F. Wilson: Secret Histories

But Weezy said, “It was my idea, Officer.”

Tim smiled. “Deputy.”

Weezy did her whatever face and said, “Isn’t there something you can do about this? Someone you can arrest or we can sue for desecrating this site?”

“Desecrating?” Tim frowned. “It’s not like it was a church or anything.”

“Could have been at one time. It might have contained secrets hidden for … forever.”

“Secrets?”

Oh, no, Jack thought. Don’t get her started on secrets. He searched for a way to change the subject.

“Did your friend ever get that photo from his helicopter?”

Tim nodded. “As a matter of fact, he did.” He reached through the open window of his patrol car and pul ed out a half dozen eight-by-ten photos. “Took a

bunch of them from different angles on two different runs.” He handed them to Jack. “Take a look.”

Jack studied the top photo, then handed it off to Weezy. He did the same with al six. The last was taken from almost directly overhead. It best showed

the devastation caused by the backhoe because the angle of the sun shadowed the trench. Jack studied this one the longest. Something about it tickled

his brain, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

When he handed it to Weezy he heard her gasp.

“See something?” Tim asked.

Weezy stared a moment longer, then shook her head. “No. Just a shadow.” She looked up at Tim. “Can I have one of these? Please-please-please?”

He laughed. “Sure.”

She held up the overhead shot she’d been looking at. “This one.”

“It’s yours. Now, I want the three of you back on your bikes and heading for home.”

He stood there and watched them do just that. He paced them awhile, fol owing behind, then bop-tooted and rol ed away, leaving them on their own.

As soon as he was out of sight, Weezy stopped and pul ed the photo from her basket.

“Jack! Did you see this?”

He stopped beside her and looked over her shoulder. Again that tickling feeling that he was missing something.

“Yeah. But obviously you see something I don’t.”

“Watch.”

The tip of her finger traced the trench that had replaced the mound. Jack stiffened as he recognized the figure.

“That’s … that’s on the seal”—what had Dad cal ed it?—”the sigil of …”

She was nodding. “Yeah. The Lodge.”

Secret histories …

As he’d done last night, Jack sat in the dark, staring at a building. Only instead of

on Harding Street, he was down near the bank of Quaker Lake. And

not in a tree, but sitting with his back against the big oak. And it wasn’t Steve’s

house he was staring at, but the Lodge that squatted across the water, a light on in one of its high, narrow windows.

Secrets … secrets everywhere.

Maybe Weezy was right. Maybe there was a Secret History of the World. The

Pine Barrens probably held a lot of it—like the pine lights and that shape in the woods—but he’d bet the Lodge was wel up there in what it knew and hid.

Like how old it was, and how long it had existed on that spot—not the building itself, but the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order … how long had it been

here? If that mound was pre-Columbian, and had been built by the

Lodge, it meant the Lodge had been here a long, long time. And if the mound

was prehistoric …

That didn’t even bear thinking.

Secrets …

Did the troopers and suits who’d dug up the mound find anything? If so, they

weren’t tel ing.

But Weezy knew of other mounds. Maybe it was time for the two of them to

start some digging of their own. Maybe they’d find another cube with a pyramid inside. He doubted it, but never say never.

He stil had the copies of the pyramid’s symbols. What secret did they hold? And even Weezy … she had a secret or two as wel . Jack sensed it, but hadn’t a

clue as to what. Maybe it had something to do with al those Friday

morning trips to Medford.

Secrets …

The town itself had a secret history. How had Old Town come to be named

Quakerton before any Quakers existed?

Even his own family had a secret history. Why wouldn’t Dad talk about the war?

What had happened there to make him clam up whenever it was

mentioned? And what did he keep locked in that box?

Jack realized that he too had a secret: exposing Steve’s father. He couldn’t tel

anyone about it. Yeah, some people would cal him a hero, but sure as the sun rose every morning, Steve would eventual y find out. And Steve would

hate him. Soon everyone in town would be looking at him strangely, and holding their tongues when he was about.

Because everybody had secrets.

Jack simply wanted to come and go as he pleased, with no one taking any

special notice of him. Just another face in the crowd.

Just … Jack.

Movement across the lake caught his eye. He watched a gray limousine—looked

like a Bentley—pul up before the Lodge and stop in the pool of light

around its entrance. A uniformed driver hopped out and opened the rear door. A

very tal man in a white suit unfolded himself from the passenger

compartment. He had black, slicked-back hair but Jack couldn’t make out his

face at this distance.

The man sauntered to the front steps of the Lodge, but instead of going inside,

he stopped and turned in Jack’s direction. He seemed to be staring

directly at Jack. But how could that be? Jack was sitting in deep shadow. No way

the man could see him.

Yet he kept staring, and it made Jack uncomfortable. Final y he turned and

disappeared inside. The chauffeur fol owed him in, lugging two large

suitcases.

Was he moving in? Into the Lodge itself? Jack had never heard of anyone actual

y living there.

Mr. Chal is’s words came back to him: …theCouncilissendingsomeonetotake

chargeofourLodge…

Was that him? If so, he was one creepy guy. And why had he seemed to be

staring at him?

Jack wanted to keep his distance from that place. The arrests of Mr. Brussard

and Chal is, and Chal is’s confession about how they’d kil ed Boruff

according to “sacred rites,” had embarrassed the Lodge. Better they didn’t know

he’d been instrumental in that.

And stil … he had a feeling he wasn’t through with the Lodge.

As for what he’d seen outside Steve’s house last night … better not talk about

that. Had he real y seen anything? Now, just twenty-four hours later, it seemed unreal. Maybe just a trick of the light. But maybe not … The uneasy feeling vanished in the persistent memory of the sensations that had

shot through him Saturday night when Mr. Brussard had stepped into

the trap and given himself away. Al because of Jack, who had come upon a bad

circumstance, a broken situation, and fixed it.

What a rush … maybe like what Steve felt when he drank or popped a pil . At

least Steve’s mother was aware of that now. Hopeful y she’d get him some help.

But as for Jack … he was hooked on that feeling. If he saw a chance to do

another fix, he’d go for it.

He could hardly wait.