F. Wilson - Secret Histories

“If they are back together,” Jack said, “I’l bet they’re right here in town.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?”

“In the Lodge.”

“Why?”

“Because the Lodge is involved.”

Jack remembered what his brother had said about messing with the Lodge, how they had influence in high places. Tom wasn’t an ideal source, but he

seemed to know the score on the Lodge.

He added, “Maybe they’re doing it themselves, or maybe they’re just pul ing the strings, but they’re involved. Gotta be.”

Weezy was nodding. “You’re right. The Septimus Order has lodges al over the country—al over the world.” Her eyes narrowed. “You told Mister

Brussard that the pyramid had gone to U of P?”

“Yeah. Wednesday night when I showed it to Steve.”

“The Lodge must have someone inside. They might have tried to steal the pyramid there but found out it had been shipped to the Smithsonian. So they

had one of their people in Washington grab it from the mailroom. Then, after it’s stolen, someone starts digging up the mound, and while that’s going on,

someone steals the cube and everything related to it.”

“Not everything,” Jack reminded her.

“Right.” She smiled without humor. “I remember that look you gave me when I handed you the copies. You thought I was crazy.”

“Crazy, no. But definitely …” He searched for the word. “Eccentric.”

Another smile, this one warmer. “Eccentric I accept.” She sighed. “But just say al that’s true, what can we do about it?”

“Haven’t a clue. No way we can get into the Lodge for a look. The place is like a fortress.”

And even if he could find a way in, Jack doubted he had the nerve to make use of it. He had a feeling he might never get out.

“Helpless!” Weezy spoke through clenched teeth. “I hate being helpless!”

So did Jack, but he figured every obstacle had a way around it. You just had to find it. No such thing as an insurmountable object, just people who gave

up too soon.

Just then, a sheriff’s patrol car turned off the highway and cruised into town. Jack recognized Tim behind the wheel.

“Hey, Weez, want to report a theft?”

“No way. He could be a Lodger for al we know. And even if he’s not, you can bet someone above him is. Don’t waste your breath. Besides, we weren’t

supposed to have something from a crime scene in the first place.”

She had a point. But Jack wanted to ask Tim something, so he flagged him down.

“Hey, Tim,” he said as the car stopped.

“Hey, Jack. What’s up?”

“Lot of commotion in the Barrens last night.”

Tim frowned. “First I’ve heard about it.”

“Yeah. Couple of helicopters with searchlights hanging over the trees. I could be wrong, but it looked like they were concentrating on that place where

we found that body.”

“Helicopters? Probably from Lakehurst.”

“Didn’t look like it. These were black.” He motioned to Weezy who was hanging back by her bike. “Weezy saw them too, didn’t you, Weez?”

She nodded but said nothing and moved no closer.

“And then,” he added, “I saw some cop cars driving into the Pines—three state police cruisers.”

That last part wasn’t exactly true. The troopers had probably entered the Barrens without going through Johnson, but Jack had seen them in there.

Tim’s frowned deepened. “Staties? The sheriff never mentioned any activity out here.”

Jack faked a relieved sigh. “Wel , then, I guess everything’s okay. But you know how it is. People see al that commotion and they start worrying about

some sort of escaped convict hiding out in the Pines.”

Tim shook his head. “No worry there. No escapees running around. But I’m going to look into this. The state’s supposed to coordinate with the sheriff

when they run an operation in the county.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Jack said, trying to look uninterested. “Just wondering.”

As Tim cruised away Jack saw him pick up the hand-piece of his police radio and start talking.

Exactly what he’d hoped he’d do.

When he reached Weezy, she said, “I don’t know if that was such a good idea. What if he starts asking the wrong people and they want to know where

he got his information? When they hear it’s two kids, a boy and a girl, they may come looking.”

He shrugged. “I woke up worrying about that, but now I don’t think it’s a problem. If they want to keep that operation a secret, the last thing they’l do is

come into town and cause a scene. We’re just ‘dumb piney kids,’ remember? So who’s going to listen to us anyway, right?”

“I suppose.” She hunched her shoulders as if feeling a chil . “I just wonder where we’d be right now if we hadn’t got away.”

“I suppose.” She hunched her shoulders as if feeling a chil . “I just wonder where we’d be right now if we hadn’t got away.”

Jack decided not to wonder. That kind of thinking did nothing but crowd the brain with useless thoughts that went nowhere and accomplished nothing.

He preferred to think about their next step and what it could be. Then he remembered something he’d seen Thursday night.

He turned to Weezy. “How do you feel about going for a swim?”

They rode to Quaker Lake. Along the way Jack told Weezy about seeing Mr.

Brussard throw something in on Thursday night.

She smiled. “Which Hardy Boy do you think you are—Joe or Frank?” This Hardy Boy thing was getting annoying.

“Why does everybody have to say that?”

“Everybody?”

“Okay, just two—you and my father. But when you consider I’ve only told two

people about what I overheard, two out of two makes a hundred percent.” “Wel , what do you expect? Sneaking around, eavesdropping from bathrooms,

spying on a suspected murderer through a window”—her grin

broadened—”looking for clues. If that’s not a Hardy Boy wannabe, I don’t know

what is.”

She giggled. Weezy never giggled. A nice sound. But she was getting on his

nerves.

“Okay. Fine. Swel —”

“See! You even say ‘swel ’! Nobody says swel anymore—except maybe a Hardy

Boy.”

Maybe he’d been reading too many of those old pulp magazines, but he didn’t

think so.

“Lots of people say ‘swel .’”

She laughed. “Next you’l be cal ing Steve your ‘chum’!”

Jack felt a sudden heaviness. “Yeah … Steve.”

Her grin faded. “Have you done anything about him?”

“Not yet. There’s been a lot going on.”

“No argument there. Way too much going on.”

They arrived at the lake and angled their bikes toward the boat area. Not a dock

by any stretch. More like a patch of sandy soil where Mark Mul iner left four old canoes for rent. The charge was three dol ars an hour, and renters left

their payment in the coffee can sitting on the bank next to the NoSwimming sign.

Mark lived up in Sooy’s Boot but left canoes with the same setup here and there

in various smal Pine towns. He’d stop by every evening in his truck

and empty the can.

Jack had heard there’d been some sort of trouble last fal when two guys from

Trenton sneaked into town, loaded the canoes into a pickup, and took off. One of the bad things about a town as smal as Johnson was that everybody

knew everybody else’s business. But the good thing was that people tended to watch out for each other.

Some insomniac on Quakerton Road had been sitting by a window that night and

saw an unfamiliar truck go by loaded with canoes. She cal ed