Secret Histories yrj-1

by F. Paul Wilson

  “You cal ed them, didn’t you.”

  Jack couldn’t look at Steve, but he stared Mr. Brussard in the eye.

  “I was worried about Steve.”

  And that was the truth.

  1

  “Trouble just fol ows you around, doesn’t it.”

  Jack turned at the sound of the voice and saw Tim leaning out the window of his

  patrol car.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tim smiled. “You know exactly what I mean. My buddy Driscol says you were

  right in the thick of things last night. Even found the pil .”

  “Yeah, wel , just hanging with Steve.”

  Tim nodded toward the Brussard house down the street. “Returning to the scene

  of the crime?”

  The whole town was buzzing with the news of the Brussard arrest and the Chal is confession. Jack had wandered over, wondering if he should stop in

  and see how Steve was handling it. He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty about exposing a murderer, but he couldn’t help it.

  He’d chickened out on the visit, at least on his first pass, afraid Steve would take one look at him and somehow know Jack had got his dad arrested.

  As he’d passed he noticed that the garbage can near the end of the driveway was ful of empty liquor bottles. Mrs. Brussard was cleaning house—a first

  step toward helping Steve, but Jack had a feeling he’d need more.

  “Brussard posted bail,” Tim said.

  “He’s out?How?”

  “Not much on him beyond what Chal is said. But we’re analyzing that pil , and if it turns out to be some funky poison, we’l have a whole different bal

  game.”

  Now Jack was doubly glad he hadn’t stopped in. The way Steve’s dad had looked at him last night made it clear he suspected something.

  Tim went on. “Chal is, on the other hand, didn’t want bail. Said he felt safer behind bars.”

  Safe from the klazen? Or his Lodge brother?

  “He give any reason for the way they—?”

  “Cut him up?” Tim shook his head. “Not much. Told us Boruff was kil ed in a ‘sacred rite’ used for those who betray Lodge brothers, then clammed up.

  Said it was a Lodge matter and nobody else’s business.”

  Cutting off the arms at the elbows and sewing them into the armpits … what kind of sacred rite was that?

  “Seen any more state troopers running around?” Tim said.

  Jack used the title of another book on his summer reading list. “Al quiet on the western front.”

  Tim nodded. “It issort of the western front, isn’t it—the western front of the Pine Barrens.”

  Mention of the Barrens reminded Jack of something.

  “You went to the mound yesterday. How’s it look?”

  Tim shook his head. “I saw it when we dug up the body. Gotta tel you, you wouldn’t recognize the place now. Al torn up.” Another head shake. “Shame.

  One of the pointy heads we had doing the crime scene work-up said he was sure the mound was pre-Columbian.”

  Jack had heard the term before. “Before Columbus? Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow. He said definitely pre-Columbian, maybe even prehistoric.”

  “Oh, man. Weezy wil want to go back.”

  Jack did too, but knew Weezy would want to even more.

  “Nothing left to see. Trust me.” Tim poked his arm. “But even so, you two stay away from there for now … until things settle down. I asked one of the

  medevac pilots I know to snap a photo or two on one of his many runs to AC.”

  “Why?”

  Tim looked away, through the windshield. “Not sure. Something about that place …”

  A burst of static from his two-way interrupted with a report of an accident near Shamong.

  “Gotta go. Remember what I said: Stay out of the Pines for now.”

  As Jack watched Tim go, he figured he could manage that for another day or two, but there’d be no stopping Weezy once she heard “prehistoric.”

  Good thing she was in Baltimore for the weekend and wouldn’t be back til tonight. Because he wasn’t sure he could keep the news from her.

  2

  Jack sat in the dark on a thick limb of the tree across the street from Steve’s house, watching.

  It had turned out to be a quiet Sunday, quieter than usual after the rain started around midday. Kate was stil at her apartment in Stratford. Tom was

  packing to move back to his place in Jersey City. Sure signs that summer was drawing to a close. Not much shaking at USED either, so Jack did his

  cleanups and polishing, and practiced his lock picking when he had a chance.

  After dinner, he’d watched a KnightRiderrerun, fol owed by the ABCSunday NightMovie,then hit the sack. But sleep eluded him. He kept thinking

  about Steve, and how his friend’s family was messed up now because of him.

  No, he kept tel ing himself. Steve’s father had been the one to mess up that family.

  Final y he’d pul ed on a shirt and jeans and slipped out his window.

  He wasn’t sure what had drawn him here. Guilt? Or maybe worry that Mr. Brussard might slip off into the night?

  The rain had stopped earlier but the tree bark and leaves were stil wet; a thick mist hung in the air, glowing in the widely scattered streetlights. The

  house lay dark and quiet. No sign of anyone moving about. Jack final y asked himself what he was accomplishing here. And when he couldn’t come up

  with a good answer, he decided it was time to go.

  But just as he was readying to swing down from the limb, he saw a thin dark streak flowing through the mist along Harding Street. He couldn’t cal it

  black, couldn’t cal it solid. More like something colorless or invisible, displacing the mist. Tapered at both ends, maybe ten feet long and no more than

  two feet wide, it moved lazily, undulating on the breeze—

  And then Jack realized with a start that there was no breeze.

  Despite the warmth of the night, chil gooseflesh rippled over his skin. He shrank back against the tree trunk and watched as the streak angled toward

  the Brussard house. For some reason he wanted to shout out a warning, but his vocal cords were clenched tight. And a warning against what? Smoke? A

  hole in the mist?

  Whatever it was, it nosed against the left side of Steve’s house and then splashed out along the siding like water from a faucet hitting a sink. As it

  spread it thinned and broke up into tiny dark wisps that swirled and faded to nothing.

  Weird, Jack thought. Real y weird. But it was gone now. Time to get back.

  He swung down from the branch and began walking home. As he passed the house he glanced back and saw the streak seeping out the opposite

  side. He stopped, his Vans glued to the pavement, watching as it reformed into the elongated shape he’d first seen. It began to drift again …

  Toward him.

  And then a light came on in the house and he heard a woman scream.

  Part of him wanted to run up to Steve’s door and see if he could help, but he had a feeling whatever had happened in there was beyond his help or

  anybody else’s.

  Mr. Brussard had just met the klazen. Jack was sure of it.

  And now it was heading for him.

  No … angling northwest … across his intended path.

  So Jack did an about-face and began walking the other way, taking the long way home. When he looked back he saw the streak stil headed in the

  other direction.

  Safe … or was he? Somehow he didn’t feel safe.

  He broke into a run and didn’t slow until he’d reached his yard. He stopped and looked around, praying he wouldn’t see a dark streak filtering through

  the misty cornrows of the neighboring field and heading his way.

  Nothing. It must stil be heading northwest.

  Wait �
� the county jail was northwest of Johnson … and Mr. Chal is had stayed there … because it was safer …

  He wished Weezy were here. She’d be so into this. But Jack …

  He crawled through the window, closed and locked it behind him, leaped into bed, and pul ed the covers over his head.

  He hated things he couldn’t explain.

  1

  “Did you hear?” Kate said, rushing into the kitchen.

  Jack was just finishing the Taylor ham and egg sandwich he’d had for lunch. Mom turned from the sink. “Hear what, dear?”

  “Gordon Brussard dropped dead last night.”

  Mom dropped the plate she’d been fitting into the dishwasher. It didn’t break. “No!”

  “Yes! And so did that man Chal is, the one who confessed to kil ing the man Jack

  found. Within an hour of each other. Can you believe it?”

  “No,” Mom said. “I can’t.”

  Jack could. But even though he’d half expected it, he couldn’t help but feel

  shock. Had he real y been on Harding Street last night? Or had he dreamed it? How could he e sure?

  Kate said, “It’s true!”

  “Where’d you hear al this?”

  “Down at Burdett’s. I was on empty and Jeff fil ed me in while he was fil ing me

  up.”

  That sort of clinched the deaths. Jeff Colton, the pump jockey at Burdett’s Esso station, talked to everyone who stopped in and pumped them for

  gossip. He knew everything there was to know in this end of Burlington County.

  Jack said, “What are the chances of that happening? I mean, two people arrested for the same crime dropping dead at almost the same time?”

  Kate shook her head. “Astronomical, I’d think. Then again …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Then again what?”

  “Getting arrested has got to be unbelievably stressful, whether you’re innocent or guilty. I can’t imagine that would be good for your heart. And if you had

  any heart disease …” She shrugged. “I guess it’s possible. If this were Magnum, P.I.,I’d be guessing they were both poisoned or something, but in real

  life …” Another shrug. “Just a bizarre coincidence.”

  Uh-uh, Jack thought. Maybe no coincidence. Maybe a klazen.

  But no way was he mentioning that. Talk about opening a can of worms.

  “Poor Steve,” he said, and meant it. The thought of losing his own father … he couldn’t imagine what Steve was feeling.

  He couldimagine Steve’s mom using her Valium today, and Steve probably wishing he had some— needingsome.

  Jack realized then that he needed something too: fresh air. He had the day off and didn’t want to spend it thinking about things he couldn’t explain.

  Besides, Eddie had cal ed to announce that his grandmother had bought him the new StarWars:DeathStarBattlevideo game.

  “I’m going out,” he said, carrying his empty plate to the dishwasher.

  “Where?” Mom said.

  “Weez and Eddie’s, I guess.”

  Mom gave him a don’t-forget-what-I-told-you look.

  Man …

  2

  Jack heard cursing as they approached the spong.

  He’d hung out with Weezy and Eddie for a while, the two guys taking turns at

  DeathStarBattle

  —it looked super on the 5200—and Weezy watching

  morosely, saying little. She was stil bummed out about losing the cube and the pyramid. Somewhere along the line Jack let slip the possibility that the

  mound was pre-Columbian, maybe even prehistoric.

  Wel , that was al Weezy had to hear. Before he knew it she was up and out and headed for her bike. Jack tried to stop her, tel ing her what Tim had

  said, but Weezy was deaf to al that. Since he couldn’t let her ride off into the Pines alone, he went with her. Even Eddie tagged along, saying something

  about it being “fossilacious.” Apparently he’d equated prehistoric with dinosaurs.

  On the plus side, the road trip pul ed Weezy out of her funk. She was her old self again, chattering away about her secret-history stuff as she led them

  down the fire trail.

  The cursing grew louder, and as they reached the spong area they saw a skinny man wearing an Agway gimme cap, bib-front overal s, duck boots, and

  probably nothing else. He looked like he was dancing around the open area, but he was kicking at the traps, many with sticks jutting from them, and

  cursing a blue streak.

  The three of them stopped to stare. This had to be the trapper, and it looked like Mrs. Clevenger had been doing her thing again.

  He stopped when he saw them.

  “Whatchoo lookin’ at?”

  When they didn’t reply, he started toward them. He needed a shave and most likely a bath, and his eyes looked wild with rage.

  “You been doin’ this? You the ones been messin’ up muh traps?”

  “We just got here, mister,” Jack said, thinking this couldn’t be Old Man Foster because he wasn’t old. Forty, tops. “Are you Mister Foster?”

  “Zeb Foster? No, I ain’t him.”

  “Then what are you doing trapping on his land?” Weezy said.

  He stepped closer. “Look, I don’t need no little girl asking me no fresh-mouthed questions. Get outa here!”

  Weezy stood her ground. “Wel , if you’re not Mister Foster, who are you?”

  “I’m his son, dammit! Now git!” He pointed a dirty finger at them. “And you better not be the ones springin’ muh traps, ‘cause if you are, I’l skin you like a

  coon—only you’l stil be alive when I do it. Now git!”

  “Okay, okay,” Eddie said, moving faster than usual.

  “One creepitacious guy,” he said when they’d moved out of earshot.

  Weezy made a face. “Like I believe he’s Old Man Foster’s son.”

  “Maybe he isn’t,” Jack said. “But I do believe he meant what he said about skinning us alive.”

  3

  “This is criminal!” Weezy cried as she walked among the ruins of the mound. “An absolute sin!”

  Jack agreed. The mound or mounds—he couldn’t be sure exactly what had been here before—had snaked among the burned trunks. Now trenches ran

  in al directions amid knocked-down and half-downed trees.

  She kicked at the sand. “They’ve destroyed everything!”

  “See any fossils?” Eddie said.

  “Why am I not surprised to find you here?” a familiar voice cal ed.

  Jack turned and saw Tim standing by his patrol car at the edge of the burned area.

  Jack, Weezy, and Eddie looked at one another, then ambled over to where he waited.

  Tim shook his head as he looked at Jack. “Didn’t I tel you to stay away from here?”

  Jack could have said he’d come along only to keep Weezy company, but that wasn’t exactly true and he wasn’t about to lay it on her. No one had forced

  him to come along.

  So he simply shrugged.

  But Weezy said, “It was my idea, Officer.”

  Tim smiled. “Deputy.”

  Weezy did her whateverface and said, “Isn’t there something you can do about this? Someone you can arrest or we can sue for desecrating this site?”

  “Desecrating?” Tim frowned. “It’s not like it was a church or anything.”

  “Could have been at one time. It might have contained secrets hidden for … forever.”

  “Secrets?”

  Oh, no, Jack thought. Don’t get her started on secrets. He searched for a way to change the subject.

  “Did your friend ever get that photo from his helicopter?”

  Tim nodded. “As a matter of fact, he did.” He reached through the open window of his patrol car and pul ed out a half dozen eight-by-ten photos. “Took a

  bunch of them from different angles on two different runs.” He handed them to Jack. �
�Take a look.”