Jack flopped on his back and scowled at the ceiling. The room was awash in bright white light, the kind that flares around the edges of the curtains on a snowy morning. He guessed it was after ten even before he looked over at the numbers displayed on the face of his clock radio: 10:15.
There was a long pause until the next knock. “I’m coming in, Jack.”
The doorknob turned slowly, and the bolt clicked free of the jamb. Jack wished he’d locked it the night before...but the truth was, he didn’t even remember getting home. He had a vague recollection of gazing up at Glosser’s Christmas lights and being carried in Bub’s arms; then nothing.
Had Bub carried him all the way home and put him in bed? It would explain why Jack was still fully dressed under the blankets, wearing the same red sweatshirt and bluejeans he’d worn to Glosser’s. Only his navy blue jacket had been removed.
“Are you all right?” Bub opened the door halfway and peered in with a look of concern.
Jack nodded. “Just tired.”
“Good, good.” Bub eased in the rest of the way and shut the door behind him. As always, he was wearing a white button-down shirt, black tie, black trousers, and black Oxfords. “What you went through last night...” He lowered his voice. “It can be pretty rough on you.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jack.
Just then, the radio popped back on, blasting “Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town” by Bruce Springsteen. With a loud grunt, Jack smacked the off switch on top of the device, silencing the music.
“You look okay otherwise, though,” said Bub. “That’s a good sign.”
“I guess so,” said Jack.
Bub looked uncomfortable. “If you ever want to talk, let me know.” He paced to the window at the foot of Jack’s bed and tugged back the edge of the curtain, peeking outside. “I’ve been through it all at this point. I can answer your questions.”
Jack sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. Now that he was awake, certain questions did come to mind. “How will they take them?” he asked. “The things I said I’d sacrifice?”
“A little at a time.” Bub sighed. “You won’t even notice they’re gone...for a while, at least.”
“But I promised to give them my youth, my energy, and my dreams. How can I not notice they’re gone?”
“I misspoke.” Bub turned from the window and narrowed his eyes. “What you’ll notice...the way you’ll give those things up...is by never leaving this town. Then your youth and your energy will fade over time as they always do.”
“I’ll never leave town?” said Jack.
“You’ll never want to leave,” said Bub. “One day you’ll wake up, and you’ll be sixty-five years old...and you’ll realize you’re still here. You’ll just end up stuck here.”
“Stuck here?” Jack had never thought much about the future, had never thought about leaving or where he might want to live someday. But thinking about it now gave him a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“It won’t be so bad, Jack,” said Bub. “Johnstown’s a good place. A decent place. It’s worth saving. It’s worth staying.”
Jack frowned. “But the deal’s only for one year. I can leave after that, can’t I?”
Bub shrugged. “Why would you, if there’s still a chance you can save everyone? A chance you can buy another year?”
“I could do that?”
“Why not?” Bub’s eyes twinkled. “My first contract was only for a year, too.”
Seeing the look on his grandfather’s face made Jack smile. Maybe things would work out okay after all. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad following in the footsteps of Bub, and Bub’s father before him. There were huge responsibilities and a price to be paid, but it might all be worth it in the end. After all, saving lives was its own reward, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t Colonel Steve Austin be proud?
And there was another reward, too, that Jack had forgotten until now. “What about that thing I asked for? The one to sweeten the deal?”
Bub peeked outside again. “What about it?”
“You don’t think they’ll go back on their word, do you?”
Bub snorted and let the curtain fall back into place. “Not a chance.” He headed for the door. “Steel Toe won’t let them take away a good union man’s fringe benefits.”
Just as he said it, the doorbell rang.
Bub opened the bedroom door. “C’mere a minute, Fauntleroy. There’s something you should see.” He nodded for Jack to follow and stepped out into the hallway.
As the two of them walked downstairs, the doorbell rang again. No one else was running to get it; Jack guessed Mom was at her boyfriend’s place.
Turning a corner at the bottom of the stairs, Jack stole a glance at the Christmas tree in the living room. Even from a distance, he could see that the telltale red-and-white box of the Six Million Dollar Man 12-inch doll wasn’t among the few gifts scattered under the tree. Jack spotted books and clothes and a basketball, but no Six Million Dollar Man. So the local legends had held him to the terms he’d agreed to; Jack had said he’d sacrifice that toy--which had been at the top of his list, so he’d been sure he was going to get it--and they’d taken him up on the offer.
But that was okay. Jack was willing to give it up, if it meant saving Johnstown.
And anyway, he wasn’t even thinking about it thirty seconds later. It was the furthest thing from his mind when Bub opened the door, and Jack saw who was standing there.
“Hi, Jack.” The man at the door was a little older than Jack remembered. His dark brown hair was frosted with gray, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Merry Christmas.”
Jack was dumbstruck. He stood there staring at the man on the front stoop, not knowing what to say or do next.
His heart was racing like Colonel Steve Austin chasing down a speeding motorcycle. His eyes were locked on the man’s face, zooming in and scanning every detail as if they were bionic.
“So how are you?” asked Bub as he shook the man’s hand. “What brings you back to these parts?”
“Actually...” The man shrugged and shuffled his feet, uncertain. Then, he straightened and smiled. “I’m moving back to town.”
“Is that so?” Bub looked at Jack. “How do you like that?”
Jack was still tongue-tied. He’d gotten what he’d asked for in the chamber under Glosser’s, and he’d gotten it right away...like magic. This was exactly what he’d asked for to sweeten the deal, the one thing he’d wanted more than anything in the depths of his beating heart.
“I’ve been thinking,” said the man, nodding as snowflakes fell gently around him. “Maybe I could see you once in a while, Jack. If you’ll let me.”
Jack just kept staring.
“Maybe we could talk a little first,” said the man. “I could explain a few things. Clear the decks, so to speak.”
“What do you say, Jack?” asked Bub.
Jack had been brave enough to face down Joseph Johns, Rachel Adams, Steel Toe, and Mr. Flood in the mystery basement under Glosser’s, but he still held back from talking to this one ordinary man. There was so much history between them, so much hurt, so much loss. And now, there was a chance to start over, and Jack wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
But seeing the man in front of him was so much different than daydreaming about it. The pressure of reality made it all so much sharper and more dangerous.
“Well, Jack?” said the man. “Do you have time to talk?”
It was Christmas Morning, and a potentially wonderful gift had landed on Jack’s doorstep. The question now was, what should he do about it?
Exactly what Colonel Steve Austin would do.
“Sure, Dad.” Jack stuck out his hand. When Dad shook it, he felt an electrical tingle run up his arm, like the power surge in a bionic limb performing a superhuman feat. “I’m not going anywhere, am I?”
About the Author
Robert Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles,
and podcasts have been published around the world. His young adult fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, won the Forward National Literature Award and was named one of Booklist’s Top Ten First Novels for Youth. His cross-genre science fiction thriller, Day 9, is an International Book Award winner. He also won the Scribe Award for Best Original Novel from the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers for his alternate history, Tannhäuser: Rising Sun, Falling Shadows. Simon & Schuster, DAW/Penguin Books, and DC Comics have published his work. He won the grand prize in Pocket Books' nationwide Strange New Worlds contest and was nominated for the British Fantasy Award. Visit him online at www.thefictioneer.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him as @TheFictioneer on Twitter.
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Special Preview: DEATH BY POLKA
A Johnstown mystery that proves if you’ve got polka in your blood, you just know the bad guy’s going to face the music.
As I looked out over the crowd in the banquet hall, the Furies glared back at me in disgust. There were three of them, all dressed in black, all with raven black hair, and they were my sisters.
Bonnie, the oldest and tallest, stood in the middle. Her brown eyes framed a big, angular nose that gave her the look of a hawk. Her hair was long, draped over her shoulders, but not nearly as long as mine.
Charlie stood at her side. She was shorter and rounder than any of us, with plump cheeks and dark blue eyes. Her hair was cut in a kind of dowdy helmet ‘do that made her look older than she was, older than any of us.
Then there was Ellie, the youngest. She looked like an anorexic teen, all skin and bones and giant blue eyes so pale they were almost white. Those eyes peering out from her shag haircut with the spiky bangs looked perpetually challenging, always ready to go off.
Which, actually, described her personality. All three of the Furies’ personalities.
Boy did they have capital “T” tempers. They were always, always fighting with each other, shifting alliances, holding grudges on top of grudges.
But today, for once, they were united against a common object of resentment. Me, in other words. I had the honor of having brought them together in harmony. I could see it in their body language as they all clustered together and stared up at me through slitted eyes. I could feel it in the air, and I could guess what had brought it on.
They were mad that I was the only sister called up on stage. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want to be there; I knew my sisters, and I knew this was eating them alive.
It was just the latest in a series of injustices. First, I’d gone off to Los Angeles while they’d all stayed in town and given birth to the ADHD Dozen. Then, I’d gotten engaged, while the best they’d been able to manage was a string of deadbeat baby daddies. Now this.
I knew I’d pay for it later, but I chose to ignore them for now. Basil Sloveski was waving a number ten white business envelope over his giant silver pompadour.
“All right, folks!” The corners of Basil’s eyes crinkled as he grinned. Up close, I could see his whole overtanned face was a web of fine lines. “Without further ado!”
The crowd roared (except for the Furies, who just rolled their eyes) and pumped beers in the air. The ADHD Dozen squirmed their way up front and lined up along the stage, screeching and dancing like idiots.
“How about a drum roll, guys?” When Basil said it, Eddie Sr.’s ancient drummer hopped up on the stage, raised his bony arms in a weight-lifter’s pose with fists curled toward his shaggy white head, and dropped down on the squeaky red stool behind his drum kit.
As the drum roll started, Basil slid a fingernail under the corner of the envelope flap, then dragged his nail along the length of the flap, tearing it open with a ripping sound.
My heart pounded, and I held my breath. As badly as I didn’t want to be there, I was actually caught up in the suspense. Polish Lou’s showmanship had broken through even my tough exterior.
The kids down in front couldn’t stand the suspense either. They were hopping up and down, clawing at the stage, having conniptions. Milly spoke for all of them. “What? What’s it say?”
Basil slipped two tanned fingers into the envelope and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He cleared his throat as he unfolded it, playing up the drama.
Then, he started reading. “Dear fellow polka lovers!” The drum roll continued in the background as Basil’s voice rang over the crowd. “As you know, I’ve been called the Prince of Pennsylvania Polka.”
The crowd roared its approval.
“But now that the Prince is dead, who will rule his kingdom?” Basil paused and looked around the banquet hall for dramatic effect. “Who will be my successor?”
“Who? Who?” squeaked one of the kids down in front.
“Who will carry on the tradition of great polka music as leader of my band, Polish Fly?” read Basil. “Who will continue to broadcast three hours of polkatacular tunetasticness every Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon on my radio show, Kocham Taniec?
“Who will organize the annual Polkapourri festival that has become an institution for Johnstown and the entire tri-state area?
“And who will manage Polish Lou Enterprises now that Polish Lou is gone?” Basil stopped reading aloud, though his eyes kept scanning the page. He got a funny look on his face, a kind of smirking frown, like he wasn’t sure he’d read the letter correctly. Then he shrugged, nodded, and gazed out at the crowd. “I’ll tell you who!
“She will!” With that, Basil swung an arm around and pointed directly at Peg.
The drum roll ended with a rim shot, and the crowd cheered like crazy. Eddie Sr. and Eddie Jr. played wild strains on their accordions. In front of the stage, the kids spun and jumped and gyrated like human popcorn in their little suits and dresses.
Glancing at the Furies, I saw the three of them looked more thoroughly disgusted than ever. One thing they all had in common and shared with me was an undying hatred of Polish Peg.
As for the Clown herself, she beamed and waved with pure delight. If I hadn’t known any better, I might’ve thought she’d just won the Miss America pageant or an Academy Award.
Clapping politely, I turned away and looked for the best place to step down from the stage. The crowd was slightly thinner by the corner, so maybe that would be a good exit point.
Just as I took a step toward the corner, Basil called out behind me. “And she will, too!”
I swear, everyone in the banquet hall gasped at once. Except me.
“That’s right!” said Basil. “I’m talking about you, Lottie!”
At the mention of my name, I spun to face him. “Me, what?”
“You’re the co-queen of Lou’s kingdom, that’s what!” Basil lunged over and grabbed my arm, then hauled it high like I’d just won a prize fight. “Ladies and polkamen! Meet the new rulers of Polka Land! Lou’s own daughter, Lottie...” Basil grabbed Peg’s arm and hefted it overhead alongside mine. “...and his partner, the love of his life, Polish Peg!”
The crowd went berserk. Cameras flashed in my eyes as Eddie Sr. and Eddie Jr. launched into “Hail to the Chief” on their accordions.
Dazed, I leaned forward and looked past Basil at Peg. The look on her clownish face said it all.
She was as surprised as I was. And just about as happy.
Which, let me tell you, wasn’t happy at all.
*****
What happens next? Find out in Death by Polka, now on sale for your favorite e-reading device!
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