The Patriots' Club

27

“Who were they?” asked Jennifer Dance, as the old sedan bumped and rattled up Atlantic Avenue toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Old boyfriends,” said Bobby Stillman.

“Are they the reason you had me keep the curtains drawn?”

“Boy, she’s full of questions, this one,” said the driver. “Hey, lady, put a lid on it.”

“It’s all right, Walter,” said Bobby Stillman. She twisted in her seat, bringing her intense gaze to bear. “I’ll tell you who they are,” she said. “They’re the enemy. They’re Big Brother. Remember the Masons’ ‘All-Seeing Eye’?”

Jenny nodded hesitantly.

“That’s who they are. They watch. They spy. Scientia est potentia. ‘Knowledge is power.’ They report. They silence. They brainwash. But that’s not enough for them. They have a vision. A higher calling. And for that calling, they’re willing to kill.”

The woman was crazy. Big Brother and the Masons. Scientia est dementia was more like it, or whatever Latin gobbledygook she was quoting. Any second now she was going to start babbling about the aliens among us, and the miniature transmitters hidden in her molars. Jenny had a physical need to move away from her, but there was no place to go. “How do you know them?” she asked.

“We go back a long way. I keep coming after them, and they keep trying to stop me.”

“Who’s they?”

Bobby Stillman threw an arm over the seat, shooting her an uncertain glance as if she was deciding whether she was worth all the effort. “The club,” she said. Her voice was calmer, sober even, gaining traction now that she was back on planet Earth. “It’s funny, isn’t it? But that’s what they call themselves. A club of patriots. Who are they? The big boys in Washington and New York with their hands on the levers of power. How do you think they found Thomas? They’re inside.”

“Inside what?”

“Everything. Government. Business. Law. Education. Medicine.”

Jenny shook her head, uncomfortable with these vague accusations. She wanted names, faces, plans. She wanted something she could read about in The New York Times. “Who’s in the club?”

Bobby Stillman ran a hand over her hair. “I don’t know all of them, and believe me, darling, I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Then you’d be number two on their hit parade with your boyfriend, right after yours truly. All you need to know is that they are a group of men, maybe even women-”

“A club…”

Stillman nodded. “A club of very powerful, very connected individuals who want to keep their hands on the tiller steering this country of ours. They meet together. They talk. They plan. Yes, it’s a club in the real sense of the word.”

“That does what?”

“Primarily, they interfere. They’re not content to let the government work the way it’s supposed to. They don’t trust us, and by us, I mean the people-you, me, and that guy over there selling Sabrett hot dogs-to make the decisions.”

“Do they fix elections?”

“Of course not.” Bobby Stillman flared. “Aren’t you listening? I said they’re inside. They work with those in power. They convince them of the purity of their aims. They scare them into acting. Into usurping the people’s voice… all in the name of democracy.”

Jenny sat back, her mind racing. She looked at her nails and began tearing at her thumb, a habit she’d gotten over at the age of fourteen. It was too much for her. Too big. Too ill-defined. Altogether too spooky. “Where’s Thomas?” she asked again.

“We’re going to meet him now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you two have lunch planned? Twelve o’clock? At your regular place?”

Jenny bolted forward in her seat. “How did you know?”

“We listen, too,” said Bobby Stillman. “But we’re not mind readers.”

Walter, the driver, turned his head and looked at Jenny. “Where to, kid?”