Jack: Secret Histories Read online

  The old man’s fingers weren’t as steady as he’d have liked, so he oversaw Jack as he used a stain-soaked Q-tip to darken scratches in the old wood. After the stain dried, Jack would polish the surface.

  For his time and effort he was paid $3.50 an hour—not a princely sum, but fifteen cents above minimum wage. Mr. Rosen had offered him the extra if Jack would save him all the government paperwork by taking cash. Fine with Jack, because that in turn saved him the trouble of finding his birth certificate and applying for a Social Security number.

  He supplemented the USED money by mowing lawns, but that was always subject to the whims of weather—not enough rain and the grass didn’t grow, which meant no mowing; too much rain and the wet grass clogged the mower. He liked the reliability of the weekly cash from USED.

  Not that he had much in the way of expenses. He’d go to the movies—he planned on seeing Return of the Jedi for a fourth time this weekend—or rent sci-fi or horror films on videocassette. He liked to keep up with certain comics like Cerebus and Ronin and Swamp Thing, but he’d lost interest in most of the titles he used to love—especially ones with characters in tights. Occasionally he’d buy a record album if he liked it enough. His latest had been Prince’s 1999; he’d probably buy Synchronicity by the Police next.

  Dad had insisted he find a part-time job that would, in his words, “allow you enough time to enjoy the summer but help you learn the value of a dollar.”

  Well, fine. But Jack would have found one anyway because he wasn’t comfortable with an allowance—given money didn’t feel like it was really his. But the money he earned—that belonged to him and him alone.

  The phone rang and Jack hustled over to pick it up.

  “USED.”

  “Yes, hello,” said an accented voice. “This is Professor Nakamura. May I speak to Mister Rosen, please?”

  He handed over the phone and listened while Mr. Rosen talked about Carnival Glass, then moved the conversation to the “artifact” he and Weezy had found.

  “You say you’ll be around tomorrow morning?” he said into the phone, then pointed to Jack, who nodded vigorously.

  Yeah, they could make it.

  “Fine. I’ll send them over around ten o’clock.”

  Yes! Now they’d get some answers.

  He hoped.

  7

  Jack kept a careful watch for his brother as he sat at the kitchen counter and shelled his pistachios. He had a pile of sixteen. Four to go. No sign of Tom, but he had this strange sensation of being watched. He looked around and saw no one. Was he getting paranoid?

  Mom had My Fair Lady playing on the stereo. Of all the soundtracks, that was probably his favorite. He loved the melodies, but the lyrics were outstanding.

  He was thinking about the meeting with this professor tomorrow, and about what he might say, when he knocked half a dozen unshelled pistachios off the counter. As he squatted to gather them up he saw a shadow swoop by. Before he could react, Tom had scooped up the shelled pistachios and tossed them into his mouth. Without breaking stride or even looking around, he hit the back door and was outside before Jack could get over his shock and react.

  Rage blazed. He looked at the cutlery drawer and imagined himself grabbing one of the Ginsu knives his father had bought from the TV last year and chasing after Tom. But what would he do when he caught him—cut off his hands?

  Nice fantasy, but …

  Calming himself, Jack sat and stared at the spot where his pistachios had sat. How’d that expression go? Fool me once, shame on you … fool me twice, shame on me.

  Yeah, he thought. Shame on me for leaving those out there. But that didn’t mean Tom wasn’t due a little payback.

  He was calm now, calm enough to remember another old saying: Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  Cold … he’d have to think on this.

  Relax, Tom. Enjoy the moment. Rest easy that you’re home free. But your time is coming. Soon you’re going to regret messing with me.

  Kate rushed into the room then, with Mom and Dad close behind.

  “Jack, they’ve identified the body you found!”

  He held his breath.

  Dad said, “Anyone we know?”

  Mom’s hands folded under her chin. “It’s not that Kurek girl, is it?”

  “No. Dental records identified him as Anton Boruff, a jeweler from Mount Holly who disappeared two years ago. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “But what won’t be in the papers is that the police have suspected him of being a fugitive.”

  “Really?” Jack said. This was getting better and better. “From the law?”

  Kate nodded. “Seemed he’d been ripping people off, selling fake diamonds as investment grade. The police thought he’d absconded with the money, but I guess one of his victims got to him before he made his getaway.”

  “At least he’s not a local,” Mom said. “I mean, it’s a shame he’s dead, of course, rest his soul. Just that I was afraid it was someone we knew. The thought of having a killer among us …” She shuddered. “But if he’s from Mount Holly—”

  “Well,” Kate said, “he must have been in and out of here a lot because he was some sort of pooh-bah in the Lodge.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mom said. “I’ve never liked those people. They’re so sneaky. I wish they’d find someplace else to meet.”

  Everybody called it simply “the Lodge” but Jack had heard it was a branch of something called the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. The Lodge building had been in Old Town forever. The Order was secretive about its activities and purposes and membership. One thing everybody knew: It was very selective about who it accepted. Every once in a while a newcomer to town would try to join, only to learn that membership was by invitation only—you had to be asked. Nobody knew what the qualifications were. Rumor had it the membership included some of the state’s most influential and powerful people.

  “How do they know he was with the Lodge?” Jack said.

  “Because he had some unrotted skin left on his back and the Septimus Lodge’s seal had been branded into it.”

  Mom gasped, Dad winced.

  Everyone knew that seal: an intricate starlike design that made you a little dizzy if you looked too close. A huge model of it hung above the Lodge’s front door.

  Smiling, Kate raised a hand before Jack could speak.

  “I know how your mind works, Jack, and the answer is no: He wasn’t tortured with the brand or anything like that. The medical examiner said it was many years old. Probably some sort of rite they go through.”

  Jack hesitated to ask his next question. He didn’t want to seem too morbid, but he had to know.

  Finally he cleared his throat and said, “What about the ritual?”

  Kate shook her head. “I asked Tim about that and he says they’re holding the details back for now.” She smiled. “But don’t worry. I’ll find out. Jenny Styles from Cherry Hill—you’ve met her, Mom. She’s a year ahead of me at med school, but guess where she’s externing.”

  Jack and his mother shrugged.

  “The ME’s office. She’s been assisting with the autopsies. I know I’ll be able to get it out of her. She loves to talk.”

  “Cool.” Jack could always depend on Kate. “I wonder if they stuffed his mouth with the fake diamonds.”

  Mom said, “Jack!”

  “Well, the Mafia stuffs a dead bird in a stoolie’s mouth, so I just thought—”

  “That’s not exactly a ritual,” Kate said.

  A ritual … Jack figured the possibilities would haunt his dreams tonight.

  “Any other news?”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that enough? Don’t worry, I’m on the case.” She lowered her voice to a mock announcer’s tone, like Walter Cronkite’s. “News bulletins will be reported as soon as they’re received.”

  “Great.”

  He scooped up the unshelled pistachios and dropped them back into the bag. Tom’s theft had stolen his appetite
for them.

  “I’m heading over to Steve’s.”

  Steve had been calling all day, saying Jack had to come over tonight because his father had something to show him.

  Dad said, “How’s that computer coming along?”

  “Okay, I guess. The instructions aren’t very clear.”

  “Well, my hat’s off to you for trying. I know what I went through with that Apple One.”

  Jack wondered if they’d ever get finished, what with Steve Brussard getting half smashed every night.

  8

  “So you saw only the head?” Mr. Brussard said.

  He and Jack and Steve sat around the kitchen table—the boys drinking Pepsi, Steve’s father sipping some sort of mixed drink. He’d started quizzing Jack the instant he arrived.

  Steve’s expression was avid. “Was it gross?”

  “Majorly.”

  Steve was a reduced Xerox copy of his father—same round face, same hazel eyes, same thick, curly reddish hair that clung to the scalp like a bad toupee.

  “So that was it?” Mr. Brussard said, leaning closer. “You didn’t see the rest of the body?”

  “No, and maybe I’m glad I didn’t. I mean, what with it being a ritual murder and all.”

  Steve slammed his palm on the table. “What? No way! You’re putting me on!”

  His father had his eyes squeezed shut and was rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger. “What sort of ritual?”

  Me and my big mouth, Jack thought.

  He’d forgotten that no one was supposed to know about that. At least not yet.

  “I don’t know. They’re … they’re keeping that secret.”

  “Have they identified him yet?”

  With a start Jack wondered how Mr. Brussard knew it was a him, and then realized he’d been thinking of the corpse as a “him” as well.

  “Maybe it’s Marcie Kurek,” Steve said.

  Marcie again. Well, no surprise. For a while last year her disappearance had been all anyone talked about.

  Jack figured he could tell them the identity since it would be in tomorrow’s papers. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

  “A jeweler from Mount Holly.”

  “Anton Boruff,” Mr. B said in a low voice.

  Steve’s eyes were wide. “Dad, you knew him?”

  His father said, “Heard of him. It was in all the papers a few years ago. Vanished without a trace. Some people thought he’d left his wife and run off with another woman, but …” He shrugged.

  Jack couldn’t mention the diamonds, and anyway he was tired of talking about the body. Looking for a way off it, he remembered Steve’s calls.

  “Steve said you had something you wanted to show me, Mister Brussard.”

  The man looked confused for a couple of seconds. “What? Oh, right. But it’s not something to see. More like hear. We’ll have to go into the living room.”

  They rose and followed him until he turned and pointed to the middle of the family den floor.

  “All right, boys, sit yourselves down right there—that’s what we call the sweet spot.”

  Jack had no idea what was going on, but complied. Sipping from their Pepsis, he and Steve situated themselves cross-legged on the shag carpet while Mr. Brussard fiddled with a bunch of electronic components racked on a shelf at the far end of the room.

  “Now I know you’ve heard parts, or maybe even all of this before, but you’ve never heard it like this.”

  He seemed to be trying to sound cheerful when he really wasn’t. If that was the case, he was doing a lousy job.

  “Heard what?” Steve said.

  “Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.”

  Steve groaned. “Aw, man! Classical music?”

  Jack was no fan himself. The only thing he liked less was opera. Listening to some of those fat ladies’ wailing voices was like fingernails on a blackboard.

  “Wait. Just wait. It’s a long piece, but I’m going to get you to the good part. This was digitally recorded and they used real cannons for the finale. You’ve got to hear it to believe it.”

  Jack didn’t know what “digitally recorded” meant, but real cannons … that might be cool.

  Mr. B fiddled with some buttons. “Let me advance it to the sixteen-minute mark so as not to strain your short attention spans. There. Now … listen.”

  With a flourish he hit a button and instantly the living room filled with an orchestra playing a familiar tune Jack had heard a million times on commercials and TV shows. But loud. And so clear. No hiss, no static, no pops … just pure music.

  And then the cannons started blasting. Jack jumped and almost dropped his Pepsi can. He looked at Steve who was looking back all wide-eyed and amazed. The explosions were so real and so loud Jack could feel them vibrating through the floor into his butt. He started laughing with the pure excess of the sound.

  When the cannons stopped, Steve’s father turned off the music and hit a button that popped a little drawer out of one of the components. Then he turned to them.

  “Ever hear anything like that? You’ve just experienced state-of-the-art tweeters and mid-range speaks plus a sixteen-inch subwoofer.” He held up a silvery plastic disk. “All playing this.”

  “What’s that?” Steve said.

  “It’s called a compact disc, or CD, for short. It’s the latest thing in music.”

  Steve’s father was known as a gadget freak. As soon as anything new came out, especially in electronics, he’d be on it.

  Jack had never heard of a CD, but he wanted to hear more. The sound quality, the bone-rattling bass … the possibilities …

  “Do any of these CDs have real music—I mean, rock music?” He looked at Steve. “Just think what Def Leppard would sound like.”

  Steve grinned. “‘Foolin’!’ Yeah. That would be awesome!”

  “Sorry, guys. Not much available yet, and it’s mostly classical. But in the future … who knows?”

  “Can you play that again, Dad?”

  He popped the disc back in the tray, slid it closed, and did his thing with the buttons.

  “You listen. I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as his father left the room, Steve hopped up and rushed to the nearby liquor cabinet. While the cannons boomed and shook the room, he pulled an unlabeled bottle from within and poured a long shot into his Pepsi. He replaced the bottle, closed the door, and was back at Jack’s side just as the music began to wind down.

  From upstairs he heard Mrs. Brussard yelling, “Would you please turn that noise down?”

  “Okay, guys,” Mr. B said as he hurried back into the room. “I’ve got some calls to make, so why don’t you two hit the basement and get to work on that computer.”

  Steve jumped up. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  As Jack followed Steve toward the basement door he glanced back and saw Mr. Brussard standing by his rack of stereo equipment, staring off into space with a worried expression.

  Though the music had been awesome, he wondered if Mr. Brussard had used this new CD player as an excuse to get him over so he could quiz him about the body.

  9

  “Are you trying to get caught?” Jack said when they reached the finished basement.

  Steve grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, that just makes it more fun.” He offered his Pepsi to Jack. “Sip?”

  Jack hesitated, then took the can and swigged.

  Awful.

  “You do know how to ruin a good Pepsi,” he said, handing it back. “What’s in there this time?”

  Steve tended to grab whatever was available from the liquor cabinet. He didn’t seem to care.

  “Applejack.”

  Jack shook his head. Dad had given him a taste once—”To take the mystery out of it,” he’d said—and he’d hated it. Burned his tongue and nose and made him cough. Same with Scotch, although that tasted more mediciney. And beer … he didn’t know about other brands, but Dad’s Carling Black Label was bitter. He couldn’t ima
gine ever liking beer.

  Give him Pepsi any day.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  They had all the pieces to the Heathkit H-89 laid out on a card table. The company had been bought and had stopped making the kits, but Steve’s father had picked up this 1979 model for a bargain price. Jack couldn’t wait to get it assembled and up and running. It looked so much cooler than Dad’s Apple because it was all one piece: keyboard, monitor, and floppy drive all in the same casing.

  According to the instructions they were almost halfway there. They’d have been further along if Steve had been more help. But he’d developed this thing for liquor.

  He hadn’t always been like this. In fact he’d never been like this before he went away to that Pennsylvania soccer camp last month. He was a great soccer player, and because of that he tended to get teamed up with older players. Jack had a feeling some of those older players had introduced Steve to hard liquor and it had flipped some sort of switch in his head.

  “Why don’t you put off your cocktail or whatever until we’ve got the CPU installed.”

  The Heathkit came with a Z-80 processor, whatever that was, which was the heart and brain of the computer. If they didn’t install it correctly, nothing would work.

  “Okay, okay.”

  He took a long swig before placing the can on the far corner of the table, then he moved up beside Jack to study the diagram. Jack was a little worried about him.

  “Still don’t know why you want to ruin the taste of a Pepsi.”

  “Well, the booze tastes too bad to drink straight.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Because maybe I like the way it makes me feel, okay?” he said with an edge in his voice.

  Obviously Steve didn’t like talking about it. Maybe he knew he had a problem. Jack tried warning him off another way.

  “Sooner or later your dad’s going to notice his bottles getting empty, and since they can’t be emptying themselves …”