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  pointed to Jack, who nodded vigorously.

  Yeah, they could make it.

  “Fine. I’l 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 shel ed 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 MyFairLadyplaying on the stereo. Of al 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 unshel ed 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 shel ed 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? Foolmeonce,shameonyou…foolme

  twice,shameonme.

  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: Revengeisa dishbestservedcold.

  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 Hol y who disappeared two years ago. It’l 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.”

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

  Kate nodded. “Seemed he’d been ripping people off, sel ing 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 kil er among us …” She shuddered. “But if he’s from Mount Hol y—”

  “Wel ,” 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 cal ed it simply “the Lodge” but Jack had heard it was a branch of something cal ed 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

  veryselective 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.

  Final y 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’l find out. Jenny

  Styles from Cherry Hil —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’l be able to get it out of her. She lovesto talk.”

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

  Mom said, “Jack!”

  “Wel , 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

  bul etins wil be reported as soon as they’re received.”

  “Great.”

  He scooped up the unshel ed 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 cal ing al 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.”

  “Wel , 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

  al .”

  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?”

&
nbsp; 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 wel .

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

  Marcie again. Wel , no surprise. For a while last year her disappearance had

  been al anyone talked about.

  Jack figured he could tel them the identity since it would be in tomorrow’s

  papers. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

  “A jeweler from Mount Hol y.”

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

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

  His father said, “Heard of him. It was in al 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 cal s.

  “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’l have to go into the living room.” They rose and fol owed him until he turned and pointed to the middle of the

  family den floor.

  “Al right, boys, sit yourselves down right there—that’s what we cal 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 al of this before, but you’ve

  never heard it like this.”

  He seemed to be trying to sound cheerful when he real y wasn’t. If that was the

  case, he was doing a lousy job.

  “Heard what?” Steve said.

  “Tchaikovsky’s 1812Overture.”

  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 digital y recorded and they used realcannonsfor the finale. You’ve got to hear it to believe it.”

  Jack didn’t know what “digital y 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 fil ed with an

  orchestra playing a familiar tune Jack had heard a mil ion 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 al 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. “Al playing this.”

  “What’s that?” Steve said.

  “It’s cal ed 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,

  especial y 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’l 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

  pul ed 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 yel ing, “Would you pleaseturn that noise

  down?”

  “Okay, guys,” Mr. B said as he hurried back into the room. “I’ve got some cal s

  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 fol owed 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 tryingto 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 imagine ever liking beer.

  Give him Pepsi any day.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  They had al 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 al one piece: keyboard, monitor, and floppy drive al 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.