Star Chamber Brotherhood (4 page)

“Wait a moment, Frank,” Carol interrupted. “We really should include Harriet. I’ll call her in from the kitchen. Is any left in the bottle or might we open another?”

Werner lowered his glass and nodded indulgently.

“Of course we can pour her a glass, dear. I planned to open a fresh bottle in a moment.”

He replaced his glass on the sideboard and removed the second bottle of champagne from its ice-filled cooler.

A few seconds later, Carol reappeared with Harriet Waterman in tow. Though Harriet was only three years younger than Carol, her life had taken a far different path. Born near Camden on the coast of Maine, she had married a lobsterman the summer of her high school graduation and had given birth to five children, of whom only two lived.
 

Over the past two decades, the Maine Coast had been hit by disaster after disaster including hurricanes, a tsunami, recurrent flooding, and massive forest fires, and had shared in the country’s pandemics, famines, and civil unrest as well. Since Harriet came from one of Maine’s larger clans, when the troubles hit Down East, her relatives called upon her early and often for help. Until her husband died in the Saigon Flu epidemic, she had been able to help many of them, taking in some for weeks at a time while they looked for work or a new home. But without her husband’s support, she had been obliged to sell the house and move in with her daughter in Boston.

Werner found a seventh flute glass, though it didn’t match, and filled it for Harriet. Her eyes widened with delight, as sparkling wines had become a rarity even for relatively affluent professionals like Carol and her friends.

“We give thanks to Carol for enriching our lives this past year and may she have her best year ever in 2029,” Linda Holt declared, raising her glass. “ Happy birthday!”

To that, the seven raised their glasses and drank.

Carol immediately set about opening the presents arranged before her on the coffee table. From Linda she received a crystal pendant, from the Steens a framed print, from the Professor a book of poetry, and from Werner an embossed antique silver bowl with hand chasing.

Once all presents had been opened and duly admired, Werner dispensed the remaining wine and found a seat beside Carol on the sofa.

“Cambridge,” Werner’ responded to Professor Worthington’s question where he found the silver bowl. “A woman lost her house in the flood and was selling some of her valuables. She had a beautiful silver collection. Most of the pieces were beyond my budget, but this one was reasonable enough.”

“My wife collected heaps of silver in her day,” Worthington mused. “Her housekeeper spent a day each week polishing it. I suppose it must be a glut on the market these days, with so many people selling? Was she offering it through a dealer?”

“Actually. I met the woman at a flea market. I make the rounds several times a week. It’s where I find leads for much of the pre-Events wine and spirits I trade.”

“Really?” the older man questioned. “Don’t you find it dangerous to do business at flea markets? I’ve read that those places are teeming with thieves and pickpockets and shady characters selling counterfeit goods.”

“Not at all. Most of the sellers are ordinary people,” Werner declared. “Some are former shopkeepers who can’t afford rent anymore, but continue to buy and sell in the open air. Others come only when they need to sell something to keep food on the table. These people aren’t stupid, Professor. They set up in fenced-off areas like schoolyards and vacant lots and arrange for their own security. Some even bring armed guards if they’re handling a lot of cash. Markets like these are how people have traded throughout the world since civilization began.”

“I see your point, Frank,” Worthington conceded. “It’s been so long since I’ve traveled outside the country that I’ve nearly forgotten all those charming bazaars and
marchés
and
mercados
my wife used to drag me through.”

“Frank,” Mary Steen chimed in, “Carol mentioned that you spent some years out West before returning to Boston. I’m so curious what it’s like now. Since the government declared so much of the West a Restricted Zone during the insurgency, it seems there’s hardly a mention of it in the media any more.”

Her husband raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been told that anyone who works in a Restricted Zone is required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. If that’s so, perhaps Frank may not be at liberty to talk to us about what he saw there.”

All eyes turned to Werner.

“Oh, no, it’s perfectly all right,” Werner replied genially, emptying his glass. “Most of what I can tell you dates back to before the Events. Our family moved to Salt Lake from New York in 2006 and came to Boston in 2016, well before the insurgency.”

“But I understand you returned to Utah and came back to Boston just a few years ago,” Mary Steen persisted. “Can you share your impressions of what’s changed out there? Carol said something about your having gone back to help rebuild. It sounds fascinating!”

Werner smiled weakly. Mary Steen had no idea what she was asking. If he answered truthfully, she would never believe it. And if she did believe, it might traumatize her. So he gave her a short version of his standard cover story. To avoid tripping himself up with too many lies, he had long ago crafted a story that was as close to the truth as he dared get.
 

“I went back to Utah in 2022, during some very difficult times, as we all know. I spent a little more than two years there, at a remote site working on reconstruction and recycling of war-torn areas in the mountains. Then I was transferred to the Yukon for just over a year where I worked at a mining site before being recalled to Utah. When my commitment came to an end, I decided to come back East.”
 

He took a sip of champagne, surprised how easily the lies rolled off his tongue.
 

“Not a very exciting story, really. Utah is as physically beautiful as ever, I can happily report, and the people there are determined to lift themselves up by their bootstraps. I may even go back there one of these days.”

Carol cast a concerned look in Werner’s direction. He sensed that Linda saw it and knew what was going on in Carol’s head. Frank’s possible return to Utah had become a sore spot between him and Carol. He had asked her more than once to consider moving back to Salt Lake City with him. A board-certified oncologist with her credentials could walk into any hospital in Utah and be offered a position on the spot with a generous housing allowance, no questions asked.
 

But for Carol, this was far too big a change. Though she had visited Salt Lake City for conventions, skied at Alta and Deer Valley, and visited the national parks at Bryce Canyon, Zion, and the Grand Canyon’s north rim, Utah was not a place where people like her could possibly settle down. Her job, her friends, her apartment, and her culture were all in Boston. That she had been born in Beirut, Lebanon, and did not come to the United States until she was seven years old was beside the point. She was a product of The Winsor School, Harvard, Tufts Medical School and Children’s Hospital Boston. Having earned her rank in Boston, she could not conceive of giving it up.

Werner’s arguments in favor of a move had failed to score points with Carol. For one, he loved Utah for its mountains, its wide-open spaces, its youthful population, its dry sunny climate, and the opportunity to be physically active despite his advancing age. And now that the Mormon-inspired laws restricting the sale of alcohol in the state were a relic of the past, he was confident that he could make a living in the wine and spirits business, whether as a bootlegger, bar owner, or perhaps in time as a licensed distributor.

Werner also possessed a legal residence permit for Utah. In fact, his residence permit was not valid anywhere else but Utah. He had neither a travel permit nor a residence permit for Boston and would almost certainly never get one. He had come east only to search for his missing daughter, and had intended to return within a few weeks or months.
 

Sadly, however, the search for his daughter had taken far longer than he had expected. He had come across tantalizing hearsay from former classmates and friends that she had traveled or moved or emigrated, but he was not able to unearth a phone number or an address for her. He knew that the longer he stayed in Boston, the greater the risk of exposure and re-arrest. And unless he found her soon, he planned to leave the East and continue his search from Utah.

“You mean go back as a private citizen?” Paul Steen interjected. “But isn’t Utah still a Restricted Zone? I thought that you had to be out there on government business before they’d even sell you a ticket.”

“In most instances, I suppose,” Werner admitted. “But I expect I can find a way. At the moment, it’s just something I like to think about.”

“You know, I wish I knew how half the people in the shantytowns around here got their residence permits,” Harriet Waterman remarked, emboldened by her second flute of champagne. “Most of the homeless you see around here aren’t from Boston, that’s for darned sure. Half of them are down from Canada. Especially the squatters. Why, I heard them speaking French Canuck to each other when they demonstrated outside the building last week.”

“You’ve had trouble with squatters here in Brookline?” Mary Steen asked in a concerned voice. “Cambridge has been swarming with them. Now they’ve taken over some of the more habitable buildings in the flooded neighborhoods along the Charles. I’m told they’re even moving into some transitional neighborhoods. The police don’t seem to do anything to stop them.”

“The police look the other way, ma’am,” Harriet replied knowingly. “If they knock heads, they get in trouble with the radicals on the City Council. To tell the truth, it wouldn’t surprise me if somebody was getting paid off from this. What I hear is that, when a squatter gang takes over a building, they charge rent from the people they bring in to live there. That’s how they can afford to bribe the police and the crooked politicians.”

“That’s so interesting,” Mary Steen continued respectfully. “I read in the
Herald
this morning that the squatters are a major reason for the new FEMA relocation project. Unless FEMA and the Housing Authority can come up with some way to house all the refugees, we could be facing housing riots like the ones in Philadelphia and Cleveland.”

“Well, they’ll need to break ground soon if they’re going to build enough units,” the Professor observed. “The summers around here aren’t as long as they used to be. FEMA may have to bring in tents they way they did after Hurricane Michele.”

“That’s what the Mayor wants, but FEMA says they’ve run out of tents and don’t have funds to buy more, Harriet continued. “What they want is for the Housing Authority to crack down on exempt and grandfathered leases so they can cram more people into the buildings they’ve got. Can you believe their nerve, measuring our apartments and telling us how many square meters we’re entitled to, and if they think we have too much, bringing in strangers to live with us? Over my dead body!”

With that, Harriet looked up and saw Carol Dodge tidying up the glasses on the coffee table.

“Oh, the dessert! I nearly forgot about it!” Carol exclaimed.

“Never mind, don’t you worry, Mrs. Dodge,” Harriet replied, “I’ll start the coffee and bring it out with the cake. Anyone prefer tea?”

She saw no takers and retreated hastily to the kitchen. Mary Steen followed behind.

Paul Steen took the opportunity to consult Carol on a medical question and the Professor excused himself to find the bathroom. That left Frank and Linda Holt alone.

“Frank,” Linda began, seating herself next to him, “you mentioned last week that you were ready to have me do a reading for you. If Carol doesn’t object to our being away for a few minutes, might this be a good time?”

Werner was taken by surprise, but since he had indeed made the request, he assented. Linda spoke a few words softly into Carol’s ear and led the way to the den. There she wasted no time clearing the desktop and seating herself behind the desk. She motioned for Werner to pull up a chair opposite her.

“Since we only have ten minutes or so, there will be no time for formalities. I trust Carol has told you a bit about how I work. I am what some people call an intuitive. When I lay out the tarot cards, I get mental impressions related to the questions that have been asked. Sometimes they take the form of pictures, or voices or words on a page, or even aromas or feelings. I do my best to make sense of them and convey them to you in a way that provides useful guidance. Am I making sense to you?”

Werner nodded.

“Good. Then what are the questions you would like answered?”

“Wow, Linda, you caught me a bit off guard. I suppose the biggest question is whether you can tell me anything about where my daughter Marie might be. I still believe she’s alive, but my best guess is that she emigrated three or four years ago. Am I wasting my time staying in Boston tracking down leads to her? In my heart I feel it’s time to go back to Utah, but Carol doesn’t want to leave Boston, and I don’t want to hurt her by going without her. Sooner or later, something has to give. So where do I go from here?”

Linda Holt closed her eyes, lowered her head as if in prayer, and set the tarot deck in front of Werner.

“Cut the deck, shuffle it thoroughly, and put it back face down on the desk,” she told him.

He did as told. Then Linda dealt the cards in rapid succession, laying them in rows, pausing only occasionally to turn them over or arrange them in groups. When she was finished, though nearly all were face up, Werner could discern no meaningful pattern. Nor did he know what any of the tarot images signified.