Jack: Secret Histories

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack had heard there’d been some sort of trouble last fall when two guys from Trenton sneaked into town, loaded the canoes into a pickup, and took off. One of the bad things about a town as small as Johnson was that everybody knew everybody else’s business. But the good thing was that people tended to watch out for each other.

  Some insomniac on Quakerton Road had been sitting by a window that night and saw an unfamiliar truck go by loaded with canoes. She called someone who called Mark. Soon Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, and Paul Mulliner—their mother was really into the New Testament, apparently—piled into a truck of their own. The story went that they intercepted the thieves on Carranza Road near Tabernacle. What happened after that nobody knew, or nobody was saying, but next morning the canoes were back at their usual spot. Never a mention of the fate of the Trenton guys, and nobody asked. Piney justice tended to be swift, severe, and silent.

  Weezy shielded her eyes as she stared at the canoers already on the lake. “When you talked about swimming, I assumed you meant here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re going to go diving for whatever Steve’s father threw in.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ll never find it.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I have a pretty good idea where it landed. The water’s clear and not very deep. I think it’s worth a shot.”

  “You’re not the type to go looking for trouble. Wouldn’t it be better to do this at night?”

  “But then I wouldn’t be able to see.”

  “Oh, right.” She pointed to the blocklike Lodge squatting on the far corner of the opposite bank. “Yeah, you’ll be able to see, but so will they. If they’re watching, they’ll call the fuzz.”

  The Lodge owned the pond. They let people boat on it, even fish in it—someone had stocked it with small-mouth bass—but absolutely no swimming. Jack had never understood why. But then, the Lodge never explained what it did. It didn’t have to.

  “I think I have a way around that. But I need your help.”

  “If it involves swimming, forget it. I’m not going in that lake.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be the only one getting wet. I’m going to paddle one of these canoes to the other side of the bridge. You’re going to follow along the bank. When I get to the right spot, I’m going to become a show-off.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He pulled three dollars from his wallet and dropped it in the coffee can, then handed Weezy his wallet.

  “Here. Keep this dry for me.”

  Then he kicked off his Vans. He was glad he was wearing cutoffs, so he didn’t have to roll up his jeans. He dragged the canoe into the water, hopped in, and began to paddle.

  Weezy pedaled along the bank, looking confused. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Easy!” he shouted. “Just look beautiful!”

  Even from here he could see her blush. Immediately he wondered if he should have said it. She might take it the wrong way. A guy could say one thing and a girl would hear something else.

  Weezy wasn’t beautiful by most standards. Unless she changed dramatically over the next couple of years, she probably wasn’t going to have a gaggle of guys following her down the street. But she wasn’t bad-looking. She easily could be cute or even attractive if she gave it half a try. He didn’t mean she should become a bowhead or anything like that, not that she ever would. But Weezy considered herself a plain Jane, maybe even something of a bow-wow—she’d never told him so but he could sense it—and so she never made that try. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Maybe she was going to wait until she came across a Cure fan looking for a girl who reminded him of Robert Smith.

  “Easier said than done,” she replied in a barely audible voice.

  “Nah! Just think beautiful!”

  Ouch. That was bad—super hokey. He wished he hadn’t brought this up. But if nothing else, it made him look like he was out here just having fun.

  He guided the canoe under the bridge and into the south half of the dumbbell-shaped lake. His was the only canoe on this end. To his right on the west bank he saw the big oak near where Mr. Brussard had stood when he threw whatever he’d thrown. Jack guesstimated it had landed about thirty feet out.

  He backpaddled the canoe to stop it at the spot. Then he checked for Weezy on the shore. She’d leaned her bike against the big oak and stood watching him with her hands on her hips. She wore a Now-what? expression.

  Okay, Jack thought. Time to take the plunge.

  Carefully he rose to his feet. The canoe began rocking with the shift in weight. When he’d gained his balance he waved to her.

  “Hey, Weezy! Look! No hands!”

  “And no brains!” she replied.

  Can’t argue with that, he thought. Or am I just crazy?

  Maybe he was. This was certainly a crazy stunt. Weezy was right about his chances of finding whatever it was. Slim to none, even if he knew what he was looking for, and he didn’t.

  But he had to give it a try.

  He pretended to lose his balance, windmilling his arms, which increased the canoe’s rocking until—

  “Whoa!”

  Taking a deep breath, he fell/dove off the canoe into the water. The temperature was a shock. He’d known it was fed by a cold spring, but not this cold. Fighting the urge to start swimming for the warm shore, he stroked toward the bottom for a look.

  The water wasn’t crystal clear but enough light filtered through to reveal the muddy bottom. He stayed a few feet above it, stroking gently so as not to stir up the muck. He saw some beer cans, dead tree branches, a sneaker, and some unidentifiable lumps all coated with green-brown ick. They looked like they’d been here a long time. Something down here for only a few days should stick out like Weezy at an Air Supply concert.

  He kept stroking. He’d always been able to hold his breath for a long time. Knowing it was only a short distance to the surface, he pushed it to the max before kicking back toward air.

  Nothing … he’d found nothing. On his next dive he’d search a little farther out from shore.

  A shadow passed over him. He looked up and saw someone else in the water, swimming along the surface.

  Who? Too big for Weezy.

  As his head broke the surface he felt an arm go around his neck.

  “Gotcha!” said a voice close behind him.

  Jack panicked when he recognized it: Steve’s father!

  He heard a high-pitched scream from somewhere as he began struggling to get free.

  “Don’t fight me, Jack. I’m stronger than you.”

  Jack knew that, but didn’t stop his struggles. The killer was going to drown him to make sure he never found what he’d thrown in here.

  11

  “Be calm, Jack,” said the voice, close to his ear. “Relax. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  Safe? He must mean his secret will be safe.

  Jack took a deep breath, preparing for when Mr. Brussard forced him under. He could almost hear him later: I tried my best to save him but just couldn’t.

  But instead of pulling him down, the arm slipped from his neck to across his chest. And then he felt himself being pulled along the surface. He craned his neck and saw that Mr. Brussard was using a cross-chest carry to move him toward shore. Jack had learned this one in his lifesaver course last summer.

  He thinks he’s saving me.

  “I’m okay, Mr. Brussard. I can swim.”

  He stopped stroking. “You can?”

  He released him and Jack treaded water as he turned to face him.

  “Yeah. I … I just fell off the boat.”

  “But you didn’t come up. I thought …” He laughed. “You mean I got soaked for nothing?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say for nothing.”

  “Poor choice of words. Let’s get to shore. It’s cold in here.”

  “You go ahead. I’ve got to get the boat.”

  “I’ll help you.”

&nb
sp; Together they stroked out to the canoe. Then, each grabbing a side, they swam it ashore.

  As they stood panting on the bank, Mr. B said, “Well, I’ve got to say I didn’t have this in mind when I walked over to the Lodge this morning.”

  Jack felt like a fool. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It livened up an otherwise dull Saturday.” He pushed back his wet hair. “I don’t know about you, but I’m heading home for some dry clothes. Boy, that water’s cold.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Next time you’re in a canoe, don’t act like a jerk, okay?”

  As he walked off, Jack said, “Thanks, Mr. B.”

  He stopped and turned. “Thanks? You said you could swim.”

  “I can. But you didn’t know that. Thanks for trying to save me.”

  He smiled. “Hey, Steve needs you. If something happened to you, he’d never finish that computer.”

  As he stood and watched Mr. Brussard walk away, Weezy ran over.

  “Do you believe that?” she said.

  Jack shook his head. “He tried to save my life.”

  “Some cold-blooded murderer he is,” she whispered.

  Jack turned to her. “I don’t get it. What happened?”

  “I was watching where you’d ‘fallen’ in when I heard a splash on the other side.” She pointed toward the Lodge. “I saw a pair of shoes on the bank there and someone swimming like mad toward you. I didn’t know who he was until he grabbed you.”

  “I heard a scream. Was that you?”

  She nodded. “I thought he was going to …”

  “Yeah. So did I. But he was trying to save me.”

  …trying to save me…

  Jack couldn’t wrap his mind around that. He’d suspected Steve’s father of being a murderer. But maybe he’d had it all wrong. Maybe Mr. B had been genuinely trying to protect those men, and whatever he’d been trying simply hadn’t worked.

  That meant someone else—or something else—was killing them.

  The klazen? Or Bert Challis?

  Or maybe they weren’t being killed at all. Maybe it was simply a huge coincidence that all three Lodgers died of cardiac arrest within days of each other. Or, like Dad had said, voodoo.

  Jack shook his head. He knew coincidences happened, but this was too much. Those men had been killed. But how? And by whom or what?

  Could there really be such a thing as a klazen?

  Bert Challis was a better bet.

  Weezy nodded toward the lake. “You going back in there?”

  “No way.” Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun, Jack still felt chilled. “Besides, whatever it is, I’ll never find it in all that muck.”

  “So this was all for nothing?”

  He looked at her. “No, not ‘all for nothing.’ I learned something about Steve’s father.”

  She lowered her voice further. “What? That he’s not some mustache-twirling serial killer?”

  “Well, what else am I supposed to think?”

  “Lots of things.”

  Should have known, Jack thought. If there’s another, darker way of looking at something, Weezy’s going to find it.

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe he couldn’t drown you because he knew people were watching.”

  “Then why would he swim out at all?”

  “How about to drag you away from the spot where he’d thrown the whatever?”

  Jack hadn’t considered that, but he saw a problem with it.

  “If that was true, wouldn’t he be hanging around to make sure I don’t go back in?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe.”

  “Can’t we just give the guy the benefit of the doubt?”

  “Sure we can: He saw you fall in, thought you were drowning, and swam out to save you.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t have something to do with the deaths of those three Lodgers. Maybe he’s got a list—and maybe they’re on it but you aren’t. Plus you’re Steve’s friend. That means he does the right thing for you and for anyone not on his list. But if you’re on his list, better watch your back.”

  “But wouldn’t a guy who could plan and do the murders of three men just stand there and watch me drown?”

  Weezy shook her head. “Hardly anybody’s all bad, Jack. Just as hardly anybody’s all good.”

  Jack thought of Mom and Kate and couldn’t imagine anything bad about them. But he didn’t mention that to Weezy. Who knew what she’d dream up? Whatever it might be, he didn’t want to hear it.

  He shivered. “I’m heading home to change.”

  “What about the canoe?”

  He looked at it, half pulled up on the bank. He’d forgotten all about it.

  “Guess I’ll have to paddle it back.”

  Weezy smiled. “Best you stay away from the water for a while. I’ll help you carry it.”

  Not a bad idea.

  It turned out to be pretty light so they each carried it on a shoulder.

  “This is turning out to be one bad day,” she said. “Maybe the worst Saturday ever.”

  Jack knew what she meant.

  “Yeah, we get nabbed in the Pines, the cube gets stolen, the pyramid disappears—”

  “You mean ‘stolen.’”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. And to top it off, I take a cold-water swim and come up with nothing.”

  “Top it off? The day is still young, Jack. It’s not even noon yet.”

  Swell.

  12

  They were riding their bikes back toward their homes when Tim pulled his patrol car up beside them. He was grinning.

  “Heard about your dunking.”

  Man, news traveled fast in this town. Jack bet his folks already knew.

  “Yeah, well …”

  “You look like a drowned rat.”

  Jack needed a change of subject. “Did you find out anything about the state troopers I told you about?”

  Tim’s grin vanished. “Yeah. And no. I called the sheriff and he called the state, and the state said they didn’t know what he was talking about. When the sheriff pressed them he was told he’d be a lot better off if he minded his own business.”

  Jack looked at Weezy and she looked back.

  “I saw that,” Tim said. “What do you two know?”

  Weezy gave her head a tiny shake—don’t—but Jack felt he could trust Tim. So he gave him a brief, edited version about the copters, the cops, the suits, and the backhoe digging up the mound. He left out the parts about being locked in the cruiser and the spong traps episode, also the theft of the cube and the pyramid. No use laying too much on him at once.

  “They choppered in a backhoe?” Tim said. “This sounds major.”

  Weezy finally spoke up. “Yeah. So major no one’s talking.”

  “And it looks like no one will. The sheriff told me it was none of our business and to drop it. And I’m supposed to pass the same on to you: Just forget what you saw. No good’s going to come from yakking about it.”

  “Consider it passed on,” Jack said.

  “So whoever they are,” Weezy added, her voice thick, “they get to do whatever they want, whenever they want. Is that the way it’s supposed to work?”

  He knew she was thinking about the pyramid.

  Tim didn’t reply, so Jack said, “Is that what you’re going to do—mind your own business?”

  Tim had never struck him as the type to roll over.

  “For the record, yes. But this is my beat, Jack. So the way I see it, whatever goes on here is my business. And since you live here, it’s your business too. Don’t go snooping around, don’t go sneaking into the Pines at night, don’t pull any Hardy Boys stuff—”

  Weezy snickered and Jack wondered if there was some sort of conspiracy to smack him with the Hardy Boys at every opportunity.

  “What’s so funny?” Tim said.

  Jack waved a hand. “Nothing.”

 
Tim pulled out a pen and pad and started scribbling. “Yeah, well, okay, but listen to me: You see something like that again, or anything out of the ordinary, you call me—and only me.” He handed Jack the slip of paper. “That’s my home phone. It has an answering machine that I check all the time. You need me, call and simply say, ‘This is Jack.’ That’s all. Nothing more. I repeat: Say nothing more. I’ll find you.” He nodded to Weezy. “You see anything, tell Jack so he can tell me.”

  This sounded like spy stuff, like intrigue, like he’d stepped into Weezy’s world. It made his stomach tingle.

  “Okay.” Jack folded the paper but thought better of shoving it into a wet pocket. “You expecting anything to happen?”

  Tim shook his head. “Nah. What’s done is done and that’s probably it. But it never hurts to have a couple of extra pairs of eyes on the lookout. And speaking of looking, I think I’ll take a ride out to the mound and see what they’ve done.”

  “Can we come along?” Weezy said.

  Tim shook his head. “Sorry. Better if you don’t.” He put the car in gear. “Take it easy, you two. And keep those eyes open.”

  They watched as he drove away, heading toward the Barrens.

  “Think we can trust him?” Weezy said.

  “Yeah. Tim’s a good guy.”

  Jack just hoped he didn’t get himself in trouble by sticking his nose in the wrong place.

  As they started riding again, Jack saw a car pull to a stop at the end of South Franklin. He wouldn’t have paid it much mind except that the driver seemed so short. His head was so low he could barely see over the dashboard.

  Then he recognized the man and realized he wasn’t short—he was crouched low behind the wheel.

  Bert Challis.

  He glanced Jack’s way. Their eyes met for a second, then he turned away. His hand shot up to the side of his face, hiding his profile as he gunned the car and raced down Quakerton Road toward the highway.

  What was that all about?

  His furtiveness made Jack uneasy. South Franklin led to Harding Street, where the Brussards lived. Was he watching the place?

  This was getting scary.