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Midnight Liberty League - Part I

Page 17

by Brock Law

evening, just before midnight, to negotiate an exchange,” Franklin said angrily, “but I haven’t a damned idea where that is.”

  “Potts was the home we used as our headquarters at Valley Forge during the winter of ’78,” Greene recalled.

  “Never thought I’d have to go back there,” Wayne muttered darkly.

  “You were right, Ben, this is serious,” Greene was obliged to admit. “They had you surrounded with dozens of men.”

  “I don’t know how it’s possible for there to be so many,” Wayne joined with surprise. “It’s far worse than I thought.”

  Will groaned.

  “Well, we can’t meet them out there in the woods at night as just a quartet,” Greene stated.

  “Certainly not,” Franklin agreed. “I wouldn’t want to risk exposing you gentlemen, but he did mention George by name.”

  “By God, then they know everything,” Wayne declared.

  “We need to call everyone to the city immediately. They may be watching all of us,” Greene theorized.

  “John is already en route, I spoke to him yesterday,” Franklin informed them.

  Greene snatched out his phone. “I’ll call George and Martha.”

  “Waa…” Will suddenly perked up, “Washington?”

  The First Duty Of Society Is Justice

  Even in the afternoon, Laurel Hill Cemetery was an eerie place. It was beautiful and scenic with its view of the Schuylkill River, but was nonetheless an imposing city of death. Magnificent granite castles rooted deep within the rock extended above the elegant trees. Shadows hid between each ornate mausoleum in which Philadelphia’s regal spirits wandered. Will felt the cemetery’s eyes beaming a ghostly heat of jealousy towards Franklin. The immortal was more contained than Will had yet seen.

  “I don’t care much for this place,” Franklin muttered, “too many friends.”

  Will stuck close, keeping a safe distance from the doorways of the funereal mansions, lest they open. Where there were barred windows, he looked away. Where there was stained glass, he lingered until he noticed his reflection. The stone faces of the dead gazed mournfully at him, sending shudders throughout his body.

  The serpentine path took them past an Egyptian-styled tomb. Scarabs encircled the arches, and the Eye of Horus stared out over the necropolis. The next burial chamber was Greek architecture, supported by Corinthian columns and fringed with heroic effigies.

  They moved towards another one touting macabre gothic sculpture. Its demonic gargoyles, perched on pointed spires, threatened to attack. Frightening contrast set it apart from the rest. This was not a person who met death well. The very fangs of his winged guardians seemed to bare for Franklin. Will paused and turned, vexed by its purple windows. Each was crisscrossed by rusted bands of steel, certain not to hold that tortured soul inside another generation longer.

  “Don’t bother,” Franklin grumbled, “he was a real bastard.”

  A phantom passed behind the glass. Will quickly backed off and spurred away. He looked back over his shoulder before catching Franklin.

  “Thomas McKean is the only signer buried amongst this illustrious host,” Franklin said.

  “Why didn’t you offer him the Grail?”

  “That honor was not at my discretion at the time,” Franklin reminisced, “but I believe he would have preferred to live as was intended. He was a very conscientious fellow, as I found true of his comrades in Delaware. Even-handed, and with a balanced mind. Tom was President of our assembly for a while, at the time of Britain’s surrender. Were it not for his diligence in assembling sympathetic members of Congress, the Declaration may never have been signed, regardless of Mr. Jefferson’s eloquence. Whenever there is some strife or rift amongst us, we meet here first and then depart to other quarters. Partly we come to pay our respects to him and General Mercer, but also because it is impossible to be followed through this graveyard without noticing.”

  “I can’t say I know much about McKean,” Will admitted.

  “He was a true revolutionary. When it came to a vote, you could always count on Tom. I can’t remember why John and I came one day, but we encountered some of his descendants. They were a young family, laying flowers and replacing his flag. Lovely people. We told them we were biographers. They opened right up and shared a hoard of family legends, some of which were true. I wonder what became of them.”

  The pair strolled along the path. Will began to feel some sympathy for the owner of each grave, which irked his soul. These people spent so much to create a house that would stand forever, knowing their own deeds would be forgotten past their children. Everything here was a plan for death. Really, though, it was an attempt to live on, to make a futile mark and a lasting homage. He looked at Franklin and felt a tinge of envy in his own mind.

  “Who are you expecting to meet today?” Will pried.

  “I know that Adams and Hancock are in town,” Franklin responded. “George left yesterday. We’ll see when he and Martha get in, although I suspect they’ll visit later.”

  “How did everyone manage to keep such a low profile and survive all these years? I imagine you can’t just disappear like you used to,” Will surmised.

  “That’s true,” Franklin answered, “but we did just the opposite. In this last generation we’ve all lead exceedingly public lives. For instance, Hancock is the secret founder and majority shareholder of his namesake investment group.”

  “Wow, how does he manage that?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Franklin said, “but he never was shy about putting his name on things. George splits his time between D.C. and his horse ranch in Kentucky.”

  “I thought his love of horses was just folklore.”

  “Sort of, really he just loves speed. He’s a big race fan and avid vintage motorcycle collector,” Franklin clarified. “You’re probably more familiar with John Adams’ recent professional incarnation. He currently uses the pen name David McCullough, primarily so that he can write about himself.”

  “No way,” Will said in awe, “I saw him speak once. He autographed a book for me.”

  Franklin laughed as he spoke. “Of course he did. Who else would know or care so much about John Adams, other than himself, and take such pains in doing it, so as to win a major award?”

  “And that offends the man who pretends to be himself?” Will joked.

  Franklin chuckled. “Yes, yes, I suppose not. Will, would you mind if I left you for a few moments while I find the others? I’m sure there will be some things we will need to discuss before getting on to the matter at hand.”

  “That’s fine, I’ll wait here,” Will replied.

  Franklin patted him on the shoulder and waddled up the inclining path. In just a few strides he disappeared behind a marble obelisk. Will stood alone, looking cautiously around at the monuments. This section was a tangle of epitaphs, packed tightly together. Headstones, life-sized animal statuary, and teary angels all stood in clustered rows. The busyness seemed to bustle with supernatural activity. The smallest markers were twice as tall as Will, and all were directed at the path.

  The low din of hushed voices broke the stillness. Will peeped over a grave and into the thicket of stone. Nothing moved, neither dead nor undead crept up on him. The noise continued. Presumably Franklin had made contact.

  Will ventured out on to the grass, grazing the polished tombstones with his hand. Unnerving though the place was, he couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. He strolled down a row of markers, losing himself to the scenery. If one has to, he thought, this isn’t a bad place to spend eternity. It was the grief of knowing that one didn’t have to, which brought an acidic nausea gurgling up from his stomach. He stopped at a small tree, and leaned against it to view the river. Breathing deeply, he paused awhile until the anguish evaporated from his mind.

  Looking down, he noticed the grave beside him had a metal star protruding from the ground. The letters G-A-R encircled the edges. The stone read ‘General George Meade.’ The grave was
amazingly modest for the surroundings, just a headstone flanked by flags. Reverence took hold of Will’s face.

  He stood by it, losing track of time as he looked down the hill into the water. A team of rowers skirted by. Their wake rippled to both shores as they vigorously cut through the current. Scores of runners joined them, jogging at the river’s edge. Will observed the lively summer athletes from the shadows of the deathly summit. On any other day he would have been right there with them, torching the novices and fashion-over-function pop pedestrians along Kelly Drive.

  Now he was behind a veil of secrecy, forced to watch people living the normal life that he wanted to wake up to again. The wrought iron fence and jagged drop to the street kept him back. Seeing them all gave him purpose. The bewildering capitulation to acceptance of the undeniable truths of his situation solidified. He was bound to whatever fantastical beings menaced him in his strange misfortune. It was his responsibility to keep them from crossing the threshold into his world. He didn’t really believe that he was meant to be here, dealing with this, but he knew that his knowledge and conditioning gave him the best chance at survival.

  “You must be William,” said a voice behind him.

  Will turned abruptly. It was someone he had unknowingly met before. With a short and weighty figure, clean-shaven face and white hair, stood John Adams.

  “Franklin was right,” Adams continued, “and we’ll definitely be needing a little

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