Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ve always wanted one,” the child replied, not taking her eyes off the scarred box. “And now I have my very own.

  “I never knew you wanted a jack-in-the-box,” Phillip said. “I never heard you say anything about it.”

  “I never did,” the girl said strangely. “But I dreamed about having one. Over and over. The same dream.”

  Husband and wife exchanged glances, neither of them understanding what had happened.

  Nora looked at her mother. “May I wear my new beige dress this morning, mother?”

  “Why . . . I . . . certainly! But why would you want to wear that one today?”

  Nora smiled, a peculiar light in her eyes. “Why, mother, it’s Sunday. I want to go to church, of course.”

  5

  “What church are we going to, dad?” Phil asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest, son. I just wish I knew what has caused this total turnaround in your sister.”

  “She’s always been weird,” the son replied.

  Phillip chose not to pursue that. Father and son were dressed in new suits, pinstripes. Jeanne wore an outfit she had recently purchased at Bonwit Teller.

  Then Nora came down the stairs.

  She looks like a little angel, Phillip thought. She is my daughter, but I can’t deny the obvious. She is beautiful. Going to be even more beautiful than her mother, and that takes some doing.

  Then doubt began once more to creep into his mind. What’s she up to? he wondered. She’s playing some sort of game with us—no, with me—but what is it? And why?

  Well, we’ll all soon find out. I hope.

  But at church Nora’s behavior was exemplary. She sat like a little doll, not once fidgeting in the pew, and paid close attention to the minister’s words.

  But Phillip noticed her little hands were balled into white-knuckled fists. He wondered why.

  It was his own attention that kept wandering, his mind constantly returning to Nora’s flip-flopping, mulling it over and over. He mentally reviewed all the angles he could dredge up.

  And he understood nothing of his daughter’s new behavior.

  The service was over before he realized it.

  Nora was bright and bubbling after church. So much so that Phillip almost forgot his suspicions. Almost. As a treat, he took them out for lunch. Once again, Nora behaved as elegantly as a recent graduate from a British charm school. Her manners were impeccable. Phillip noticed several of the people seated around them smiling at the girl, commenting on how pretty she was.

  Back home, Phil changed into jeans and sweat shirt and took off for Alec’s house. Nora went up to her room. Phillip and Jeanne sat in the den.

  “I’m as dumbfounded as you are, Phillip,” Jeanne told him. “Shocked might be a better way of describing it. I don’t know what to make of her.”

  “I don’t either. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make a deal with you.”

  She looked suspiciously at him.

  He held up a hand. “No, hear me out. If her behavior stays anywhere near what it’s been today, we’ll just forget about a child psychologist. Maybe she’s snapped out of that . . . stage, for want of a better word, she was going through. I don’t know. But I’m real glad to see it.”

  Jeanne came to him and sat in his lap, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Umm,” Phillip said. “It’s beginning to look like a very promising and interesting afternoon, young lady.”

  “Oh, thank you for the ‘young lady’ bit. What do you have on your mind, Mr. Baxter?”

  He told her.

  She said she thought that might be fun. It had been some time between . . .

  Together, holding hands, they walked up the stairs. They looked in on Nora. She was asleep on her bed.

  Or so they thought.

  When her door had closed, Nora sat up quickly. She jerked off her pretty new dress and hurled it savagely to the floor. She spat on the dress. She changed into jeans and shirt and went into her bathroom, washing her hands twice. The minister’s touch still lingered on her flesh. It was sickening.

  She reached under her bed and pulled out the wooden box. She opened the clasp and waited for the music to begin. When the first notes of the somber march drifted from the base of the box, the clown’s head peeked over the lip of the box, only the top of the head and eyes visible.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” the girl said. “Waiting so long. I knew you would come.”

  The clown head emerged, bobbing back and forth, side to side, the eyes rolling.

  “We have lots of time,” Nora said. “Lots of time. “We’ll have fun, just you and me.”

  Laughter rolled softly from the cruel hinged mouth.

  “But we have to be careful,” Nora cautioned. “Very careful. Do you understand?”

  The hideous mouth snapped open and then closed with a pop.

  “Good.”

  The head swayed back and forth, the jaw continuing to open and close.

  “Very well,” Nora said.

  The girl walked to her dresser and sat down. She brushed her long blond hair away from her neck and looked at the birthmark there. When she was six years old it had begun to change, changing from a circle, slowly altering in shape. From that moment on, Nora had never allowed her mother to wash her hair. The girl knew she was different from other girls. But until recently she did not know just how different.

  Her dark eyes looked up at the reflection of her face in the mirror, then lowered to the birthmark.

  The tiny birthmark was in the perfect shape of a six.

  * * *

  “So how are things at home?” Sam asked.

  Phillip looked up from the brief he had been studying. “Odd,” he said. Then he told his friend and partner what had happened after he’d returned home Saturday.

  Sam’s eyes widened. He forced a smile. “That’s not odd, buddy. That’s just plain weird.”

  Phillip put his elbows on the desk top and his chin in his hands. “Sam, why can’t I shake the feeling that Nora is pulling one of her little tricks on me—on Jeanne?”

  “Because you’re a lawyer. We tend to question everything.”

  “That’s true. But besides that?”

  Sam shook his head. “I think she is. Phillip, do you trust your daughter?”

  Phillip sighed. “No,” he replied, the word coming easily, without any feelings of guilt. “No, I really don’t. And I’m wondering if it’s possible she’s a dual personality and doesn’t know it?”

  “Anything is possible, I suppose. But you’ll never know until you take her to see a shrink.”

  “I can’t do that. I made a deal with Jeanne.” He told Sam about their pact.

  “Well, you boxed yourself in. But I know why you did it. Keeping the peace at home, huh?”

  “Yes. It’s been a psychological battleground around there for longer than I care to remember. Yeah, you’re right. I’m boxed in. But anything to keep the peace. Even if it means putting off something that obviously needs to be done.”

  “Nora.”

  “Precisely.”

  Both men were silent for a moment. Sam said, “Phillip, why don’t you, without telling Jeanne, see a shrink, a child shrink, and lay it out for him? Hell, we have a half dozen right here in this building.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sam. I’ll go see him.”

  But it wasn’t a him. It was a her. And the office was nothing like what Phillip had expected. He had thought there would be Disney characters on the walls, books about choo-choo’s and friendly little mice. The office was pleasant, but not kiddy. And Dr. S. Harte turned out to be Sheela.

  “Don’t be uncomfortable, Mr. Baxter,” she said, smiling at him. A very disarming smile from a very pretty lady. “Have you ever been to a psychologist before?”

  “Psychiatrist. Couple of times after we got back from Nam. They were government people.”

  “I see. What branch of service w
ere you in?”

  “Army. I was a LRRP. Rhymes with burp.”

  She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  He grinned. “Long Range Recon Patrol.”

  “I’m not familiar with them. Was it dangerous work?”

  He started to tell her that any place in Nam was dangerous. That anybody who served over there in any capacity deserved a medal. ’Cause they damn sure got their head warped. Instead he said, “Yes, it was dangerous.”

  “Do you dream about it?”

  Phillip knew from speaking to others that when dealing with emotionally disturbed children, the doctors sometimes questioned the parents just about as much as the kids. “Not much. Not in years. I think about it.”

  “Often?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill, Mr. Baxter?”

  “Many, many times, Dr. Harte. With guns, with knives, with piano wire, with my bare hands.”

  “What do you do with piano wire?”

  “Silent kills. Wrap it around their neck, pull it tight, and hold on.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “Oh, it is. Really helps one to get a job in the civilian marketplace.” He grinned to soften that.

  She smiled. “Tell me about Nora.”

  Where to begin? That was a very subtle perfume Dr. Harte was wearing, and he knew damn well Jeanne would smell it on his clothing when he got home. He’d drive with the window down when he got back to the station. “She was a very sweet, very normal—normal to a layman’s way of thinking—until her sixth birthday.”

  It was there he picked it up. When he had finished, he was surprised to learn he’d been talking for almost half an hour.

  Dr. Harte stared at him for a moment. “Mr. Baxter, I would very much like to talk with your daughter.”

  “She needs help?”

  “From what you’ve told me, most definitely. When could I see her?”

  “I’d like very much for you to talk with her. But for the moment, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  “Is she physically ill?”

  “Oh no.” Then he told her of the arrangement he’d made with Jeanne.

  “Mr. Baxter . . . ”

  “Phillip, please.”

  “All right, Phillip. Doesn’t your wife understand it’s very important to catch these things as early as possible? It’s so much easier to deal with in a child.”

  “She won’t even discuss it. Well, that’s not true. We did discuss it, in a manner of speaking—or shouting. Then I had her convinced that Nora needed to see a shr . . . psychologist.”

  She laughed. “Shrink is fine, Phillip. Believe me, I’ve been called much worse.”

  “But then Nora pulled her turnaround act. That’s when I suggested the deal I just told you about.”

  “Act? That’s interesting. You believe it’s an act?”

  “Yes, I do. Dr. Harte . . .”

  “Sheela.”

  “Fine. Sheela, I believe my daughter is brilliantly. . . troubled.” He could not bring himself to say insane. “She plays me off her mother, and I come out looking like the heavy every time. She has lied for five years. But this bit Saturday shows me, at least, that she is quite an actress.”

  “All children are actors, Phillip. Some better than others. All right now. Have you told me everything about her, about your situation at home?”

  “I . . . think so. No!” He told her about the antique and supposedly cursed jack-in-the-box.

  Did her interest perk up just then? he wondered. Yes, it did. But why? Why would a toy produce such an effect?

  “Phillip, I strongly recommend that you bring Nora to see me.”

  “If she reverts to her old ways, I sure will. But Sheela, if I insisted on bringing her in now, it would probably cause a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So am I.”

  “All right, Phillip, as you wish. But will you please stay in touch with me?”

  “Certainly. We work in the same building.”

  He watched as she wrote a number on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “That is my unlisted home number. If you ever need to talk to me, say at night, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  He looked at the number. Lifted his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I think Nora needs help. And I’m hoping your wife will soon realize it.”

  Phillip felt she was holding back, but he couldn’t possibly imagine why. He decided not to push it. “I certainly appreciate it, Sheela.” He tucked the number into his wallet and stood up. “Do I pay the receptionist?”

  She smiled that disarming smile. “No charge for this visit, Phillip. On the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you. If you ever need any legal help, I’m a couple of floors up.”

  When the door had closed behind Phillip, Sheela took a private phone from her desk and punched out a number. “Father Joseph Debeau, please. Yes, thank you. I’ll hold.”

  While she waited, she summoned her nearly total recall and jotted down everything Phillip had told her, writing in a small, very neat handwriting. She put down her pencil as the phone was picked up on the other end.

  “Joe,” she said. “I think I’ve found her.”

  * * *

  There was no news to report to Dr. Harte. Nothing at all. The week passed uneventfully at the Baxter home, the tension finally disappearing completely when Nora’s behavior did not change. She was still the sweet little girl she had now become.

  On this day, Jeanne and Nora had gone to a local shopping mall to browse. Phillip sat alone in the den, drinking coffee and smoking and thinking.

  Those lingering doubts would not leave Phillip’s mind.

  Nothing made any sense.

  People just did not change that abruptly. Unless. . . ? Unless what?

  Phillip could not imagine the what of it.

  The only thing that had happened to alter the Baxters’ normal day-to-day routine had been . . . what?

  Nothing that he could think of.

  Then it came to him. The old jack-in-the-box. But what in the hell, or why, would an old toy have anything to do with a child’s behavior?

  He couldn’t imagine. Unless the curse, whatever that was, was true. He chuckled at that. He wondered what the curse was.

  He glanced up as the front door opened and closed. Phil looked in on his father.

  “Hey, old man,” the boy said with a grin. “You look like you’re deep in thought.”

  “Kind of, I suppose. You busy, Phil?”

  “Naw. Boring weekend. You want to talk?”

  “Yes, I do. Come sit down.” Phil did so and Phillip said, “I want you to level with me, Phil. OK?”

  “Sure. What’d I do?”

  Phillip smiled. Normal reaction for a kid. Serious talk meant someone was in trouble. Clear the air fast as to who was in dutch. “You haven’t done a thing, Phil.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Who poisoned old Lucky, Phil?”

  The question caught the boy off guard. With hundreds of courtroom hours behind him, Phillip watched his son’s eyes and knew the boy was about to lie. “Don’t do it, Phil. I want the truth.”

  Phil shrugged and nodded his head. “Nora. But it wasn’t poison. I got sick to my stomach when she told me what she’d done. It took her several months to do it. She crushed up glass into tiny bits and put in in his food.”

  Phillip felt his own stomach roll over. He loved animals, sent monthly contributions to the local animal league. “Why didn’t you come to me and tell me about it?”

  Again the boy shrugged. “Nora dared me to tell you. She said if I did, she’d tell mother I was lying and mother would punish me, ’cause mother always took Nora’s side. I thought it over and reached the conclusion she was right.”

  “And Jeanne would have, too. I seem to forget how young we learn not to rock the boat.”

  “Yes sir. Especially when your sister is pos . . . weird.”
<
br />   “What did you start to say, Phil?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Come on, Phil. Level with me. Do you think your sister is mentally ill?”

  “Yes sir. I do. I have for a long time.”

  “But that wasn’t what you started to say, was it?”

  The boy sat silent, looking at his father.

  “What’s wrong with you, Phil?”

  The boy opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head.

  “Phil, we’ve always been able to talk. Don’t clam up on me now.”

  “You want the truth, dad? You want me to tell you what I really feel about Nora?”

  “Yes. Very much. It might be very important. Your sister needs help.”

  “You’re going to laugh at me.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “I think she’s possessed.”

  Phillip blinked. “Possessed? What do you mean, Phil? Possessed . . . how?”

  “I think she’s possessed by the devil.”

  6

  Phillip stared at his son for a moment. He rose from his lounger and paced the den. He would occasionally pause to look at his son.

  Phillip sat back down and said, “You want to elaborate on that, son?”

  “I figured you’d laugh.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Dad, I was just a little kid when Nora was born. I remember, I really remember the day you and mother brought Nora home from the hospital. Lucky was just a puppy. Mrs. Mahoney was our housekeeper, remember?”

  “You’ve got a good memory, son. Yes, I remember. I got angry because Mrs. Mahoney took one look at Nora and left. She never came back.”

  “Oh, she took more than one look, dad. She took several real good looks. I remember. I remember her looking down at me and saying, ‘The poor child is marked. I will not stay in this house.’ ”

  “Marked? I don’t understand. But again, Phil, why didn’t you come to me and tell me?”

  “I tried, dad. I tried a lot of times. But you and mother were always busy with Nora. Finally I just gave up and shoved it back in my mind. Then . . . oh, I guess it was when Nora turned six, I began to notice things about her. The birthmark on the back of her neck, for instance. It began changing. And that’s when she tossed such a fit about wanting to wash her own hair. Remember?”