F. Wilson - Secret Histories

“He would rather you didn’t. He prefers not to be touched.”

Jack looked around for a car or even another bike, but found none. “How’d you get here?” he said.

She smiled at him. “The usual way.”

Jack realized then that he might never get a straight answer from this old woman, so he bent to the task of ripping the traps from the ground and tossing

them into the spong.

After springing the last trap, Weezy joined him. Mrs. Clevenger and her dog watched until the last trap was in the drink.

Jack was panting a little from the effort, as was Weezy. A sweat sheened her face and arms.

“Good,” the old woman said. “I am proud of you both. But it’s time for you to go.”

“Why?”

“Because I hear the trapper coming.” Jack listened but heard only the incessant bug buzz of the Barrens.

“You sure?”

The old woman nodded. “Clear as day. He’l be very, very angry when he finds what we’ve done. So go now. Quickly.”

“Are you staying?” Weezy said.

She shook her head. “No. Though I don’t fear him, it’s best he doesn’t see me. I’l fol ow soon.” “It’s an awful long walk.”

“I’l return the way I arrived.” She made shooing motions with her knobby, veiny hands. “Now get. Get!”

They got.

They rode side by side along the firebreak trails, talking about Steve’s father and

Mrs. Clevenger and this and that until they connected with the end of

Quakerton Road in Old Town. They crossed the bridge, cut right onto North

Franklin, then stopped at Adams Drive. Here they’d part ways. Weezy lived on Adams and Jack up at the end of Franklin on Jefferson.

“I’ve got something for you,” she said in a low voice as she moved up close

beside him.

Another kiss?

“What?”

She reached into her bike basket and pul ed out two folded sheets of paper. She

looked around, then thrust them at Jack.

“Here. Put these in your pocket.”

He started to unfold them. “What—?”

“Look at them later! Just get them out of sight!”

Spurred by her urgent tone, he shoved them into a back pocket. “What’s going on?”

Weezy looked around again, then whispered, “I think someone was out in my

backyard last night.”

Jack felt a chil as he remembered his unlatched screen and the feeling that

someone had been in his room. But that had been Tom, right?

Right?

“You see anyone?”

“I saw a shadow that moved.”

“Could have been a deer.”

“Yeah, could have been. I hope so. But just in case, when I was in Medford this

morning, I had my mother drop me off at the library so I could Xerox

copies of the symbols on the pyramid and the pattern inside the cube.” Weezy and her mother had been driving to Medford every Friday morning al

summer long. Shopping, Jack guessed.

“Copies? Why?”

“In case someone steals mine.”

Jack couldn’t help rol ing his eyes. “Weez …”

“It’s part of the Secret History of the World, Jack. We’re not supposed to have it.

Doesn’t it make sense that the people who want that history kept

secret wil try to get it back?”

Jack didn’t like the way this was going.

“But who are these ‘people’?”

She shrugged. “How should I know? They’re secret, remember?” Secret … the word brought back his father’s comment about the Septimus

Lodge: It’sasecretsociety.

Could the Lodge be involved? After al , Weezy had found the cube next to a

dead member.

But why would whoever it was search his room? After al , Weezy was the one

who kept it and—

His stomach clenched when he remembered that Mr. Brussard was a

member—no, more than just a member. He’d cal ed himself “Lodge lore master.” And Jack had showed him the cube. If the Lodge was involved, they’d assume

Jack had it. And when they found out he didn’t, they’d move on to the next person involved.

Weezy.

He shook it off. Crazy to think like this. Come on. This was lame-o Johnson, New

Jersey. Nothing of any interest went on here. Especial y not things like that.

“Okay, I’l hide them in a safe place.”

She smiled. “Thanks. An ounce of prevention … you know the rest.” Jack did. And he’d do what he’d promised, even if it meant getting involved in

one of her weird theories. If she’d rest easier knowing he had copies, that was reason enough.

He glanced at the sun. Almost noon. Enough time to get home, grab a shower, and rush over to USED.

Tonight was another of those rare evenings when everyone was home for dinner. Mom and Dad sat at the ends of the oblong dining room table, with Kate

and Jack on one side, and Tom by himself on the other. Mom had made her Friday night meat loaf. She always mixed an envelope of Lipton’s Onion Soup

into the meat and Jack loved it. Add local corn on the cob and creamed spinach and he had heaven on a plate.

As Jack ate he looked for a way to bring up the latest death. Final y he found an opening.

“Remember what Mister Bainbridge said about never two deaths without three?”

Dad swal owed. “And like I said—an old wives’ tale.”

“But the death of that Assemblyman Vasquez makes three, right?”

“I suppose so.” Dad shrugged. “Every so often old wives’ tales work out, that’s why they never go away.” He looked thoughtful. “And this time not just

three random people, but three Lodgers.”

Jack almost dropped his fork. He’d half guessed the connection, but hearing it confirmed at his own dinner table came as a shock.

“He was in the Lodge too?”

Dad nodded. “Saw him there when they were trying to get me to join. Guess they thought it would impress me. It didn’t.”

Tom spoke around a mouthful. “You should’ve joined while you had the chance, Dad. They ever ask me, I’l join in a heartbeat.”

“I’m sure you wil .” Dad shook his head, then smiled. “I wonder what Ed Toliver wil have to say about another Lodger’s death?”

Tom forked a big piece of meat loaf into his mouth before replying—a habit that drove Jack up the wal . Most people swal owed their food, then spoke.

Tom rarely spoke without his mouth ful . Made him sound like a tard.

“Not much, I’d guess. He’s learning the hard way that you don’t mess with the Septimus Lodge.”

Kate looked up. “Oh?”

More meat loaf, then, “Toliver received notice today that his state income tax is being audited. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his requests for variances

and permits on that Mount Hol y shopping center he’s been working on have been sent back. He’s got to resubmit.”

“What’s that got to do with the Lodge?” Jack said.

Tom picked up an ear of corn and began chewing on it left to right like a machine-gun typewriter. Chomp-chomp-chomp.

“Everything,” he said between finishing the first row and attacking the second. “He cal ed the lodge out.” Another row— chomp-chomp-chomp. “He

demanded an investigation.” Chomp-chomp-chomp. “He drew attention to them.” Chomp-chomp-chomp. “Lodge no like attention.” Chomp-chompchomp. “Lodge is connected.” Chomp-chomp-chomp. “Lodge lower the boom on Mister Edward Toliver.”

“They’ve got that kind of power?” Jack said.

Tom nodded. “Ohhhhh, yeah.”

Dad narrowed his eyes. “Where’d you get al this information?”

A huge forkful of creamed spinach went in, then, “The legal grapevine, Dad. Word gets around fast: Judges talk to their clerks, the clerks talk to lawyers