firebreaks he’d never seen before.
Al along the way he watched her butt.
Wel , what else was there to look at? As far as size went, it wasn’t much. Hard to tel what her baggy clothes hid. She was thin, he knew that, but curvy
thin or straight-up-and-down thin he couldn’t say. Either way, he found he liked watching her from the rear as she pedaled along.
Her shortcut back to Johnson led through Old Man Foster’s land and now things were starting to look familiar. When they came to the clearing with the
spong where they’d found the leg-hold traps, she skidded to a stop, turned to give him a surprised look, and pointed.
There in the clearing stood a lady in a long black dress and a scarf around her neck. She carried a bundle of sticks in one arm and was moving from
trap to trap, springing them with the sticks. Her three-legged dog stood by, watching.
Mrs. Clevenger.
Without hesitating, Weezy hopped off her bike and walked into the clearing. She seemed to believe in just about every kind of weirdness, but maybe
she didn’t believe in witches—or maybe she didn’t believe Mrs. Clevenger was one. Jack wasn’t so sure about that, but he fol owed anyway. The dog
watched their approach but made no move toward them.
“Hi,” he heard Weezy say as she neared.
Mrs. Clevenger looked up. She didn’t seem surprised to see them. Jack had a strange feeling this old lady didn’t surprise easily.
“Hi, yourself, Weezy Connel .”
She took a stick from the bundle in her arm and jammed it into a nearby trap. It snapped shut, breaking off the end. She used the broken tip on a
neighboring trap. When this one snapped closed, it trapped the stick. She abandoned it and grabbed another.
“Looks like fun,” Weezy said. “Can I try?”
Mrs. Clevenger gave her a long look, then handed her a stick.
“I like you, young lady. But be careful where you step. Nasty things, these.”
Jack grabbed one of the already sprung traps and worked its anchor free from the ground. Then he tossed it into the spong where it splashed and sank.
“You threw them in there a few days ago,” Mrs. Clevenger said. It didn’t sound like a question—she seemed to know. “A good thing, but in the end, only
a temporary solution, as temporary as springing the traps. The trapper simply fishes them out and resets them. Al we accomplish by what we do here is a
respite for the animals and an inconvenience for the trapper.”
Jack said, “That’l have to do, I guess.”
Her eyes narrowed. “For now, yes. But someday he may do harm to creatures that must not be touched. Should that happen, he wil pay dearly.”
Her tone chil ed Jack. For some reason he found himself very glad he wasn’t that trapper.
“Oh, and we anger and frustrate him as wel ,” she added, “so don’t let him catch you at this.”
Weezy looked up. “What do you think he’d do?”
Her expression was grim. “A man who sets these traps for unsuspecting animals coming to the spong to ease their thirst? What wouldn’the do?”
Jack looked over at her dog who hadn’t moved from where it sat. He feared it might be a touchy subject but he had to ask.
“Did he …” He pointed to the dog. “Did a trap do that to him?”
Mrs. Clevenger looked at him and smiled. “No, he chose to have only three legs. Perhaps in sympathy for the animals hurt in the traps, perhaps for
another reason. He’s never said.”
Jack could only stare at her. What on Earth was she talking about? It made no sense.
“What’s his name?” Weezy said.
She turned toward Weezy, and as she did, Jack craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of a scar beneath her scarf, but it was wrapped too
tightly.
“He’s had many names, and he has none. He simply is.”
More weirdness. Mrs. Clevenger seemed to like to speak in riddles. Weezy took a step toward the dog. “Can I pet him?”
“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.
6
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.
7
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 Isaid—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 withouthis 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
and law students they know. In no time it’s al over the place.”
Mom shook her head. “What kind of a country has this become where you can’t speak your mind?”
“The real world,” Tom said. “The way it’s always been. You push, you should expect a push back. The secret is to make sure you’re on the side with the
most muscle.”
“How about being on the side that’s right?” Kate said.
Tom grinned, showing a piece of spinach stuck to one of his front teeth.
“Wake up, Kate. Might makes right.”
As Jack watched Kate shake her head sadly and go back to eating, he decided it was time for a little public pistachio shel ing.
8
After dinner, Jack fol owed his father upstairs to his folks’ bedroom. “Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course—as long as it’s not about that box.”
“It’s not. It’s about Mister Brussard.”
His dad looked at him. “What about him?”
Jack told him about the meetings, the little red boxes, the warnings about the
klazen, the lies, and the three deaths.
Dad was staring at him. “You shouldn’t be snooping on people. This is what happens with half-heard conversations. It’s cal ed taking things out of
context.”
“But they’re dead, Dad. Three visits, three red boxes, three dead people.”
He couldn’t know if Mr. Sumter had been given a box, but he assumed so.
“And you suspect Gordie Brussard of kil ing them?”
“Don’t you think it looks that way?”
A smile played around his dad’s lips. “Since when did you become one of the Hardy Boys?”
Angry, Jack clenched his jaw. He’d known someone would think that. He’d even thought it himself. But this wasn’t a novel. This was real y happening,
right here in Johnson, New Jersey.
“Cal me a Hardy Boy, cal me Nancy Drew, but there’s something going on.”
Dad sighed. “Remember that discussion we had about jumping to conclusions? Remember the trouble posthoc,ergopropterhoccan get you in?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Dad had explained that the Latin phrase meant afterthis,thereforebecauseof this,and how it led to wrong conclusions and superstition. His favorite example was, ItrainedafterIdancedaroundafire,thereforedancingarounda firecausesrain.
“Wel , this is most likely a good example of that kind of thinking. Step back and look at it: What would Brussard’s motive be?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Right. And I can’t think of one either. Those three dead men are his Lodge brothers. They’re a very tight group.”
“But he said the klazen would find the ones ‘responsible.’”
“Responsible for what?”
Jack shrugged. “Murdering that man I found? I mean, that’s when people started dying.”
“There you go again, Jack. That’s a post-hocconclusion: The deaths began after you found the body, therefore finding the body is causing the deaths.
Do you believe that?”
“Wel , it could be. The man was a Lodger that nobody even knew was dead until I found him, and then three Lodge members die in the week after his
body is identified. You think that’s just coincidence?”
Dad was silent a moment, then, “Odds are it is, but I have to admit it’s one hel of a coincidence.”
Yes! Dad was beginning to see the light.
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