Freedom

by David Wood

  “Roger Drinkel.”

  “All right, Roger,” Bones shoved him back into the chair, “I’ve got questions for you, but first I’ve got to tell you why you’re stupid. You know why I’m going to do that?”

  Drinkel shook his head.

  “Because I hate stupid people. Almost as much as I hate rednecks. First off,” he held up a finger, “never use a flashlight. Pull the curtains and turn the light on. People come home, they see a light on inside the house, they figure they just forgot to turn it off. They see a flashlight beam flickering around, they know something’s up.”

  Drinkel’s facet turned a deep shade of red.

  “Second, never carry your ID with you. Do I need to explain why?”

  Drinkel held his silence, staring up at Bones through eyes that burned with resentment.

  “Cool, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me who you’re with and why you’re here. You leave anything out, or give me reason to believe you’re lying, I’m going to hurt you until I’m bored, then kill you and dump your body in the Charles River. You ready to talk?

  Drinkel looked from Bones to Dane, gulped, took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush. His resolve deflated like a balloon.

  “All right, but you didn’t hear this from me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “I’m a Son of the Republic.” Despite his present circumstances, Drinkel sat up straighter and his eyes shone when he made the proclamation. “And we are going to make things right with America.”

  Dane and Bones exchanged scornful glances.

  “You people don’t get it.” Drinkel hadn’t missed their expressions. “The depravity is coming to an end. It has been foretold.”

  “By whom?” Dane asked.

  “You mean who,” Bones said.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t it ‘who’ when it’s an object, or is it the other way around?”

  “Who cares?” Dane could tell by Drinkel’s smirk that they were losing their intimidation factor. Bones must have noticed too, because he casually backhanded the man across the face.

  “True, we’ve got more important things to focus on.” Bones turned to Drinkel. “Tell us about this prophecy. Who made it and when? Some doomsday freak back in 1984?”

  “Would you call the father of our country a freak?”

  Dane guffawed. “The so-called Prophecy of George Washington? That’s a legend.”

  “What am I missing here?” Bones frowned at Dane.

  “There’s a legend that, at Valley Forge, George Washington was visited by an angel who prophesied three great trials for America. Ah!” Something had just clicked. “The angel addressed him as ‘Son of the Republic.’ I take it that’s where your little club got its name?”

  “Our order,” Drinkel, “traces its heritage from the Sons of Liberty. We are America.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Bones dismissed him with a wave, but Drinkel flinched, apparently expecting to be hit again. “So, what were these trials?”

  “It’s all crap. It was written around the time of the Civil War by an author who wrote similar things for a lot of figures from history. Supposedly, the first trial was the American Revolution, the second the Civil War, and the third, the most grave, had the nations of the world uniting beneath a black cloud. America teeters on the brink, but we pull together and win in the end.”

  Now it was Drinkel’s turn to laugh. “That’s the prophecy you think you know. The true one, handed down from the days of our Founding Fathers, tells a different story.”

  “And what would that be?” Dane was sure the guy was a nutter, but there had to be a connection between his presence here and search for the lanterns.

  “The threat comes from within. The government is corrupt, prostituting itself to the lowest of the low. It must be brought down and rebuilt according to the vision of the Fathers. We will open the Gate of Freedom and all true patriots will come charging through to reclaim our nation.”

  “If you already know what the prophecy says, why do you need to find it?”

  Drinkel hesitated but hurried on when Bones started playing with the corkscrew. “Some of our members hold back. They need proof that the time to strike is now. Once the prophecy is revealed, others will flock to our cause. America’s eyes will be opened.”

  “Open to what a freak you are.”

  “And you think Professor Andrews had this prophecy?” Dane asked.

  “I thought he might have the key.”

  Dane went cold. If Drinkel knew about the lanterns, they had a big problem. “What key would that be?”

  “She doesn’t know?” Drinkel glanced at the kitchen door.

  “She’s just seeing to her father’s estate. That’s all.”

  Drinkel made a face. “The key is the diary of Samuel Adams.”

  “The beer guy?” Bones asked. “What are you looking for? Recipes?”

  Drinkel smirked. “Her father knew. I’m surprised he didn’t trust her enough to tell her.” He saw the angry look on Dane’s face and continued. “The Founding Fathers all knew the prophecy, and Adams recorded it in his journal. There are subtle mentions of it in his other writings.”

  “And you thought the professor found it?” Dane asked.

  “If not the diary, then perhaps clues to its location. He’s an expert and he’s been walking the red line, after all.”

  The phrase sounded familiar, but Dane couldn’t recall where he’d heard it.

  “I’ve got a question,” Bones said. “Why did they send an idiot like you to find it?”

  “My comrades moved too slowly for my liking. I’m not afraid to take action.”

  “Do you have any clues as to where the diary might be?”

  At this, Drinkel’s face went blank and he stared resolutely at the opposite wall.

  “He asked you a question.” Bones took a threatening step toward the man, but Drinkel’s face remained impassive. Bones struck him again on the side of the head, but he scarcely acknowledged the blow. “Time for me to use this?” Bones brandished the corkscrew.

  “No. I think it’s time to call the cops.” Dane looked around for the telephone.

  Jillian poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you sure we shouldn’t let him go?”

  Bones frowned, clearly not liking the idea.

  Dane considered it. The police, once they heard Drinkel’s far-fetched story, would likely consider him just another whacked-out conspiracy theorist. He hadn’t mentioned the lanterns and, even if he knew about them, Dane doubted he would say anything to the authorities. Most likely, he’d be charged with burglary, and released after posting a modest bail. It would at least buy some time for them to continue their search. He turned to Jillian.

  “Make the call.”

  After the police hauled Drinkel away, Dane, Bones and Jillian sat around the kitchen table sipping coffee.

  “What do you think?” Bones asked.

  “I think he’s added a wrinkle to the mystery.” Dane mulled the problem over. “I definitely think there’s a connection between the journal and the lanterns.”

  “What makes you say that?” Bones looked at him sharply.

  “First of all, he mentioned opening the gates of freedom. The professor said the same thing to me.”

  “I can remember Daddy saying it. Also, I swear I’ve seen it written somewhere.”

  “Second, did you notice his tattoo?” Bones and Jillian shook their heads. Dane took hold of one of the lanterns, both of which were sitting on the table, and turned it over so they could get a good look at the oddly-shaped base. “The crossed circle that Bones pointed out to us. Drinkel had this shape tattooed on his chest. I noticed when I grabbed him by the shirt.”

  “What does it symbolize?” Bones asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s a Celtic symbol, but I guess it means something different to him.”

  “Maybe it’s a symbol of the Sons of the Republi
c,” Jillian offered.

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “What did he mean by Andrews has been walking the red line?” Bones looks back and forth between the two of them. “If he meant the Johnny Cash song, he got the lyrics all wrong.”

  “He means the Freedom Trail,” Jillian said. “It’s a red brick trail, so people call it the red line." Her eyes widened. “You know what? I think that’s where I saw the phrase ‘gates of freedom.’ Let me check.”

  She dug into the satchel and retrieved Andrews’ map of the Freedom Trail. Sure enough, someone, probably Andrews, had jotted “The Gates of Freedom?” in small, spidery script at the bottom.

  “It doesn’t seem to denote any particular spot,” Dane noted, “but he apparently thought it was somewhere on here. He didn’t leave any other notes about it?”

  “Like I said, he preferred not to write things down.”

  “Okay. How about we put that on the back-burner for a minute and work on the clues we do have?” Bones indicated the lanterns.

  “Definitely.” Dane looked at Jillian. “Any ideas?”

  “Well,” she bit her lip, “I examined the first one pretty thoroughly on the way home and I didn’t see anything promising on the outside, nor in the obvious places, like the oil reservoir or the area around the wick. If either lantern hides a clue, it’s hidden somewhere on the inside.”

  Dane hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of taking apart such an important artifact. Then again, he didn’t have much choice.”

  “Either you do it or I will.” The eagerness was evident in Bones’ face. He loved demolition or destruction of any kind.

  “Fine.” Dane held the lantern up to the light and looked it over with tired eyes. Finally, he took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the base, and twisted.

  Nothing.

  “Pitiful.” Bones shook his head. “Remind me never to ask you to make me a peanut butter sandwich. You’d never get the jar open.”

  Dane grimaced. “What if it’s not meant to open, and I break it?”

  “That would actually be a good thing.”

  “Bones, be serious.”

  “I am. If that thing’s not meant to open, that means the clue, if there is one, is still inside.”

  Bones had a point. Dane turned the lantern over again, gazing at Paul Revere’s mark, and something caught his eye. “I’m an idiot. There’s a thin slot right next to the printer’s mark.”

  “I noticed that earlier,” Jillian said. “You think it’s significant?”

  Dane’s skin tingled and his heart raced, and his mind now fired on all cylinders. He’d just made a connection.

  “Where’s the butter knife?”

  Jillian gaped and Bones smacked himself on the forehead. She took the knife out of the satchel and passed it over with trembling hands.

  Dane slid the knife into the slot until it stopped, then gave it a clockwise turn. Something clicked, and the knife slid free.

  “Okay, here goes.” This time, he took a firm grip and twisted with all his might. It held for a moment, and then something broke loose and the base turned. Smiling he continued twisting and the bottom of the lamp unscrewed. He could scarcely breathe while he removed it and looked inside.

  “What do you see?” Jillian’s soft voice held a note of breathy eagerness.

  “Nothing.” The inside of the base was empty. “When it came loose, I was so sure.” He gazed down into it and something caught his eye. “Wait a minute! Jillian, do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “Daddy had one he used to read books with fine print.” She hurried out of the room and returned with it a few moments later.

  Dane peered through the glass. He saw a tiny circle of engraving, its circumference not much larger than a half-dollar.

  “Anything?” Bones sounded wary. He likely didn’t want to be disappointed again.

  “I see the circle-and-cross and then...” Dane turned the base in his hand. “I see the alphabet and the numbers 0-9.”

  “Crap!” Bones banged his fist on the table, nearly upending their coffee cups. “Sorry. I got my hopes up.” Then he saw the expression on Dane’s face. “I must be missing something, because you look pleased with yourself.”

  “What are you thinking, Maddock?” Jillian asked with a hint of trepidation.

  “During the Revolution and in the pre-Revolutionary era, heck, throughout history, people have passed along secret messages using...”

  “Ciphers!” Jillian exclaimed.

  “And I’ll bet you a Dos Equis the other half of the key is inside the second lantern.”

  “Sweet!” Bones was already working the knife into the bottom of the other lantern, which was putting up solid resistance after its long immersion in molasses and who knew what else? Finally, he succeeded in opening it, and handed the base to Dane.

  “There it is. A ring of symbols. We’ve got it!”

  “Could that be the connection?” Jillian rose to her feet and began pacing. “We need the cipher to decode a message in Adams’ journal?”

  “Makes sense to me.” Dane sprang to his feet. “And if you’ve got a phone book, I’ve just thought of someone who might be able to help us.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jimmy Letson lived in a third-story apartment on Boston’s South End in sight of the Hancock Building. He had befriended Dane early in Dane’s first year in the Navy. Shortly thereafter, Jimmy had entered, and rung out of, SEAL training. At the end of his tour of duty, he had returned to his native Boston and become a journalist, but it wasn’t his journalistic skills Dane needed right now.

  Jimmy answered the door on the first knock. A tall, wiry man with unkempt curly brown hair and a wispy mustache, he gazed at them through bleary eyes.

  “Seriously, Maddock? It’s the middle of the night, and you expect me to drop everything and help you with a research project?”

  “It’s not a research project, it’s... I don’t know what to call it, but it’s important. Besides, I come bearing gifts.” He held out a bottle of Scotch he’d found in Andrews’ liquor cabinet.

  Jimmy accepted the bottle and peered at it over his John Lennon-style glasses. He didn’t actually need them; he just liked the way they looked. “White Label. Surprisingly good taste for a beer guy. All right, come on in.” He didn’t bother holding the door for them, but turned and strode back into the apartment.

  Jimmy had furnished his living room in early 1970s thrift store: lots of browns, oranges, and dark wood. A framed Star Wars movie poster, the sole concession to artwork, hung above an overstuffed bookshelf.

  Jimmy motioned for them to sit down, then headed into the kitchen and returned with four glasses. While Jimmy poured them all drinks, Dane introduced his companions.

  Bones accepted the glass of Scotch, frowned at it, then looked up at Jimmy. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Weird Al?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a cigar store Indian?”

  “Cheers!” Bones clinked glasses with Jimmy, settled back into his chair, and took a drink. His face contorted and he shuddered. “Holy crap! How do white people drink this stuff?”

  “You get used to it.” Dane turned to Jimmy. “You said you found something for us?”

  “I love how you get right down to business. It’s the first time you seen your old friend in years, and you don’t even bother to ask what I’ve been up to.”

  “I know what you been up to: writing for the Globe, playing Dungeons & Dragons, reading sci-fi novels, and doing your computer stuff.”

  “Computer stuff, he says.” Jimmy looked at Bones and Jillian with a pained expression on his face. “I am unappreciated in my time.” He sighed and took a stack of papers from the coffee table. “I can see you’re in a hurry, so here’s what I’ve got.” He cleared his throat. “You asked me to find out anything I could about the Sons of the Republic, a journal belonging to Samuel Adams, and the phrase ‘Gates of Freedom’ as it relates to Adams or Paul Rever
e.”

  Jimmy was dragging this out just to be annoying and Dane made a “hurry it up” gesture. Jimmy frowned at him over his glasses, cleared his throat again, louder this time, and continued.

  “There’s not much on the Sons of the Republic. They advocate for a second revolution-the usual stuff. The government took a look at them and decided they weren’t a threat. I didn’t get much on Gates of Freedom, either. The phrase only appears in personal correspondence, and its meaning is never explained. It’s always as if the writer assumes the reader knows what he’s talking about. What’s interesting are the names of the letter writers and the recipients. Guys like Samuel Adams, John Hancock, William Mackay, Paul Revere, James Swann, and Joseph Warren.”

  “All members of the Sons of Liberty,” Dane mused.

  “And all from Boston,” Jillian added.

  “It seems the Gates of Freedom is something known only to the Boston branch of the Sons of Liberty. At least, I couldn’t find the phrase among the writings of any other members, or any other patriots for that matter.”

  “How did you manage to review so much data in such a short time?” Bones asked, placing his glass on the coffee table.

  “I used my computer to hack into the Library of Congress and some university libraries.”

  “How did you get your computer connected to theirs?”

  “It’s the Internet, my friend. It’s a network of interconnected computers all around the world. One day soon, everybody will be hooked into it: businesses, institutions, even individuals. It’s going to change everything.”

  “If you say so, Jimmy.” Dane had learned long ago not to get Jimmy started predicting the future. The guy had seen too many movies. “What else do you have?”

  “Nothing definitive, but I think the Boston branch of the Sons of Liberty had a secret headquarters. Everybody knows they held secret meetings in various locations, but I think they might have also had a permanent meeting place for the most important stuff. I found an excerpt of a letter from Thomas Young to Paul Revere containing the phrase, “meet behind the Gates of Freedom.”