two of them biked down Quakerton Road. They had plenty of time so they

rode slowly, weaving back and forth as they talked.

Jack told her what Kate had said about the identity of the corpse and how he had the Lodge’s seal branded on his back.

“The Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order,” Weezy said, shaking her head. “Should have known.”

“Why should you have known?”

“Al right, I should have guessed when you said ritual murder.”

Jack’s stomach did a flip. “They kil people?”

Weezy shrugged. “Who knows what they do? They’re rumored to have al sorts of rituals. I’ve tried to read up on the order but there’s almost no hard

facts. Lots of theories, but it’s so secretive no one seems to know much for sure. One thing that’s certain is the Ancient Septimus Order is real y and truly

ancient. Lots older than the Masons.”

“The masons? You mean bricklayers?”

Weezy rol ed her eyes. “No, another secret society. The order has lodges al over the world and they cal the shots in many places. Like New Jersey, for

instance. It’s said nothing gets done in this state unless the Lodge approves. Everybody chalks it up to corruption, but it’s the Lodge.”

Jack had to laugh. “C’mon, Weez! We’re talking about Johnson, New Jersey, here. The butt end of nowhere. If this order is oh-so-powerful, don’t you

think it’d set up in Trenton or Newark? I mean, anywhere but Johnson.”

Weezy gave him that tolerant smile she used when she was about to tel someone what she thought everyone should already know.

“The Lodge wasn’t built in Johnson … Johnson—or Quakerton, as it was cal ed back then—was built around the Lodge.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Lodge was here first. Some say it was here even before Columbus came to the Americas, but no one can prove that.”

“How can that be? Look at the building. It can’t be that old.”

Another eye rol . “Ever hear of rebuilding and remodeling? Anyway, some accounts—and I can’t say how reliable they are—say that members had

settled themselves around the Lodge in what they cal ed Quakerton—what we now cal Old Town—long before the Pilgrims arrived.”

“How is that possible?”

“Wel , it’s pretty wel accepted that the Norse and even Irish had settlements in North America in the eleventh century. Who’s to say who else was

around? But here’s what’s real y interesting: If the Lodge’s settlement was already here when the Pilgrims arrived in 1620, how could they have cal ed it

Quakerton when the first Quakers didn’t even exist until 1647?”

Jack said, “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like pretty good proof that somebody”—his turn to give a look—”has her dates screwed up.”

“Maybe it meant something else. Maybe their idea of a Quaker wasn’t our idea of a Quaker.”

Jack found that unsettling, but couldn’t say why.

“And another thing—” She stopped and pointed. “Look!”

They’d reached the light at the highway, and Jack saw what had caught her attention. The flashing lights of a pair of cop cars and an ambulance were

spinning like mad at Sumter’s used cars across 206.

He looked at Weezy, she at him, and they both nodded.

Jack led the way across the highway and into the car lot where they stopped behind two deputies. Both were watching a guy and a woman from the

volunteer first-aid squad work on an unconscious man who lay spread-eagled on the pavement. They’d torn open his shirt and slipped some kind of

plastic board under his back. The first-aid guy was on his knees, thumping on the man’s chest while the woman held a face mask over his nose and

mouth and squeezed a footbal -shaped bag to pump air into his lungs.

Jack wondered who it could be. He noticed one of the deputies was Tim but didn’t dare ask him. He’d shoo them away for sure.

The first-aid guy was bathed in sweat. He stopped thumping and listened to the chest while pressing two fingers against the man’s throat. Then he

leaned back and looked at his watch.

“Twenty minutes of CPR and nothing. He’s a goner.” Another look at his watch. “I’m pronouncing him at nine-forty-seven.”

The deputies pul ed out pads and pens and made notes as the woman first-aider removed the mask. The dead man’s face was white, his mouth hung

open, and his glassy eyes stared at nothing.

Jack and Weezy gasped in unison when they recognized Mr. Sumter. Tim must have heard, because he turned and saw them.

“Okay, you two. Move on. Nothing to see here.”

Jack said, “What happened?”

“Looks like a heart attack.” He waved them off. “Come on, now. Get going. Clear the area. Haven’t you two seen enough dead bodies this week?”

That startled Jack. It hadn’t occurred to him. Come to think of it, he and Weezy had seen two dead people in less than forty-eight hours.

Wow.

As they were wheeling away he glanced back just as the first-aiders were rol ing Mr. Sumter onto his side to remove the plastic board from under him.

His shirt had ridden up, revealing a symbol scarred into his back.

The seal of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order.

Two dead men … both Lodgers. But they couldn’t possibly be connected.

Could they?

2

Jack led the way to Professor Nakamura’s place.

He lived on Emerson Lane, home to Johnson’s biggest houses, and the only

street in town that ended in a cul-de-sac. The so-cal ed New Town used to be Eppinger’s sod farm, and so it had no native trees. Any oaks and maples in

sight had been trucked in and planted by the homeowners. A cornfield

stretched to the north, the leaves on the green stalks waving gently in the

breeze. To the south lay an orchard, its trees sagging with fruit.

The professor answered the door and welcomed them in. A chubby little man

with a round face, gold-rimmed glasses, short black hair graying at the temples, he led them to a library. Al sorts of stone heads and statuettes vied for

space with the books crammed on the shelves. A big window overlooked a sand garden in his backyard. Three big lava stones of varying sizes had been

set at odd intervals, and the sand had been raked into curving patterns around them. Jack liked the effect. Very peaceful.

“Now, what have you brought me?” the professor said in a soft, accented voice

as he seated himself behind a mahogany desk. Jack recognized it as

mahogany because Mr. Rosen had been teaching him about the different kinds

of wood that went into the old furniture in his store. “Mister Rosen says I wil find it very interesting.”

Weezy handed Jack the cube. He placed it on the desk blotter and opened it. The professor stared at the pyramid for a moment, then ran his hands over its

surface. He removed a magnifying glass from a drawer and gave it a

quick once-over.

“You found this in the woods?” He spoke without looking up.

“Yes.” Weezy glanced at Jack. “We dug it out of something that might be a burial

mound.”

He grunted and continued his examination. “Real y. And you think it is … what?

Some sort of ancient artifact?”

“We don’t know,” Jack said. “That’s why we brought it to you.” Professor Nakamura grunted again, then put down the pyramid, took off his

glasses, and looked at them. His lips were pursed like he’d just bitten into a lemon.