Freedom

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 Revere.”

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.”

“And the journal?” Jillian asked.

“That one was tricky. If you want John Adams’ journal, that’s easy to find. Sam’s, not so much. In fact, the only reference I found was the story of something he said on his deathbed. A slave overheard it, and the tale was passed down through her family. According to her, a few days before his death, she came into his room to empty his chamber pot. They were alone, and he whispered her name. It was one of his rare moments of lucidity, so she hurried to his bedside. He grabbed hold of her with surprising strength and said, “Journal. The secret. Trumbull preserved.”

“John Trumbull? The portrait artist?” Dane frowned. John Trumbull was a painter best known for his Revolutionary War portraits, particularly his Declaration of Independence painting. “If he preserved the secret, it must have been in a painting.”

“There is a Trumbull portrait of Adams inside Faneuil Hall,” Jillian offered. “It was painted shortly before his death.”

“I suppose we could wait until the place opens and check it out, but I’d rather not. I’d like to stay ahead of the Sons of the Republic, just in case they’re on our trail.” Dane turned to Jillian. “You don’t happen to have another secret passageway up your sleeve?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jimmy handed him a sheet of paper. “I’m way ahead of you.”

Dane looked at it and smiled.

“Jimmy, I owe you another bottle of scotch.”

“What is it?” Bones asked.

“A warren of old tunnels runs beneath the Freedom Trail. Most are dead-ends, running only a few meters before reaching points where the ceiling has collapsed, sealing it off from the rest of the passageways. One stretch, however, is intact, and it runs right beneath Faneuil Hall. At least, it was when the trail markers were installed on the Freedom Trail.”

“It will get us inside?”

“It will, according to the source I found. It’s a secret a few blue hairs from the Paul Revere Heritage group were trying to keep to themselves.”

“How do we get in?” Bones brimmed with pent-up energy, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers.

“The markers along the Freedom Trail all look the same: a ring of oak leaves encircling the words The Freedom Trail-Boston and this symbol in the middle.” He tapped an image on the paper Dane held. “In one spot, the marker covers a manhole leading down into the passageway.”

“Where?” Jillian had half-risen from her chair.

“That, I couldn’t find out, but there’s a subtle difference in that particular marker. If you look closely, it has lines like this on it.” He indicated a second image, and Dane held it up so Bones and Jillian could get a better look.

“The crossed circle,” Jillian breathed. She sprang from her seat and hugged Jimmy, who gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen.” Bones stood, his eyes brimming with eagerness. “Let’s find a creepy old tunnel.”