Jack: Secret Histories Read online

  Remembering Weezy’s warning, Jack told a vague story of the two of them digging it up in the Barrens a while back.

  He concluded with, “I’m not even sure I could find my way back there.”

  Not true, of course, but his promise to Weezy overrode Mr. Brussard’s nosiness.

  “Get this, Dad. It’s impossible to open—at least for me.”

  Mr. Brussard frowned. “What makes you think it opens?”

  “Jack showed me how but I can’t do it.”

  Mr. Brussard stared at Jack. “You can open it?”

  Jack wondered why he looked so surprised. “Yeah. Kind of weird that I’m the only one.”

  “Yes … yes, it is.”

  Jack picked it up. “You ever seen anything like it before?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s very strange looking, isn’t it.”

  Jack wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling Steve’s father wasn’t being totally honest.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Open it for me,” Mr. Brussard said. “Let me see you do it.”

  Jack showed where he placed his thumbnails, then popped it open. Mr. Brussard’s eyes popped too.

  “But it’s empty!”

  Obviously. But he was acting as if he’d expected to see something.

  Jack told him about the pyramid. No point in keeping that a secret. Mr. Rosen and Professor Nakamura already knew about it, along with a bunch of people at U of P, no doubt. So why not?

  When Jack finished, Mr. Brussard looked like he had an upset stomach. “It’s at U of P? For dating?”

  “Yeah. Can’t wait for the results.”

  “Neither can I,” he said in a flat tone. “Be sure to tell me.”

  “Hey, Dad,” Steve said, clicking the cube back together and handing it to him. “See if you can open it.”

  Jack showed him, placing the man’s thumbnails in the seam as he’d done for everyone else who’d tried.

  “Now … pull them apart.”

  Mr. B did just that—

  And the box popped open.

  “You did it!” Steve cried.

  Mr. B didn’t seem surprised, but Jack certainly was. He didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed that he was no longer the only one. He’d belonged to an exclusive club, with a membership of one. Now …

  “Cool!” Steve said, snapping it back together again. “Let me give it another shot.”

  Just then the doorbell rang. When Mr. B opened it, Jack saw a worried looking man who seemed vaguely familiar. They shook hands in a funny sort of way, then Jack heard the newcomer say, “Gordon, we’ve got to talk. Sumter—”

  Mr. Brussard shushed him. “Wait here.” He returned to he kitchen and said, “Okay, boys. Got some business to discuss. Why don’t you two get back to work on the computer?”

  “Okay,” Steve said. “We’re almost done.”

  His father pointed to the cube. “You can leave that here.”

  Jack remembered Weezy’s warning: Don’t let it out of your sight. But he didn’t have to say anything. Steve did it for him.

  “Uh-uh,” he said, still fiddling with it. “I’m gonna get this yet.”

  Jack took another look at the nervous man and suddenly knew why he was familiar: Every few years he plastered his face all over the county during the freeholder elections. The freeholders ran the county, and Winston Haskins was one of them.

  The funny handshake, Steve’s remark about how his father was so involved in the Lodge … did this have anything to do with the Lodge? Or the corpse? The freeholder had mentioned Mr. Sumter.

  Jack burned with curiosity. He didn’t know what was going on, but things were connecting in the strangest ways, and Steve’s dad seemed to be in the middle of it all.

  He even could open the cube.

  9

  When they reached the basement, Steve put down the cube and produced two little bottles from his pocket.

  “Look what I found.” He grinned as he waggled them in the air. “Airline bottles. My dad’s got a drawer full of them.”

  Jack took a closer look. Booze. The labels said one was Jack Daniel’s and the other Dewar’s Scotch.

  Swell.

  “Which one you want?”

  Jack shook his head. “Maybe later. Hey, your father know Mister Sumter, the guy who died?”

  “Sure. Didn’t everybody? Matter of fact, he was here last night, right after you left.”

  “Here? What for?”

  Steve shrugged and Jack realized he probably hadn’t been very alert at the time.

  He could contain his curiosity no longer.

  “Hey, I gotta go tap a kidney. Be right back.”

  “Hurry up.” He twisted off the cap on the Jack Daniel’s and started pouring it into a Pepsi. “You’ll miss all the fun.”

  Jack padded up the basement stairs and paused at the top. The kitchen looked empty so he stepped out and peeked down the hall. He heard voices coming from the den. The guest bathroom lay halfway between the kitchen and the den. Holding his breath, he made it to the bathroom and closed the door behind him without latching it. Leaving the light off, he stood with his ear to the opening and listened.

  Mr. Haskins was talking.

  “Damn it, Gordon, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Well, it is and it did. So we deal with it.”

  Jack wished he’d arrived sooner. Then he might know what “it” was.

  Mr. Haskins sighed. “Poor Sumter. Why now? What lousy timing.”

  “Timing had nothing to do with it,” Mr. Brussard said. “He was brought down.”

  “Brought down by whom? No … the High Council can’t know.”

  “They don’t have to. I’m certain they’ve sent out a klazen.”

  A klazen? Jack thought as he heard Mr. Haskins gasp. What’s that?

  “That’s a myth,” the freeholder said. “An old wives’ tale. There’s no such thing.”

  “You’re so sure? I’m the Lodge lore master, remember, and I’m telling you a klazen can sniff out those responsible. And when it finds them … well, Sumter was healthy as a horse but now where is he?”

  Responsible? For what?

  “B-but he had a heart attack.”

  “Did he? Maybe his heart simply stopped. That’s not a heart attack, but it’s the way a klazen works.”

  “Oh, God!” Haskins moaned. “What do we do?”

  “The Compendium offers protection.”

  “The Compendium? But that’s a myth too.”

  Mr. B sounded ticked off. “This is getting tiring, Winston. We have partial transcripts in the vault.”

  “What do they say?”

  “To use this. Not now … tomorrow at dawn, face your back to the sun, and use it.”

  “‘Back to the sun’? Oh, come on!”

  Jack could imagine Mr. Brussard shrugging. “It’s up to you, Winston. I did it. I’m protected. If you want to risk going without it, be my guest. I’ve discharged my responsibility. What happens now is on your own head.”

  “All right, all right. God, I’m scared. This had better work.”

  “It will. A klazen can run for only a week. At the end of that time, it will vanish and the Council will assume it’s done what needed to be done. We’ll be home free.”

  “Five more days … if we can just last …”

  “The key to doing that rests in your palm.”

  “What about Challis?”

  “Out in L.A.—some insurance brokers’ convention, his wife said. But who knows? I don’t know about you, but Bert Challis worries me.”

  Bert Challis? Jack thought. The insurance guy?

  He had his office up in Marlton but insured most of the houses and people in Johnson. Jack remembered him coming to the house last year with a life insurance policy for Dad to sign.

  Mr. Haskins nodded. “I know what you mean. He’s a loose cannon. No telling what he’ll do.”

  “Well, if you
see Bert or hear from him, tell him to get in touch will me immediately. His life will depend on it. Same with Vasquez.”

  “Yes. Sure. Of course.”

  Jack heard footsteps enter the hallway and felt a flicker of panic. What if they caught him in here? If he’d put the light on it would look like he’d simply been using the bathroom. But standing here with the light off … how would he explain that?

  He didn’t see much choice but to stay hidden and hope neither of them needed a bathroom break.

  He peeked through the slit opening and saw Mr. Haskins standing by the front door. In his left hand he held a funny-shaped red box, maybe two inches across. Mr. B stood there holding something that looked like a cross between a cookie jar and a cigar humidor. Since Jack had never seen a black ceramic cookie jar, he assumed it was a humidor.

  “Good luck to us both, Gordon.”

  Mr. B nodded. “We’ll need it.”

  They shared that strange handshake again, and then the freeholder left.

  Mr. Brussard looked unhappy as he closed the door. With a sigh he returned to his den.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Jack darted from the bathroom and headed back to the basement.

  His mind whirled as he descended the stairs. What was this “klazen” they’d been talking about? From what he’d just heard, it killed people. But not just any people … “those responsible.”

  Responsible for what?

  It sounded crazy, but here were two grown men, one of them a freeholder, both frightened by this thing Jack had never heard of.

  1

  Despite previous worries about Nineteen Eighty-Four’s Big Brother, Weezy’s idea about a two-way TV that could search all the libraries in the world was starting to sound pretty good to Jack.

  No one in his family had heard of a “klazen” and, try as he might, he couldn’t find a word about it anywhere. The big problem was not knowing how to spell it. So he’d tried every variation he could think of: clazen, klazen, clayzen, klazin, and on and on, but found nothing in the family’s Encyclopedia Britannica or its unabridged dictionary.

  So he called up the source of all weird knowledge—at least in his world.

  “Please tell me the cube’s all right,” Weezy said as soon as she came on the phone. “It is, isn’t it? You didn’t lose it or anything, did you?”

  “And a good morning to you too,” he said.

  “Please, Jack. I’m serious. You’re not calling me to tell me—”

  “Everything’s fine, Weez. I’ve got it right here. And guess what? Mister Brussard can open it too. But Steve can’t. Isn’t that weird?”

  A pause, then, “Yeah, I guess so. Is that what you called to tell me?”

  “No. I heard a strange word last night: klazen. Ring a bell?”

  “No. How do you spell it?”

  He read off all the variations he’d written down.

  “Nope,” she said. “Never heard of it. What’s it supposed to be?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I’m going to ask Mister Rosen if he’s ever heard of it. Want to come along? I can explain on the way.”

  “Okay. But stop here first. And bring the cube.”

  He laughed. “You sound like Linus and his blanket.”

  “Ja-ack!” She made it a two-syllable word.

  “Okay, okay. Will do.”

  Before leaving he returned to his room and checked the tepin-treated pistachios on the windowsill. Nice and dry. Great. He opened the envelope Mr. Canelli had used for the peppers and scooped them into it, then placed that in the top drawer of his desk.

  He rubbed his hands together. Later today, if Tom stayed true to form, big brother would get his. Oh, yes. In spades.

  Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

  2

  On the way from Weezy’s to USED, Jack noticed that she looked different. Her hair was down and her clothes were a little dressier than usual. Still all black, though.

  He explained what he’d overheard about the klazen.

  Weezy shook her head. “I don’t get it. What’s it supposed to do? Kill you?”

  Jack remembered Mr. Brussard’s words: Maybe his heart simply stopped … it’s the way a klazen works.

  “I think so. He said it can ‘sniff out those responsible.’”

  Weezy looked at him. “Responsible for what?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m pretty sure it’s a Lodge thing.”

  “Which means it could have something to do with that body we found.”

  That would be cool, but too coincidental.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” he said, realizing he should have told her earlier. “Kate learned something about how he was killed.”

  He told her about the arms being cut off at the elbows and sewn into the armpits.

  Weezy looked shocked, then annoyed. “And when were you going to tell me about this?”

  Jack gave a sheepish shrug. “This klazen thing sort of knocked it out of my head.”

  “Forearms cut off … sewn into his armpits …” She visibly shuddered. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. It’s gross.” Then she smiled at him. “But kind of cool that we found it.”

  Jack hesitated, then decided to go ahead. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Something else you haven’t told me?”

  “It’s about Steve.”

  “Brussard? What’s up?”

  “He’s drinking. Like every night.”

  “You mean alcohol?”

  “No, Gatorade.” When she looked puzzled, he said, “Yes, alcohol. I’m afraid he’s going to wind up like Weird Walt. But I don’t know what to do. Any ideas?”

  “Tell his folks.”

  Was she kidding?

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “So what are you going to do, stand by and watch him go down the tubes?”

  “No, but I can’t rat him out. He’ll never speak to me again.”

  “At least he’ll still be able to speak.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then make an anonymous call to his dad. Disguise your voice—”

  “He’ll know it’s me.”

  “Well, if he’s your friend, then you’ve got to do something.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t believe this. You ask me what to do, and then you shoot down every suggestion I make.”

  Jack shook his head. “Probably shouldn’t have said anything. Girls just don’t understand.”

  “Well, I’ve given you my solution.” She sounded annoyed. “You don’t like it, come up with your own.”

  “I will.”

  But just what that would be, he didn’t know.

  They arrived at USED then. Jack led the way inside and found Mr. Rosen behind the counter. He looked up with a surprised expression.

  “You’re clairvoyant, maybe?”

  Jack stopped and felt Weezy bump into his back. “What do you mean?”

  “I was just looking up your number to call you. I heard from Professor Nakamura and he wants to tell you something about that pyramid you brought him.”

  Weezy grabbed Jack’s upper arm and squeezed. “He’s found out something?”

  Mr. Rosen shrugged. “He didn’t say, just that he needed to talk to you.”

  In a blink Weezy was out the door, heading for the bikes.

  “Let’s go!”

  “Be right there,” Jack said as he stepped closer to the counter. “Mister Rosen? You ever heard of something called a klazen?”

  “A klazen?” The old man shook his head. “Never. What is it?”

  Jack hid his disappointment. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Okay, see you later.”

  When he stepped outside, Weezy was already on her bike, wheeling in tight circles.

  “Come on, Jack! What are we waiting for? He’s found out what it is!”

  “Don’t get all worked up. Mister Rosen said he jus
t wants to tell us something. That something could be anything—like it was made in Japan two weeks ago.”

  She gave him a hard look. “Why are you always trying to rain on my parade?”

  Jack couldn’t help but hear Barbra Streisand belting out those lyrics from Mom’s Funny Girl album. Not his favorite.

  “I’m not, Weez. You know better that that.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Sorry.”

  “I just don’t want you disappointed. I mean, you know, sometimes your parades march right off a cliff. And then you know how you get.”

  She tended to get herself so worked up in anticipation, only to crash and burn when it fell through. He’d seen an up mood change to down in a heartbeat. It wasn’t pretty.

  “I’ll be fine. Because I know he’s found all sorts of strange things about it, keys to a secret. Who knows? It might open the door to the hidden truths of all history!”

  There she goes, Jack thought as she headed toward the highway—off on her bike and off on a bubble of expectation. He hoped the professor wouldn’t burst it, but he sensed it coming. He didn’t want to be there when she fell, but someone had to catch her.

  3

  The professor took them to the library and pulled up an extra chair so both Jack and Weezy could sit, then seated himself behind the desk.

  “What is it?” Weezy said, squirming in her seat. She couldn’t seem to sit still. Looked like she was going to vibrate herself into another dimension. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing useful, I am afraid. Most sorry. Almost everything points to your artifact as of modern origin.”

  Uh-oh, Jack thought, glancing at Weezy. Here it comes.

  “That can’t be,” she said softly—too softly. “Your tests are wrong. They’ve got to be.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I fear not. We did electron-micro scanning of the symbols and found they have the fineness and sharp edges that only a laser can do. Actually, sharper than most lasers.”

  “‘Sharper than most lasers,’” she said, her voice rising. “Doesn’t that tell you something right there?”

  “It tells me it is a hoax. Those engraved characters are meant to lead us to believe your object is pre-Sumerian, but no pre-Sumerian culture had such technology. As I told you yesterday, they scraped their writings, their pictograms and ideograms, onto clay tablets.”