Secret Histories

An al -news channel cal ed CNN was on, showing some comments by President Reagan fol owed by a story on Hurricane Alicia. Tom stopped to watch

on his way out the door. Jack kept an eye on him in case he had some sort of vengeance in mind for the pistachio episode.

After a few minutes his brother said, “An al -news channel? Whose stupid idea was that? Won’t last a year—I guarantee it.” Then he turned to Jack.

“And don’t think you’re home free, numbnuts. I never forget. Reprisal is on the way. It’l hit when Miracle Boy least expects it.”

Jack waggled his hand. “Ooooh, I’m shaking.”

Tom’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to throw a punch. Jack readied himself for evasive maneuvers.

But Tom only pointed a finger and said, “It’s coming. Get ready.”

As he slammed out the front door, Jack resumed switching channels. He’d decided to skip Steve’s tonight and catch some TV—maybe Cheersand

Taxi.They were always good for a laugh.

“Hold it,” Dad said.

Jack jumped and looked around. He hadn’t heard him come in.

His father pointed to the set. “Go back one.”

Jack did and saw a man in a blue blazer, a light blue shirt, and a patterned yel ow tie sitting at a desk and talking to the camera. His hair looked funny:

He’d parted it just above his right ear and combed it al the way across the top of his balding scalp to end above his left year.

“Who’s that?”

“Ed Toliver,” Dad said, snorting. “Mister Big Shot, tel ing everyone the surefire way to get rich in real estate.”

Carson’s father … that was why he looked familiar.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“According to him, the only sure way is to give him your money and have him invest it for you—and then let him take a hefty cut of the profits.”

Jack stared at the screen. “Wel , he must do pretty wel if they’ve got him on TV.”

Another snort from Dad. “That’s a public access channel run by the local cable company. Toliver gets a weekly slot because he claims his show is

educational. My eye.”

“You want to listen?” Jack prayed his father would say no.

“You kidding? See what else is on.”

As Jack’s thumb moved toward the channel button, he heard Mr. Toliver say, “I’d liketoclosetonight’sinstallmentalittledifferentlythanusual—witha

fewimportantremarksabouttheSeptimusLodge.”

He paused to listen.

“Iknowthiswillsoundstrangecomingfromabroadcastaboutrealestate,butI feelitmydutytospeakout.Thisweekhaspresenteduswiththree

deadmembersoftheSeptimusLodge.Onewasmurderedyearsago,andthe pasttwodayshavewitnessedthesuddendeathsoftwomore.”

Jack spun to face his father. “Was Mister Haskins in the Lodge?”

When his dad nodded, Jack turned back to the screen. Haskins was a member too! And he’d visited another Lodger last night—Mr. Brussard.

“Ithinkwe’relongoverdueforanswersfromtheSeptimusLodge.Diditorany ofitsmembershaveanythingtodowiththemurderofAntonBoruff?

AlthoughthecauseofdeathofmembersSumterandHaskinsappearsnatural,it seemsoddthattheycoincidesocloselywiththediscoveryof

AntonBoruff’scorpse.Idon’tknowaboutyou,butIhavequestions—questions thatwillnotbeansweredifIaloneaskthem.ThatiswhyIamcalling

forapublicinquiryintotheSeptimusLodge.”

“He should know better than that,” Dad muttered.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“Because he’s not going to get anywhere.”

“Inthisdayandageofafreeandopensociety,thereisnoplaceforexclusive andelitistsecretbrotherhoodsliketheSeptimusLodge.Haven’twe

learnedanylessonsfromWatergate?Orarewedoomedforevertogoon repeatingthesamemistakes?