Jack: Secret Histories

by F. Paul Wilson

  13

  The lock-picking set felt like a fire in Jack’s pocket as he stepped through the front door. Business at USED had been unusually slow for a Saturday, allowing Jack extra time to practice on the locks around the store.

  The big sale of the day had been the curved-glass China cabinet. Once it could be opened, people became more interested in it. Some lady on an antiquing junket from Princeton walked in, took one look at it, and wrote out a fat check.

  A glow of pride had followed Jack home—he’d been responsible for that sale.

  On the way out of the store he’d borrowed the lock picks without telling Mr. Rosen. Was that stealing? He didn’t think so, especially since he didn’t intend to keep the set—just use it and return it.

  As he stepped in the back door his mom said, “Dinner’s going to be early tonight, dear. Your father and I are going to a movie.”

  Yes! He could work on the lock box without worrying about getting caught.

  “Oh?” he said casually. “Going to see Return of the Jedi again?”

  She made a face. “Not likely. This time it’s my choice, and I choose Risky Business.”

  Every few weeks his folks would head up to Mount Holly to catch a movie. They took turns choosing. Though Dad complained about the way the spaceships maneuvered and hearing explosions in space—none of which bothered Jack in the least—he liked the Star Wars movies. Mom liked romantic comedies. For the sake of togetherness, each suffered through the other’s choices.

  “Tom’s going out, and Kate’s in Stratford. You’ll be okay with nobody here?”

  Jack gave her a reassuring smile. He loved having the house to himself.

  “I’ll be here with me.”

  Just then Tom appeared in the doorway to the living room.

  “How’s it going, Miracle Boy?”

  Tom saying hello? Jack was immediately on guard.

  “Fine. How about you?”

  Tom nodded. “Life is good, but it could always get better.”

  Something was up.

  Jack turned to Mom. “I’m gonna wash up.”

  As he headed down the hall to the bathroom he could feel Tom’s eyes on his back. Up ahead he could see his bedroom door ajar—maybe two or three inches.

  Ah-ha!

  He washed his hands and threw water on his face, then stepped back into the hall. Tom stood down by the kitchen, talking to Mom but positioned so he had a clear view of Jack’s door.

  Something definitely up.

  He returned to the kitchen and headed for the backyard.

  “Where you going?” Tom said.

  “Garage. Wanna come?”

  “Nah. I’ll wait here.”

  But instead of the garage, Jack ran around to his bedroom window at the rear of the house. He peeked through the screen and immediately spotted the bucket balanced atop the partially open door.

  The bucket-over-the-door trick. Oh, Tom, you clever, clever guy. So original.

  After half a minute of studying the setup, Jack knew just what to do.

  But first he had to know if he could get into the room unseen. He tugged on the outside of the screen—had he latched it last night? He grinned when the bottom popped out. No, he’d had too much on his mind to worry about latching screens.

  He trotted to the garage and pawed through his dad’s toolbox until he found a couple of eye hooks. Then he pulled out his penknife and cut twenty feet or so of nylon fishing line from one of Dad’s never-used rods. Goodies in hand, he scuttled back to his bedroom window to crawl inside.

  Quietly as possible, he moved his desk chair over to the door and stepped up on it. He screwed one eye hook into the ceiling directly above the bucket. He threaded the end of the fishing line through the eye and tied it to the bucket handle.

  Next he moved the chair to the right, to the corner by his closet, where he placed a second eye hook about six feet up the wall. He threaded the line through that, then looped it around the closet doorknob. He adjusted the tension on the line just enough to lift the bottom edge of the bucket a smidgen off the top of the door, then knotted it into place.

  Moved the chair back, slipped out the window, then returned to the kitchen.

  Mom was setting plates on the table. “Call your father. We’re almost ready.”

  “Okay. Just gotta stop in my room first.”

  With that, Tom stepped back into the kitchen and again positioned himself where he could see Jack’s door.

  As Jack passed him he couldn’t resist: “Wanna share some pistachios later?”

  “Very funny, Miracle Boy. Your time is coming. Sooner than you think.”

  Hoping he’d done everything right, Jack held his breath as he pushed open the door to his room, preparing to be doused if he’d screwed up.

  But no … he stayed dry.

  Immediately he pulled out his penknife and positioned himself by the closet door to wait. He didn’t think it would take long.

  It didn’t.

  Seconds later Tom arrived, wearing a perplexed expression. As he stepped through the door he looked up at the bucket.

  “What the—?”

  His eyes widened when he saw the eye hooks and the fishing line, but too late. Jack had cut the line and the bucket tipped and emptied on Tom’s face. He cried out in shock and rage as he was drenched with cold water.

  Jack thought it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen.

  The commotion brought Mom running.

  “What happened? What’s—?” She stopped and stared at her soaked son, then at the puddle on the floor. “What is going on here?” She looked past Tom at Jack. “Jackie! What were you thinking?”

  “I did not put a bucket over my own door, Mom.”

  She turned to Tom. “Well, since I doubt very much it was your father, and since Kate isn’t home, that leaves you. When are you going to grow up, Thomas? You’re in law school, for heaven’s sake!”

  “He started it with the doctored pistachios,” he said, wiping his dripping face with a wet sleeve.

  “No,” she said. “You started it when you stole his pistachios. Now, I want the two of you to shake hands and end this. Right now. You heard me: shake.”

  Tom stuck out a hand. “Peace, brother?”

  Jack knew what Tom had in mind: He was going to trap Jack’s fingers in a deathgrip and squeeze with everything he had. This wouldn’t be the first time—not by a long shot. When Jack was younger Tom would squeeze and try to get him to say, “Tom is God.” Jack never would—even though the crushing agony almost brought him to tears, he never said it.

  Tom was still bigger and stronger, but Jack had learned a trick.

  “Peace, brother,” he said, forcing his hand as deep into Tom’s as it would go.

  Tom squeezed but it didn’t hurt, because he was squeezing Jack’s hand, not his fingers. He squeezed harder, the effort showing on his face, but still no pain for Jack.

  “Mom said, ‘shake hands,’ Tom, not go steady.”

  Glaring, Tom released him.

  “That’s my boys,” Mom said as she headed back toward the kitchen. “Tom, you mop up your mess.”

  “I’m not through with you, numbnuts,” he said in a low voice.

  Jack held his gaze, then slipped past him into the hall.

  “Better get mopping or you’ll miss dinner.”

  14

  Tom had gone out to who cared where. Kate and another student she met were fixing up the apartment in Stratford they’d be using during the coming year at medical school. His folks were off to the movies.

  He had the place to himself.

  Ah, freedom.

  He hurried upstairs to his folks’ bedroom closet and retrieved the lock box from the top shelf. He set it on the double bed and laid out the pick set next to it. He hadn’t found a lock like this in USED but he was sure he could open it.

  Half an hour later he was pretty sure he couldn’t. At least not at his level of experience. He needed more practi
ce.

  Frustration gnawed at him as he folded up the pick kit, returned the box to its original place, and headed back downstairs. The secrets within had become secondary. The lock … the lock had become his Everest and he was determined to climb it.

  After hiding the pick set under the T-shirts in one of his drawers, he wandered through the house. He could read or watch TV, but neither appealed to him at the moment. He could see if he could get past the smart bombs in Missile Command, but he wasn’t in a video game mood. Weezy and Eddie were visiting their grandmother in Baltimore.

  That left Steve and the Heathkit.

  15

  “Steve’s downstairs working on the computer,” Mrs. Brussard said as she let him in.

  Jack hoped so, but had his doubts.

  “Is Mister Brussard around?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s over at the Lodge. Why?”

  “I just wanted to tell him something about the black box I showed him the other night.”

  Jack had wanted to see if he would have any reaction when he told him the cube and the pyramid were missing.

  “He shouldn’t be too late.”

  Jack nodded and headed for the basement. As he passed the den he slowed, looking for the humidor. He spotted it—inside the locked liquor cabinet.

  Swell.

  Downstairs he found Steve dozing on the couch.

  Jack shook his shoulder. “Hey.”

  Steve’s lids fluttered open to reveal glassy eyes. “Hey, man.”

  Aw, no. He was at it again.

  “More pills?”

  He grinned as he pointed to a Pepsi can and rattled the vial of pills in his shirt pocket. “Double barreled: Valium with a bourbon chaser.”

  “But how’d you get hold of the bourbon? I thought your father had it all locked up.”

  His grin broadened. “He does. Or at least he thinks he does.” He pointed to a small key lying on the end table. “But he doesn’t have the only key. I had a copy made at Spurlin’s this afternoon.”

  “Swell. So I guess you’re going to spend the night on the couch.”

  Steve burped in reply, closed his eyes again.

  Jack resisted the urge to kick him. Instead he stepped over to the end table and stared down at the key to the Brussard liquor cabinet … and to the humidor.

  Should I?

  He decided he should. He hadn’t been able to learn what was in his father’s lock box, but maybe he’d be able to pierce the secret of the little red boxes in the humidor.

  He snagged the key and hurried upstairs. If Mrs. B was around he’d just go to the fridge for a Pepsi. If not …

  She was nowhere in sight, so Jack hurried to the den and the liquor cabinet. His hand was shaking a little—what would happen if Mr. Brussard returned now?—so it took him a second try to put the key in the lock. As the door swung open he grabbed the humidor and lifted the lid.

  One box remained. He pulled it out, then returned the humidor to its shelf. He turned the little red box over in his hands, examining it. It reminded him of a hatbox, only this was barely two inches tall and wide, and had seven sides. It was covered with some sort of fine shiny fabric, like silk.

  Jack was about to lift the lid when he heard voices in the front yard. Two men … and they sounded like they were arguing. One of the voices was Mr. Brussard’s. Coming closer.

  A jolt of panic coursed through Jack. He didn’t have time to put the box back in the humidor. Didn’t even have time to relock the cabinet. He pushed the door closed and ran in a crouch. He’d just rounded the corner into the stairwell when the door opened.

  He stood there panting like he’d just sprinted a three-minute mile.

  Too close.

  He heard Mr. Brussard saying, “You’ve just got to stay calm, Bert. Everything will be—”

  “Calm? How can I stay calm after all that’s happened? I go to the West Coast for a week and come back to find everything gone to hell!”

  But he hadn’t been on the West Coast, Jack knew. Why was he lying?

  “After two years,” he added, “with my nerves finally calming down, this happens!”

  Two years … Anton Boruff had been murdered two years ago …

  “The important thing is to realize that this will all blow over.”

  “Will it? I’ve heard that the Council is sending someone to take charge of our Lodge.”

  As they moved into the den their voices faded and Jack didn’t have the nerve to try the bathroom trick again. So he tiptoed downstairs and checked Steve. Still out.

  He looked down at the little box in his sweaty palm. How was he going to get it back in the humidor before Mr. Brussard realized it was gone?

  But before he worried about that, he had to see what it held. He lifted the lid gingerly, cautiously, half afraid something would jump out at him. But instead of some exotic insect or mysterious amulet, he found a small, round, white object.

  A pill.

  He picked it up and inspected it but could find no markings to give him a hint of what it contained. But he had a suspicion it might not be good for anyone’s health. Steve’s father had given three of these to three men, and all were dead the following day.

  Questions swirled.

  Could it be some kind of poison, something untraceable that only the Lodge knew about?

  He should take it to the police and tell them his suspicions, convince them to analyze it. That seemed the most logical and direct course, but would they believe him? Or would they react like Weezy and think of him as a Hardy Boy wannabe?

  But what if he was wrong? What if it was something harmless, supposed to ward off the klazen but didn’t. He’d have hurt the reputation of an innocent man, a man who’d jumped into the lake to save him because he thought he was drowning.

  Jack couldn’t help feeling in Mr. B’s debt. After all, what was Challis’s role in all this?

  But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen and heard. If Steve’s father was guilty, Jack had to find a way to let him hang himself.

  He looked at Steve, then looked at the pill lying in its box, and had an idea.

  But he’d have to set the stage carefully to make this work.

  16

  “Listen, Bert, I’ve found a way to protect us from the klazen.”

  Jack stood outside the den, listening. He’d been about to walk in but had stopped just around the corner.

  “I don’t need protection from some mythical threat, I need—”

  “Vasquez, Haskins, and Sumter might disagree as to how mythical it is. If I could have got to them in time they’d still be alive.”

  A lie. He’d given them each a pill.

  That clinched it for Jack.

  He’s guilty, he thought. But I’m the only one who knows.

  In the next few minutes he hoped to change that.

  “You know what?” Challis said. “I almost wish I were with them. This is eating me alive. We shouldn’t have taken matters into our own hands like that. We—”

  Mr. Brussard cut him off, saying, “What’s done is done. We’ve got to deal with now. Let me show you what I’ve got. I—hey. This is supposed to be locked.”

  Uh-oh. Time to make his move. Jack quickly stepped into the den. Mr. Brussard was squatting by the liquor cabinet; Challis, a thin, twitchy man, stood nearby.

  “Mister Brussard?”

  He looked around to stare at him. “Jack! How long have you been standing there?”

  Jack dodged the question by saying, “I think there’s something wrong with Steve.”

  Mr. B straightened and stepped closer, his expression concerned. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t wake him up.”

  In a flash, he was pushing past Jack. He almost knocked over Mrs. B as she stepped from the stairs into the hallway.

  “Gordon, what’s wrong?”

  “Steve! Downstairs!”

  She blanched. “What—?”

  But her husband was already to the basement steps.
As he pounded down she hurried after him. Challis followed, though not as hurriedly.

  Jack stayed behind and picked up the phone. He dialed 911 and reported an unconscious person at the Brussard address. Then he headed downstairs.

  When Jack arrived, Steve’s folks were shaking him, yelling at him to wake up. His eyes fluttered open and gave them a dazed look.

  “Wha? Wha?”

  His father spotted the Pepsi can next to the couch and sniffed it. His face turned red.

  “You’re drunk!” he cried and grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt. “You’ve been pilfering from my—!”

  Something rattled in Steve’s breast pocket. Mr. Brussard pulled out the pill vial and stared at it.

  “It’s your Valium!” he said, turning to his wife. “He’s—!”

  And then he froze. Jack followed his gaze to the little red box on the cushion next to Steve.

  “What’s—?”

  He snatched it up and yanked off the top. His red face turned ashen when he looked inside.

  “Oh, no!” He turned to Steve and shook him. “Did you take this?”

  Steve gave him another glassy stare. “No. It’s right there.”

  “I mean the pill, damn it! Did you take the pill that was in here?”

  Steve shrugged and slurred, “Dunno … maybe … coulda.”

  Mr. Brussard tossed the box aside and started lifting Steve under the arms.

  “We’ve got to get him to the hospital!”

  Just then someone knocked on the wall of the stairwell and called down.

  “Hello? Is there a problem here?” A sheriff’s deputy came down the stairs. Not Tim, but Jack had seen him at the car lot when the first aid was trying to revive Mr. Sumter.

  He’d been counting on a deputy’s arrival—the cops always responded to a 911.

  “I heard the first-aid call and came over to see if I could help.”

  “First-aid call?” Mr. Brussard looked around. “Who—? Never mind. My son took pills and liquor! He needs to get his stomach pumped!”

  “The ambulance is on its way.” The deputy leaned closer to Steve. “He’s still conscious. Maybe he won’t need that.”