Secret Histories yrj-1

by F. Paul Wilson

  not sure what I meant. I know you’re a good boy.”

  Jack wasn’t so sure he liked the “good boy” bit. He tended to think of himself as kind of cool and detached. He didn’t know if he real y was, but that was

  how he wanted to be. At times he feared he was a nerd and didn’t know it. Nerds never knew they were nerdy. Not knowing was a major component of

  nerdiness.

  Mr. Rosen added, “And I know you’re honest too.”

  That puzzled Jack. “How? I could be a master thief.”

  He smiled. “I doubt that.”

  And then Jack knew, or at least thought he did.

  “The money I found!”

  Mr. Rosen was nodding. “I may be many things, but careless with my cash I’m not.”

  On three separate occasions since he’d started working here, Jack had found bil s lying around. First a single, then a five, and just last week a tenner.

  “You were testing me?”

  “Of course. Who knows when I might have to leave you in charge? When I return I’d like to find at least the same amount in the til as when I left.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I do now. I didn’t know you when I hired you. This is your first real job, so it’s not like I could ask for references. So I tested you and you passed. Others

  before you have failed.”

  “Didn’t Teddy Bishop work here a few years ago?”

  Mr. Rosen’s expression never changed. “Not for long. And don’t ask me any more because that’s al I’l say.”

  Jack had found the bil s, known they weren’t his, and given them to Mr. Rosen. That was a test? He hadn’t given it a second thought: They didn’t belong

  to him.

  He’d learned that lesson back when he was eight.

  He’d been out on a trip with his folks—couldn’t remember where—and they’d come to an unattended tol booth on an off-ramp from the Parkway. The tol

  was twenty-five cents at the time and drivers were supposed to drop the exact change into a basket, which then funneled it down into the coin machine.

  Whether by accident or someone’s design, the coin slot had become blocked, al owing the basket to fil with change.

  Jack remembered his excitement when he’d seen the overflowing coins and how he’d starting rol ing down the rear window, yel ing, Freemoney!Let

  megrabsome!But his excitement had died when his father turned to stare back at him with a disgusted expression. Jack couldn’t recal what he’d said

  —something like, Areyoukidding?That’snotyours… or maybe, You’dtake somethingthatdoesn’tbelongtoyou?But that withering look … he’d

  never forgotten that look.

  Jack smiled up at Mr. Rosen. “So, I guess that means you’l teach me, right?”

  2

  “Keep tension on the wrench, Jack. Not too hard, but keep it steady.” After almost half an hour of coaching, with Mr. Rosen hovering over his shoulder,

  Jack wondered if he’d ever learn this.

  Good thing it was a weekday morning, because they tended to be pretty slow at

  USED. Weekday afternoons were slightly busier, but things started

  moving Friday afternoon and stayed pretty busy through the weekends. That

  was when the “tourists”—real y just folks from Phil y and Trenton and

  thereabouts—went out for a ride in the country.

  As a result, the lesson wasn’t rushed or interrupted.

  Since the curved-glass china cabinet was pretty much worthless if it couldn’t be

  opened, Mr. Rosen had said it would be as good a place as any to

  start.

  Uh-uh. The lock seemed so smal .

  He’d inserted the end of the thin little bar with the right angle at each end—cal

  ed a tension wrench—into the bottom of the keyhole. Jack was supposed to keep pressure on it in the direction he wanted the lock’s cylinder to turn. Then

  he’d inserted one of the slim little instruments that looked like a dentist’s probe into the opening and gently pul ed and pushed it forward and backward

  inside—Mr. Rosen cal ed this “raking”—to move the pins and make them line up with the edge of the cylinder. Once they were al in line, the tension

  wrench would be able to turn the cylinder and open the lock.

  The tension wrench seemed to be the key—too much pressure on it and the pins

  wouldn’t move; too little and they wouldn’t stay lined up.

  It wasn’t hard work, but Jack could feel the sweat col ecting in his armpits. Mr. Rosen sighed and said, “We maybe should try a bigger lock. I thought this

  might be better because it has fewer pins, but they’re smal and

  sometimes harder to—”

  “Hey!” Jack cried as the tension bar suddenly rotated.

  A strange, indescribable elation surged through him as he heard the latch slide

  back with a click. He grabbed the knob and pul ed open the door.

  “I did it!”

  Mr. Rosen clapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you, my boy. Once you get

  that first success under your belt, the next wil be easier, and the one after that even easier.”

  Jack stared down at the pick and tension wrench in his hands. He’d simply

  unlocked a china cabinet, but he felt as if he’d opened the door to a world of infinite possibilities.

  He glanced up and found Mr. Rosen staring at him.

  “What?”

  The old man shook his head. “I hope I haven’t created a problem.” Jack had a pretty good idea what he meant. He lowered his voice into Super

  Friendsmode.

  “I promise to never use my newfound power for evil.”

  Mr. Rosen’s stare widened. “‘Newfound power’?”

  Jack laughed. “I remember reading something like that in a comic book once.” “This isn’t a comic book. This is life. Do I have your word you wil not use what

  you’ve learned here today for anything il egal?”

  Jack held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You’re a Boy Scout?” Mr. Rosen said with a frown. “I had no idea.” “Only kidding.” Jack laughed. “About the Boy Scout part, I mean. But I won’t do

  anything il egal. I promise.”

  And he meant it … at the time.

  3

  For the next hour or so, Jack worked on various locks around the store. Mr.

  Rosen had keys to al of those, so it wouldn’t matter if Jack couldn’t pick them. As he worked he heard classical music waft from the front. Somehow Mr. Rosen

  had found an FM station out of Phil y that played only classical. Jack

  wished he had one of those new Walkmans so he could listen to his own music,

  but his dad had refused to buy him one.

  Turned out Mr. Rosen hadn’t been quite right: Each new lock did not become

  easier than the last. But as each fel victim to Jack’s array of picks and

  tension wrenches, he felt a growing sense of knowing what he was doing. He

  learned to refine his raking technique and how to use the finer picks to nudge the more stubborn pins into line.

  He felt a rush every time one clicked open.

  He was sitting on an old ladderback chair near the front of the store, working on

  a padlock, when an announcer interrupted Mr. Rosen’s music to say

  something about someone’s “sudden col apse.” He dropped the lock when he

  heard him mention the name “Vasquez.”

  He leaped to his feet. “What was that?”

  Mr. Rosen looked up from his newspaper. “One of the state legislators col apsed

  at some ribbon-cutting ceremony today.” He stared at Jack. “You’re al right? Like a ghost you look.”

  “I-I think I might have seen him last night.”

  Mr. Bainbridge’s words echoed through his head: Theysaydeathsc
omein

  threes.We’vehadSumter,andnowHaskins.Who’sgoingtobethe

  third?

  Wel , now he knew. He’d been worried that Mr. Brussard would be next, but it

  hadn’t turned out that way.

  What was happening? The most obvious explanation tied Jack’s innards into

  knots.

  According to Steve, Mr. Sumter had visited his father Monday night. Tuesday

  morning he was dead.

  On Tuesday night Mr. Haskins had visited Mr. B. Wednesday morning, Haskins

  dropped dead.

  Last night, Assemblyman Vasquez … and now he was dead.

  Jack knew that at least two of the three men who’d visited Mr. Brussard had left

  with a little red box. They’d been told it held something that would

  protect them from the so-cal ed klazen.

  Jack could come to only one conclusion. The klazen didn’t exist. He didn’t know

  why or how, but he had an awful suspicion that whatever was in the boxes Steve’s father had given these men had kil ed them. And that would make Mr. Brussard a cold-blooded murderer.

  4

  “Steve’s father?” Weezy said, her voice hushed. “Ohmygod, I can’t believe it.” Jack shrugged. “Neither can I, but can you come up with any other explanation?” “Could be coincidence.”

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Whoa! The girl who finds

  conspiracies everywhere says ‘coincidence’? Three visits, three days, three deaths?”

  She shook her head. “But we’re not talking about some mysterious stranger. This

  is Steve’s father.”

  He’d needed someone to talk to, someone who’d understand, someone who wouldn’t laugh at him. Only one person had fit that bil , though he’d had to

  wait until she returned from her weekly trip to Medford with her mother.

  They’d biked into the Pines, taking the easy way by finding a semipaved road running through the Wharton State Forest preserve. This was one of the

  more civilized parts of the Pine Barrens, with canoeing and fishing areas, and even the restored Batsto Vil age. This time of year it was ful of tourists.

  They’d parked their bikes and claimed an isolated park bench just off the roadway.

  “You’ve got to tel somebody.”

  Jack nodded. “I know. But who? And tel them what? What can I say without everybody thinking I’m crazy?”

  “How about that deputy?” Weezy said.

  She wore her usual black jeans, black sneakers, and a too-large black T-shirt with ChooseDeathin red letters across the back. As they talked she

  used a long stick to draw patterns in the sand at their feet.

  “Tim Davis?” He thought about that and decided it wasn’t a good idea. “Nah. He’d just think I was kidding him.”

  “Then it’s gotta be your dad. I don’t think your sister or brother—”

  “Tom? Puh-lease!”

  “Wel , whatever, I don’t think they’ve got the gravitas to make the right people listen.”

  “‘Gravitas’?”

  She smiled. “My new word. It means substance, seriousness. I’ve been waiting for days to use it.” She patted the back of his hand. “Thanks.”

  Jack’s hand tingled where she’d touched it. He felt something stir inside. He liked the feeling and wished she hadn’t taken her hand away.

  He laughed to ease his inner turmoil. “You’re amazing.”

  She smiled back at him. “And you’re very perceptive.”

  They shared brief, soft laughter over that, then Jack sighed.

  “I guess that leaves my dad.”

  She looked at him. “You can’t talk to your dad?”

  “Yeah, I can talk. But he doesn’t take me seriously. I’m fourteen but in his head I can tel he stil thinks I’m six.”

  “At least you can talk to him. My dad …” She shook her head. “He doesn’t get me.”

  Jack nudged her. “What’s not to get? You’re just a typical teenage girl al done up in fril y dresses and shiny little black shoes.”

  He’d been joking but his chest tightened when he saw her eyes puddle up.

  “That’s what he’d like me to be. But I just can’t be a bowhead. It makes me sick.” She blinked and glanced at him. “No, I mean real y sick. If I had to knot

  a paint-splatter shirt at my hip, or wear floral-pattern jeans and Peter Pan boots, I real y think I’d throw up.”

  “Only kidding.”

  “I know, but my dad’s not. He wants me to look like everybody else. And he lets me know it.”

  Weezy’s father was a pipefitter. Like everyone else in town, it seemed, he’d been in Korea. But he hadn’t fought. He’d been in the construction crew

  that built Camp Casey. More than once Jack had heard his father say that instead of going to col ege after the war, he should have enrol ed in a trade

  school and become a pipefitter like Patrick Connel . If he had he’d be less stressed and making more money.

  “He just doesn’t get me.” She glanced at Jack again. “Do you?”

  Jack hesitated. He wasn’t about to lie to her, but knew he needed to put this just right.

  “Truth?”

  “Of course.”

  He took a breath. “I don’t get you either.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Oh, great. Ettu,Brute?Just great!”

  He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I don’t get you, but I don’t need to. I don’t get the black clothes or the downer music—it’s like you’ve joined some club

  where I’l never be a member—but so what? We’ve known each other forever, Weez. You are who you are. You’re Weezy Connel , the smartest and also

  the strangest person I know. Yeah, I don’t get you, but I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  She dropped the stick, hopped off the bench, and walked maybe a dozen feet away. She kept her back to him but he noticed her chest heaving, as if

  she was sobbing, or maybe holding sobs back.

  What’d I say? he thought.

  He’d been trying to make her feel good but he guessed he’d screwed that up. Would he ever learn how to talk to a girl?

  Watching her made him uncomfortable so he stared at the ground where she’d been doodling with the stick. He noticed with a start that they weren’t

  random scratchings—they looked an awful lot like the pattern etched on the inside of the mystery cube. The longer he looked, the more convinced he

  became. Had she memorized it? But then he remembered how Weezy had told him she had a photographic memory.

  Suddenly two black-sneakered feet stepped into view. Jack looked up to find Weezy’s face only inches from his. She kissed him on the lips. Not a long

  kiss. Barely a second. But her lips were soft and their touch sent a shock through him.

  And then it was over. She straightened and looked down at him. She was smiling but her face was blotchy and her eyes red.

  “You’re the best friend anyone could have. I don’t deserve you.”

  She stepped over to where her Schwinn leaned against the side of the bench. She swung her leg over the banana seat and looked at him.

  “Come on, Jack. Don’t sit there like a lump. We’ve got to get you back to civilization.”

  But Jack did sit there, total y confused. He’d upset her, but then she’d kissed him. Weezy Connel had kissed him. Not that he hadn’t kissed a girl before

  —sometimes hanging out turned into making out—but this was Weezy.

  Of course, it hadn’t been a make-out kiss, but stil … she’d kissed him. And the feel of her lips lingered against his.

  Unable to sort out the strange mix of feelings bubbling within, he pushed himself off the bench and grabbed his bike.

  5

  They took a different way home. Weezy, who seemed to have this entire end of the Pine Barrens laid out in her head, led him along deer trails and