A Matter of Degrees

by Alex Marcoux

  He approached so that they were inches apart. “Drop your story on the secret societies.”

  “I will not. It’s a good story. People have a right to know.”

  At six-two, Steve towered over her. “If you value your life, Rachel, you’ll drop it and burn your work.” He spoke calmly and softly then turned away.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He turned back. “No. But I am warning you.” His exit was as abrupt as his entrance.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Rachel received an anonymous tip to meet someone in Nyack about an updated list of CFR members. The CFR is the granddaddy of modern American secret societies. Rachel arrived at the agreed-upon meeting place, The Hudson House, but her contact never showed. She finished her coffee, and headed back to the city.

  Opting for a more scenic route, she chose highway 9W for her return trip, a hilly and winding road that ran along the west side of the Hudson River. To her left was a steep embankment with houses perched on the incline leading down to the river. To the right, the embankment continued its rise high above the road. When traffic moved on this one-lane road, it was quicker than the Palisades Parkway. Today, however, she came upon a traveler that was out for a leisurely ride.

  Rachel braked as she advanced toward the slower car, but the brakes didn’t respond. “Shit!” She stomped the pedal, but there was no effect. Her pulse quickened as she sped toward the other vehicle.

  She honked; hoping the car in front would get moving. Instead, the man braked. With no place to go, Rachel swerved to the left, becoming trapped in the approaching traffic lane. There were no advancing cars. Thank God! Her Saab darted around the slower vehicle. With eyes glued to the road before her, she never saw the man gesture with his finger.

  Rachel had traveled this road on many occasions. She needed to manage the next turn, then the grade shifted uphill a short distance. Sixty-five. Seventy. The tires squealed as the vehicle veered around the winding curve. At seventy-five miles per hour and white knuckles clenched to the steering wheel she approached the upward incline. Steadily, the Saab slowed. Sixty…fifty…forty…

  Rachel exhaled. With her sleeve, she wiped the perspiration from her brow. But now what? The slope would change soon. She couldn’t continue on the snaky river road without brakes. She spotted the uphill driveway to a stately home on her right. At thirty miles per hour, Rachel veered up the steep grade. The back end of her vehicle fishtailed. She smashed a retaining wall, slamming her head against the door window. Coasting up the driveway, she slowed to fifteen miles per hour at its summit. Given the choice, Rachel collided with a mature tree rather than a garage. The airbag inflated.

  Her heart pounded. There was blood on the airbag. Instinctively, she groped her forehead, the source of pain.

  Chapter Two

  During the hours that passed, Rachel’s emotions had fluctuated from fear, to disbelief, to denial, but now she was just pissed off. It was dark, and she fumed as she approached the entrance to Steve Mercer’s Scarsdale home. Faced with a door knocker or a fancy lit doorbell, she hammered the door unkindly. Seconds later the foyer light came on and a shadow appeared through the stained glass window beside the door.

  Steve Mercer opened the door slowly. Rachel Addison stood before him. Her silk blouse was bloodstained, and she had a discolored bandage on her forehead. He was speechless.

  “Tell me what the hell is going on, or I’m going to the authorities!” she said.

  Steve widened the door. “Come in,” he said calmly. Nonchalantly, he glanced around the upper-middle-class neighborhood. Satisfied with what he saw, he closed the door. “This way.” He led her into his kitchen and pointed at a bar stool, “Take a seat.”

  Stubbornly, Rachel leaned against the counter.

  Steve removed a facecloth and box of bandages from a nearby linen closet. He drenched the cloth at the kitchen sink, and then approached her. “What happened?”

  As he attempted to remove the discolored bandage, Rachel pulled away at his touch. “I didn’t come here for a Band-Aid,” she complained. “What’s going on?”

  “Rachel,” Steve’s voice softened, “let me help you.” He nudged the bar stool, inviting her to sit again.

  “Fine,” she took a seat. “But what the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  With a flick of his wrist, Steve removed the bandage, revealing a long gash. “How did this happen?” He washed her forehead.

  “I received an anonymous call from a man claiming to have an updated list of CFR members. He suggested that I meet him at a restaurant in Nyack.” Rachel faltered.

  “Go on.”

  “He never showed. But, while I was in the restaurant someone cut my brake lines.” Steve finished applying a new bandage and Rachel grabbed his hand. “What’s going on? Why did you warn me?”

  His eyes met Rachel’s and she released her grip. “Before I say anything, what is your investigation uncovering?”

  “Are you familiar with the Freemasons?”

  “Yes. It’s a brotherhood that has been in existence for centuries.”

  “It’s a secret society that has a secret society within it.”

  He smiled. “That’s not exactly what I understand.”

  “Most Freemasons believe they’re involved in a fellowship where they share camaraderie and participate in humanitarian concerns, like the Shriners. Even in this visible society, though, they take blood oaths to protect their occult secrets. But most Masons are unaware of an invisible society that’s dedicated to protecting an ancient sacred secret.”

  “And what is this ancient sacred secret?” Steve asked.

  “Well if I knew that, it wouldn’t be secret, now, would it?”

  “Where were you going with your story?”

  “I was showing that the majority of our presidents were Freemasons, and linking members of the Trilateral Commission and CFR with Freemasonry.”

  “There has to be something else. Most of that has been documented before.”

  “Certainly in some unread conspiracy magazines and out-of-print books, but why hasn’t a reputable TV newsmagazine like Sixty Minutes done it?”

  “It’s not newsworthy,” Steve shrugged his shoulders.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence! Why did you warn me?”

  “I heard that your investigation was concerning powerful individuals.” Steve’s eyes searched Rachel’s. “I didn’t want to see you lose your career over it.”

  “How did you hear this?” When Steve’s unwavering blue eyes wouldn’t leave Rachel’s, she pressed him further. “I’m not asking you to reveal your source, Mercer! How’d you come by this information?”

  “I’m a Freemason.”

  A lump stuck in Rachel’s throat. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see.” Steve sighed and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I’ve been a Mason since right out of college. I’ve completed the initiations of the Blue Lodge and the Scottish Rite, and for the last two years I’ve been the Junior and Senior Warden, and in a couple of months I’ll be the Worshipful Master of a Blue Lodge in White Plains. In my twenty-three years of being a Mason, I have never seen any behaviors inconsistent with ethical, fraternal, humanitarian, educational, or patriotic concerns.”

  “And yet, you heard something. You heard that I was becoming a threat. And look what happens—my brake lines are mysteriously cut!”

  “I didn’t say that,” Steve said.

  “You didn’t have to. Could you explain the Freemason degrees? Reading about it is very confusing.” When Steve didn’t respond, she pushed for more. “Oh, come on, I’m not asking you to break some ridiculous blood oath. I’m just asking about the structure. Please?”

  “Men start in the Blue Lodge. Here there are three degrees: an Apprentice, a Fellowcraft, and a Master Mason. Most never proceed beyond the Master Mason because it’s expensive and time-consuming.”

  “What is beyond the Blue Lodge?”

  “Two oth
er lodges—the York Rite and Scottish Rite. The Scottish Rite has thirty-three degrees. The York Rite graduates to the equivalent.”

  “How do you get to the thirty-third degree?”

  “By invitation only.”

  “How long have you been involved in the Scottish Rite?”

  “Over fifteen years.”

  “And you’ve never been invited to the thirty-third degree?”

  Steve shook his head. “No. And I wouldn’t. You see, although I’m politically and socially involved in my Blue Lodge, I’m not very involved in the Scottish Rite. I’m also not a Degree Master.”

  “What’s a Degree Master?”

  “For each degree in the Scottish Rite, each lodge has a Degree Master to perform the ritual or teach it to candidates during an initiation.”

  Rachel looked deep into Steve’s blue eyes. “You can change all that.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know the game! Play it to increase your chances of getting an invitation!”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  “To satisfy that nagging feeling you have in your gut.”

  “You’re very presumptuous.”

  “Are you denying it?”

  Steve didn’t respond. He wondered if his concerns were that obvious.

  “What do I have to do? Impersonate a man and become a Freemason myself to uncover the sacred secret?”

  He laughed, but when he realized that she was getting more upset, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. It just wouldn’t work.”

  “Why? Women have impersonated men for centuries, to earn what they rightfully deserve. Take a look at Pope Joan.”

  “Trust me, unless you have your breasts removed, you’ll never make it through the first three initiations.” He changed the subject. “Drop your story, at least for now.”

  Rachel shook her head, clearly frustrated. “I have to get out of here,” she said abruptly, and made her way to the door.

  * * *

  The following morning, Steve slipped into Rachel’s office. He shut the door behind him and drew near her. “Are you going to drop the story?”

  “No! I’ve come this far.”

  There must have been a part of him that admired her spunk as remnants of a smile emerged, only he turned his back to hide the grin. His gaze fell upon a collection of pictures on Rachel’s bookshelf. He picked up a portrait of an attractive man in his mid-forties. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  Rachel smiled when she saw the picture. “That’s my father.” She reached for another picture of her family, consisting of her father, mother, and herself.

  “Is this you?” he pointed to a freckle-faced ten-year-old.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Where’d the freckles go? You were so cute.” Steve grinned, intensifying his smile lines. He pointed to another picture. “Is this your parents’ wedding picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father ages gracefully.”

  “Yes, he did. Other than styles changing, you’d never think my father aged a day. It’s actually spooky, but I keep hoping that I take after my father’s genes.”

  Steve’s eyes combed the picture of her parents. “You have a strong resemblance to your father; same dark hair, blue eyes, and cleft chin.” He returned the portrait to its shelf. “I noticed that you spoke of your father in the past tense.”

  “You are observant,” Rachel said. She locked her desk drawer then moved to the door. “We have a meeting in two minutes.”

  Steve glanced at his watch. “I’ll see you there. I need to go back to my office.”

  * * *

  Neil Samson, the executive producer of Over the Edge, arrived at the weekly staff meeting a couple minutes late. He was pale.

  It was Rachel who noticed. “Are you okay, Neil?”

  He sat in a chair. “I just got a phone call from my wife…”

  Steve had just entered behind Neil. “What is it?” He asked.

  “Albert Robbins…”

  Rachel recognized the name of the CFR member. “What about Albert Robbins?”

  “Albert was found last night…dead.”

  “How?” Steve asked.

  “The strangest thing. The man was poisoned in his own bed…by a snake. A king cobra! His wife found him when she returned from a business trip last night.”

  An alarm blasted. The obnoxious noise blared throughout the offices and hallways. “What the hell is that?” Neil demanded. “It sounds like a fire alarm,” Steve said.

  “A fire alarm? Oh my God!” Rachel whispered. She bolted to the door, opened it, and smoke seeped into the conference room. Once in the corridor, Rachel saw the smoke coming from her office. She dashed through the thick smoke. At the office threshold, she witnessed her desk engulfed in flames. Neil grabbed Rachel’s arm, stopping her from rescuing her research on secret societies.

  Seconds later, Steve brushed past them with a fire extinguisher. It took him a couple minutes to snuff out the flames. By this time, a crowd had gathered in the hallway. All eyes were on Rachel, who couldn’t take her sight off the destroyed desk.

  Steve emerged from the office, his clothes coated in soot. Rachel glared at him and then turned on her heels and fled. He followed silently until they were out of sight from the group. He rested his hand on her shoulder.

  Abruptly, she turned and snarled. “Get your hand off me! You can tell your friends they won, and I never want to see you again.

  Rachel thrust open a nearby restroom door. There was a small lounge with two chairs. She sat. Her mind raced. Prick. He saw me lock my desk. She felt like such a fool. Steve had used her. How could I have been so stupid? Rachel moaned. I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t give up. I promise. For a moment, she became lost in her past.

  * * *

  Rachel watched her father, Charles Addison, as he studied the chessboard and deliberated on his next move. Then he picked up his polished-stone bishop and moved it to protect his threatened king.

  Rachel was eager to move her rook into place. “Check,” the eleven-year-old said.

  A smile came to Charles’s face. “Is this my last move?”

  “Yup.”

  The father and daughter had been playing this game going on two months. It had become customary for them to play five moves a day and Rachel had her father on the run over the past week.

  Charles studied the board and moved a pawn into place to sacrifice the piece. “There. I guess our game will have to wait until I return from my trip.”

  Rachel didn’t expect the move. “Why would you sacrifice your pawn, Daddy? You know you can just move your king to avoid my attack.”

  Charles smiled. “Strategy, Rachel. Pawns are dispensable. You use them to further the king’s purpose.”

  Rachel studied the board. She was glad that was their last move, now she had some time to reconsider her own strategy before they played again. “When will you be back from your trip, Daddy?”

  “In a few days.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “DC.” He studied his daughter, and smiled. “You are a very special young lady, you do realize that, don’t you?”

  “I know I am special to you, Daddy.”

  “You are special to the world, Rachel.”

  “I’m sure all fathers think that way about their children, right?”

  “I’m sure,” he smiled. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Daddy. Why are you asking?”

  Charles became serious. “Chances are I won’t always be in your life, sweetheart. I just hope you’ll always know I love you very much.”

  Rachel looked into her father’s eyes. “Daddy, why are you talking this way?”

  “Like I said, it’s only natural that I will pass on before you, like your grandfather passed on before your mother.”

  “That’s years away. Don’t get me all depressed before you leave on your trip.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I just never spoke about this with
my parents. It’s something that’s haunted me, over the years, wondering if they truly loved me. Just remember, when the day comes that I pass on…I will always love you and always be with you.” Charles kissed his daughter tenderly on her forehead.

  * * *

  Rachel shook her head, trying to disconnect from her past. She pulled the polished-granite pawn from her jacket pocket and studied the chess piece. Discoloration revealed where her fingers had worn the stone piece over the twenty-plus years. “I know you love me Daddy,” she sobbed lightly. “Even after all this time, I feel like you’re still with me.”

  Chapter Three

  During the three months that passed Rachel continued investigating secret groups in her spare time. For the network, she worked on an assortment of stories. The most interesting story was the CIA mind-control experiments of the 1960s and 1970s, when the CIA had developed techniques to bury memory, creating amnesia.

  * * *

  It was after work hours, and Rachel was working in her new office. A sudden thud at the door disrupted her thoughts. She glanced at her watch; it was nine o’clock. “Who’s there?” She listened but didn’t hear a thing. “Hello?”

  The door opened slightly. A tall silhouette stood in the hallway. Rachel strained to see who it was. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  “Don’t you ever go home?” Steve stepped through the doorway.

  “Didn’t I make myself clear—I never wanted to see you again?”

  “Oh, perfectly clear!” He shut the door, and took a seat across from her.

  Rachel studied his every move. Steve Mercer was a good-looking man. His thick dark hair was accented with graying sideburns. He had a nice build. It was hard to guess his age, perhaps late forties or early fifties.

  “Just hear me out, and I’ll leave.” Steve hesitated. “I didn’t set the fire. And you were right about that nagging feeling.” He was careful how he phrased his words.

  “What feeling?”

  He reached for a message pad and tore off a sheet. “That the two of us are being considered for Henry Shafer’s replacement.” He moved a finger to his lips, gesturing for Rachel’s silence, and scribbled on the paper.