F. Wilson - Secret Histories

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 want him.”

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.”

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 he had secrets? How many?

“That’s gotta be the suckiest game ever made,” Steve said as they walked through the growing darkness.

“I thought the Pac-Man I 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-Terrestrial game.

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 am staying 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.