Moments later they were standing outside, blinking in the bright summer sunshine. Weezy looked downhearted.


“It’l be al right, Weez,” he said as they got back on their bikes.


She looked at him. “Wil it? What if they lose it?”


“Come on. He’s an archaeologist. He does this sort of thing al the time.”


She sighed. “I know, but …” She let the word hang.


“At least we’l know how old it is. That’s important, don’t you think?”


She shrugged. “I guess so. But on the other hand, I don’t care how old they say it is, I knowit’s old and I knowit’s important.”


Jack felt a growing impatience. “But that’s just it, Weez—you don’tknow. You feel, you wish, you believe, you hope, but that’s not knowing. To know


you’ve got to have some facts.”


She looked at him and shook her head. “You just don’t get it, Jack. I don’t think you’l ever get it.”


He was about to ask her just what she meant by that when he heard a car horn toot-toot.He looked around to see a new, light blue Mustang GLX


convertible with the top down. They were stil in the professor’s driveway and the car had pul ed to the curb a few feet away. He instantly recognized the


driver.


Carson Toliver.


Everybody knew Carson Toliver. Son of Edward Toliver, the rich, big-shot real estate developer who lived in the biggest house in town at the far end of


the cul-de-sac. Local boy hero who’d enter his senior year as captain and quarterback of the Burlington Badgers, the high school footbal team. Probably


wind up captain of the basketbal team too. He had the tanned skin, long blond hair, and good looks of a California surfer dude.


And he was looking at Weezy.


“You’re Weezy Connel , aren’t you.”


Weezy nodded but said nothing. She looked like a deer in headlights.


“Yeah, I’ve seen you around. Heard you found a body in the Pines.”


She may have found a body but she hadn’t found her voice yet.


“We both did,” Jack said.


He looked at Jack for the first time. “And you are?”


“Just Jack,” Weezy said, her voice sounding thick. “He’s a friend. Just a friend. He’s going to be starting as a freshman next month.”


Carson had already lost interest in Jack and was refocused on Weezy.


“So … this body. Was finding it gross or cool?”


“A little bit of both, I guess.”


“I’l bet it was. I’d offer you a ride but I see you’ve got your bike. Maybe we can get together sometime and talk about it.”


“W-with me?” Weezy said.


“Sure. I’d love to hear al about it.” He put the car in gear and waved. “Later, Weezy.”


She waved, then stood with her jaw hanging open as she watched him go.


“Close your mouth before you start catching flies.”


She turned to him, mouth stil open. “Do you believe that? He spoke to me. He actual y stopped and spoke to me.”She closed her eyes and tilted her


head back. “I can’t believeit!”


“Am I missing something here?”


“Carson Toliver wants to get together with me!” She was talking to the air. Jack could have been miles away.


“So?”


Final y she came back to Earth—or at least into shal ow orbit—and looked at Jack as if he’d just told her he was from the Crab Nebula.


“‘So’? He’s a hunk!He’s more than a hunk, he’s thehunk! And he … he asked me out. Wel , kind of. How cool is that?”


“Too cool for words,” Jack said, letting the sarcasm drip. “Let’s ride.”


She didn’t seem to hear him. She was tugging on her ponytail. “Look at my hair! And how I’m dressed! Lame!And I’m on a bike! A bike!I must look like


a total dweeb!”


“Wel , it’s not as if you can drive yet. You’re only fourteen.”


“I’l be fifteen next month!”


“Stil …”


“If I’d been walking he’d have given me a ride.”


Jack had about al he could take. He started riding back toward 206. If Weezy wanted to come that was up to her, but he wasn’t going to stand there


and listen to any more of her burbling babble.


He didn’t know why he was feeling ticked off. Okay, maybe he did. To see Weezy go al gaga just because some guy stopped and said hel o … it


shouldn’t bother him, but it did. That wasn’t his Weezy—or rather, not the Weezy Jack knew. His Weezy wasn’t like other girls. She was different. Special.


Carson Toliver should be gaga because she’d spoken to him.


“Hey, Jack!” he heard her cal behind him. “Wait up!”


He was tempted to say, Don’tyoumean,‘justJack’?but didn’t want to let her know how that had bothered him, or that he’d even noticed. Talk about


getting dropped like a hot potato.


She’d probably wanted to let Carson know they weren’t going out or anything like that. And … wel … they weren’t. So why had it bothered him?


He didn’t know.


He slowed to let her catch up.


“What’s the hurry?” she said.


“Got an errand to run.”


“Oh. Want me to come along?”


“That’s okay.”


No traffic in sight when they came to 206 so they buzzed straight across. “Is something wrong?” she said when they reached the other side. “No, why?”


“You’re acting weird.”


Yeah, he probably was. He needed a cover.


“My brother’s been hassling me. I want to teach him a lesson and I need a special ingredient for that.”

“And that’s the errand?”


He nodded.


She said, “Anything I can do to help?”


He glanced at her. “This is gonna be pretty much a one-man show, but if I need

a hand, I’l let you know.”


She smiled. “If you need me, I’m there.”


Jack didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt a change. Like a weight had lifted

from his shoulders.

Weird.

4

Mr. Vito Canel i lived on a corner up the street from Jack and was known for having the best lawn in town. An older, retired, white-haired widower, he


wouldn’t let anyone else touch his lawn. He cut it twice a week, watered it by hand every other day, and trimmed its edges so neatly it looked like he’d


used scissors.


Although his lawn was off-limits, he would hire Jack to shovel his walks and driveway in winter.


His front yard was open but he kept his back fenced in to protect his vegetable gardens from rabbits and the Pinelands deer that wandered through


town. Except for the paths between the beds, almost every square inch of his backyard was planted with tomatoes, zucchini, asparagus, and half a dozen


varieties of peppers.


Toward the end of summer—like now—he’d set up a table in the shade and sel the excess from his garden. Jack’s mom was a regular customer for his


huge Jersey beefsteak tomatoes.


But Jack wasn’t in the market for tomatoes.


He leaned his bike against a tree and waved to where Mr. Canel i sat in the middle of his lawn pul ing crabgrass by hand.


Jack inspected the peppers on the table. He saw green, red, and yel ow bel s, and pale green frying peppers. Not what he was looking for.


“Do you have any hot peppers?” he said, walking up to the old man.


Mr. Canel i looked up from under a broad-brimmed straw hat.


“Of course,” he said in his Italian accent. “But I keep for myself. They much too hot for people around here.”


“I’d like to buy the hottest you’ve got.”


He shook his head. “You won’t be able to eat. I can eat habañeros like they candy, but my hottest—no-no-no. I use a tiny, tiny amount in soup or gravy.”


“It’s not for me. This person wil eat them.”


He gave Jack a long stare, then raised his hand. “Help me up and I show you what I got.”


Jack helped pul him to his feet, then fol owed him into the backyard.


“These are jalapeños,” he said, pointing at some dark green oblong peppers maybe two inches long. “They hot.” He moved on and pointed to a shorter


orange pepper. “Even more hot habañeros.” And then he stopped at a bushy plant with little berry-size peppers. “And here the king. The smal est of the lot,


but the most hot. A special breed of tepin I cross with habañero.”


“Tay-peen?” Jack had never heard of it. But then, what did he know about peppers? “How much apiece?”


Mr. Canel i shook his head. “I don’t sel . Too hot.”


“Please? Just a couple?”


The old man stared at him, smiling. “You up to no good, eh?”


Jack fought to keep his expression innocent. How did he know?


“What do you mean?”


“You know exactly what I mean. But you a good kid. I see you with the lawn mower, I watch you shovel snow. You work hard. I give you some.”


“I can pay.”


“I have dried one inside. You wait.”


While Mr. Canel i went inside, Jack wandered through the garden, marveling at the size of the tomatoes and zucchinis. The old guy definitely had a


green thumb.


When he returned a few minutes later he handed Jack a smal white envelope.


“You take.”


Jack peeked inside and saw half a dozen little red peppers.


“Hey, thanks.”


“You be careful. You wash you hands after you touch. Never rub you eyes. If you burn you mouth, take milk. Or maybe butter. Water only make worse.”


“Got it,” Jack said. “Thanks a mil ion.”


He hopped on his bike and stifled himself until he was wel down the street. Then he did the mwah-ha-ha-halaugh the rest of the way home.

5

As Jack was biking to USED at midday, he heard someone cal his name. He looked around and saw a long-haired, bearded man waving to him from the


front porch of the Bainbridge house.


Weird Walt.


“Hey, Jack! Got a minute?”


Jack had a few. He swung the bike around and coasted into the driveway. Walt was rocking in the shade of the porch. He pointed a gloved hand at an empty rocker beside him.


“C’mon up and set a spel .”


“I gotta get to work.”


“Just a coupla minutes.”


Jack shrugged. “Okay.”


He laid his bike down on the dry lawn that badly needed watering. Walt lived here with his sister and her husband. He took care of the yard, but wasn’t


very good at it.


As Jack hopped up the steps to the porch, Walt patted the seat of the rocker again.


“Here. Sit.”


He noticed his gloves were leather. His hands had to be majorly hot and sweaty in those. As Jack seated himself, Walt leaned close and stared, his


gaze boring into him. It made Jack uncomfortable.


“What?”


“Just checking.”


“Checking what?”


“I thought you might be him, but you’re not.”


“What made you think—?”


“Don’t worry. I’l know him when I meet him.”


With that Walt scooted his rocker a foot farther away, as if afraid to stay too close.


Wel , he wasn’t cal ed Weird Walt for nothing.


Jack leaned back and started rocking. Not a bad way to spend a summer afternoon.


“What’s up, Mister Erskine?”


He laughed. “They cal ed my father ‘Mister Erskine.’ Cal me Walt. I wanna thang you for comin’ to my aid yesterday.”


Jack gave him a closer look. Barely lunchtime and already he had red eyes and slurred words. Jack felt a mixture of sorrow and distaste. And worry …


Steve Brussard could end up like this if he didn’t get a grip.


“I didn’t do anything,” Jack said. “Mrs. Clevenger did al the work.”


“Yeah, but you were there and you were on my side. Would’ve been just as easy for you and Weezy to join the crowd against me. But you two aren’t


herd members.”


“Yeah, wel …”


“Don’t minimize it, Jack. Look, I know what people think of me. I know I’m the town weirdo and the town drunk—I know I’m ‘Weird Walt.’ I’m a lot of


things, Jack, but I ain’t stupid.”


“I … I never thought you were.” Where was this going?


“An’ I’m not crazy. I know I act crazy, but I have very good reasons for what I do. Like these gloves.” He held up his hands. “I wear them so’s I don’t touch


anyone.”


“Yeah. Okay.” This was getting weird.


“An’ I don’t drink ‘cause I want to, I drink ‘cause I have to. I drink to survive.” Jack couldn’t help saying, “I don’t understand.”


“You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Nobody can. Not even my buddies in ‘Nam.” “Is it something that happened in the war?”


Walt stared at him with a strange look in his eyes. Jack tried to identify it. The only word he could come up with was … lost.


“Yeah.”


“What?”


“I don’t talk about it. I used to, but I don’t anymore. It landed me in a mental hospital once. I don’t want to go back again.”


“My dad was in the Korean War. He won’t talk about that either.”


Walt looked away. “Lotta people like that. War changes you. Sometimes it’s something you did, sometimes it’s something that was done to you. Either


way, you don’t come back the same.”


Jack was thinking his dad seemed pretty normal—except for never talking about it. Jack would have loved to hear some war stories.


He thought of something he needed to know.


“You know, um, Walt. If you were a soldier and al , why’d you let a couple of punks like Teddy and his friend push you around?”


He shrugged. “I’m nonviolent.”


“But—”


“When I got drafted I said I wouldn’t fight but I’d be a medic.”


“So you spent the war fixing people up instead of shooting them down?”


“I don’t know about the fixing-up part. Mostly I just shot ‘em up with morphine so they could stand the pain and maybe stop screaming until dust-off.”


“Dust-off?”


“That was what we cal ed a medevac mission—when a chopper would come in and carry off the wounded.” He shook his head. “The things I saw … the


things I saw …” His voice became choked. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been a medic. If I’d been just a grunt back in sixty-eight, my life would be different now.


But it got ruined.”


Al this was making Jack a little uncomfortable. He wished he’d worn a watch so he could look at it.


“Um, I gotta run.”


Walt swal owed and smiled. “I know you do. Thanks for stoppin’ and listenin’ to me ramble. I just needed to talk to you. You did the right thing yesterday


and I wanted you to know that you didn’t do it for some useless, drunken lump of human protoplasm. That the guy you see on the outside is not the same


as the guy on the inside. Did I get that across?”


“Yeah, Walt,” he said, going down the porch steps. “Yeah, you did.”


He smiled through his beard. “Good. Because I owe you one, man. And don’t you forget it. Because I won’t.”

Jack hoped he’d never need to col ect.

6

After putting in his hours at USED, Jack stopped at the Connel house on the way home. He and Eddie were battling for high score in DonkeyKong.


Weezy came in just as Jack was handing the joystick back to Eddie.


“Hey, Weez. I need to borrow the cube tonight.”


She stopped in midstride and frowned. “Why?”


“Want to show Steve. He’s handy with gadgets. I want to see if he can open it. I can’t be the onlyone.”


“Gee … I don’t know.”


Jack felt a flash of irritation. “Don’t know what? You think I’m going to lose it or something?”


“No, I mean I don’t know if it’s a good idea to let it get around too much that we have it.”


“If that pyramid is as special as you think it is, I’l bet word of it is al around U of P by now.”


She sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You’l take good care of it, right?”


Jack put his hand over his heart. “Guard it with my life.”


“And you won’t tel anybody we found it with the body, right? ‘Cause they’l take it away.”


He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”


“I’m serious, Jack.”


“So am I. You’l have it back tomorrow.”


“Promise?”


“Promise.”


“Okay, come upstairs. I need you to open it for me first.”


He fol owed her up to her room where he opened the cube and laid it on her desk. He watched her pul out a sheet of paper and trace the design on the


inside of the panels.


“Why are you doing that?”


“Just in case.”


“You’re acting like you might not get it back.”


“You think so?” she said without looking up.


When she was finished she snapped the cube back together, then wrapped it in a towel and put it in a shopping bag. She handed it to him.


“Don’t let it out of your sight.”


Jack shook his head as walked back downstairs. You’d think he was borrowing her first-born child.

7

After dinner, Jack took the bag of pistachios to his room but didn’t bother shel ing them right away. He needed to do something else first.

He put on Journey’s Escape—loud—and played a few runs of air bass to “Don’t Stop Believing.” Nodding his head in time, he placed the dried tepin


peppers in a cereal bowl and crushed them into flakes. Then, making sure no one was in sight, he crossed to the hal bathroom and added an ounce or


two of tap water.


Back in his room he mixed everything wel , then set it aside and started shel ing the pistachios. He’d done about ten when he heard a knock. Knowing it


wasn’t Tom—he never knocked—Jack placed the latest issue of Cerebusover the pepper bowl and left the pistachios on his desk.


“C’mon in.”


He turned down the music as Kate stepped through the door. Her gaze flicked to his desk where she spotted the pistachios.


She smiled. “Figure it’s safer to eat them in here, huh?”


“At least tonight. What’s up?”


Kate’s smile faded and she bit her lip. “I know I promised to find out for you, but I’m not sure I should tel you.”


“You mean about the murder ritual?” Jack felt his heart rate kick up. He’d been dying to hear this. “Go ahead. You can tel me.”


“It’s real y bizarre.”


Even better.


“Tel -me-tel -me-tel -me!”


“Okay. Wel … Jenny told me that it seems whoever kil ed the man cut off his forearms at the elbows and crudely sewed them into his armpits.”


“What?”


Kate nodded. “Truth, I swear.”


Jack tried to envision it but had trouble. “Oh man, that’s so weird.Was he …?”


“Alive when they did it?” Kate smiled as she gave him a gentle slap on the back of his head. “Mister Morbid … I knew you’d ask.”


“Wel ?”


“Was he alive when they cut off his forearms? No.”


That was a relief—in a way.


“But what does the arm thing mean?” He snapped his fingers as an idea hit. “Maybe it has something to do with stealing.”


“Traditional y thieves lose their right hand—and it’s not sewn into their armpit. I asked Jenny about it and she says the medical examiner’s going to


make some cal s, but he’s never heard of anything like it.”


“Maybe it had nothing to do with the diamond scam.” Jack lowered his voice into an imitation of Weezy’s ooh-spookytone: “Maybe it’s an ancient,


secret cult, living unseen in the Pinelands for thousands of years, kil ing and mutilating unwary victims who cross their path! Mwah-ha-ha-ha!”


She laughed and ruffled his brown hair. “Stop it. You read too many of the wrong books and watch too many crummy movies.”


The crummy part was sure true. He’d seen Jaws3-Dlast month and what a waste of money—crummy 3-D and crummier story.


Kate pointed to the pistachios. “May I have one?”


He cupped his palm around the pile and pushed it toward her. “Youcan have them al .”


And he meant it. Anything Kate wanted she could have, no questions asked.


She took just one, picking it up between a dainty thumb and forefinger. “This’l do.” She popped it into her mouth and stepped to the door. “You want this


closed?”


He nodded. “Definitely.”


“You’re not going to have nightmares tonight about being chased by short-armed men, are you?”


He laughed. “As if.”


On the other hand, that might be kind of cool—as long as it was only a dream.


As soon as the door closed he went to work shel ing another half dozen pistachios. When he was done he dropped the whole pile into the tepin bowl


and swirled the mixture around and over them. Satisfied they were al nicely coated, he picked them out one by one and lined them up on his windowsil to


dry.


When he was finished, without thinking, he licked his two wet fingertips and instantly his tongue and lips were on fire. Fire!Like he’d licked the sun.


He jumped up and dashed across the hal to the bathroom for water, but remembered Mr. Canel i’s words just in time: Wateronlymakeworse.


His mouth was kil ing him, making his eyes tear. What had the old guy said to use instead? Ifyouburnyoumouth,takemilk.Ormaybebutter.


Jack dashed for the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator. On the door he spotted an open stick of Land O’Lakes butter. He gouged a piece off the end


and shoved it into his mouth, running it al over the burning area. Slowly, the heat eased—didn’t leave entirely but at least became bearable.


He hurried back to his room and stared at the drying pistachios. He’d touched just a drop—less than a drop—to his tongue and look what happened. If


Tom ate that whole pile …


Jack didn’t want to think about how that would feel. Might be toomuch payback, even for Tom.


But on the other hand, Jack wasn’t handing them to his brother. Tom would have to steal them to taste them.


The decision would be Tom’s, the outcome entirely up to him.

8


Steve couldn’t open the cube either.


They’d been sitting at the Brussards’ kitchen table where Jack had demonstrated

the technique at least a dozen times.

He wondered if Steve had already been drinking. His fingers seemed kind of clumsy.


“Hey, Dad!” Steve cal ed. “Come check this out!”


Mr. Brussard strol ed in from the living room where Jack could hear some sort of

classical music playing.


“What’s—?” He froze in the doorway like he’d been hit with a paralyzer ray. His


eyes were locked on the cube. “Where did you get that?”


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 total y 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 tel 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 … pul 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 doorbel 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 gotto 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’tletitoutofyoursight.But he didn’t


have to say anything. Steve did it for him.


“Uh-uh,” he said, stil 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 al 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 al .


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 ful of them.”


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


Swel .


“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’l miss al 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 hal . 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.”


“Wel , 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 tel ing you a klazen can sniff out those responsible. And when it finds them … wel ,


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 Compendiumoffers 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.”


“Al right, al right. God, I’m scared. This had better work.”


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


home free.”


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


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


“What about Chal is?”


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


Bert Chal is? 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 tel ing what he’l do.”


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


“Yes. Sure. Of course.”


Jack heard footsteps enter the hal way 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’l 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 kil ed 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 NineteenEighty-Four’sBig Brother, Weezy’s idea about a two-way TV that could search al 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 spel 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’sEncyclopedia Britannica or its unabridged dictionary.


So he cal ed up the source of al weird knowledge—at least in his world.


“Please tel me the cube’s al 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 cal ing me to tel 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 cal ed to tel me?”


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


“No. How do you spel it?”


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


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


“I’l tel 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-syl able word.


“Okay, okay. Wil do.”


Before leaving he returned to his room and checked the tepin-treated pistachios on the windowsil . Nice and dry. Great. He opened the envelope Mr. Canel i 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. Stil al


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? Kil you?”


Jack remembered Mr. Brussard’s words: Maybehisheartsimplystopped…it’s thewayaklazenworks.

“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 kil ed.”

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 tel 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 elseyou 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?”


“Tel 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’l never speak to me again.”


“At least he’l stil be able to speak.”


“Yeah, but—”


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


“He’l know it’s me.”


“Wel , 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.”


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


“I wil .”


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 cal you. I heard from Professor Nakamura and he wants to tel 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 cal ed 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 al worked up. Mister Rosen said he just wants to tel 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 FunnyGirlalbum. 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 fel through. He’d seen an up mood change to down in a


heartbeat. It wasn’t pretty.


“I’l be fine. Because I knowhe’s found al sorts of strange things about it, keys to a secret. Who knows? It might open the door to the hidden truths of al


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 fel , but someone had to catch her.


3

The professor took them to the library and pul ed 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 stil .

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. Actual y, sharper than most lasers.”


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


“It tel s 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.”


“But what if there was an advanced civilization before Sumer? One that was wiped out by the Great Flood?”


The professor smiled. “That is the stuff of fantasy. No record of such a culture or civilization exists.”


“Al right then,” she said. “What’s the pyramid made of? Did you figure that out?”


He shook his head—a bit uncertainly, Jack thought. “No. But we know it is some kind of al oy.”


Weezy leaned back. “An al oy that can’t be scratched—or at least I couldn’t scratch it. Could you?”


Professor Nakamura looked even less certain. “We did not try. It is not our property—it is yours.”


“That’s right. And I’d like it back now.”


Jack said, “We’re forgetting about the most important test. What about that argon dating you mentioned?”


“Yes-yes. Potassium argon. We did that.”


Jack waited to hear the results but the professor did not go on.


“And?” Weezy said.


Now the professor looked reallyuncomfortable. “The results were … how shal I say it?… inconclusive.”


Weezy shook her head, “I don’t understand what you mean. I understand what ‘inconclusive’ means, but what kind of inconclusive results are you talking


about?”


“You couldn’t date it?” Jack said.


“Oh, yes, we got a date, but an impossible date.”


Jack felt a fleeting tingle up his spine. Impossible?What kind of date would be impossible? He glanced over at Weezy and saw her sitting rigid in her


chair.


“W-what was the date?” she said.


The professor waved his hands. “I hesitate to tel you because it wil only fuel groundless speculation.”


Weezy looked ready to explode. She spoke through her teeth. “What … was … the … date?”


Professor Nakamura folded his hands on his desk and stared at them. He spoke in a low voice.


“Fourteen thousand years.”


In a flash Weezy was out of her seat and on her feet, leaning over the desk.


“Did I hear you right? Fourteen thousand years? Fourteen?”


“Yes.” The professor looked up at her. “And if you know anything about human history, you wil know that is impossible.”


“I know there’s a lot we don’tknow about human history.”


The professor nodded. “This is true, and there are arguments about which human civilization was first. It appears to be Sumer, but that can be traced


back only to five thousand B.C.—seven thousand years ago. The test says your pyramid is twice as old. Clearly that is impossible.”


“Not if it belonged to an advanced civilization that was wiped out by the Great Flood.”


Jack glanced at her, not sure if she was kidding or not. But she looked dead serious.


“You mean like in the Bible?” he said. “Noah’s flood?”


Weezy kept her eyes on the professor. “The Sumerians had exactly the same legend, long before the Bible was written. Al the ancient civilizations of


that region had a story about a great flood that cleansed the land. Am I right, professor?”


He stared at her. “How old are you?”


“I’l be fifteen next month.”


“Fifteen … you know much for fifteen.”


“I read a lot. But back to the Great Flood. Maybe a flood was only part of it. Maybe it was much more severe. Maybe it wiped out the civilization that


made that little pyramid and forced human beings to start al over again from scratch.”


The professor rol ed his eyes. “Next you wil be quoting Immanuel Velikovsky.”


“I know the name,” she said, “but I’ve never read him. I’ve heard he’s a kook.” She smiled. “But then, some people think I’ma kook, so maybe I should


look him up.” She held out her hand. “May I have my


fourteen-thousand-year-old ‘hoax’ back now?”


“I am afraid I do not have it with me.”


Weezy frowned. “You’re going to run more tests?”


“Yes, but not me, personal y. I took the liberty of sending it to the Smithsonian Institution for dating.”


“You what?Without asking me?” She glanced quickly at Jack. “I mean, us?”


Jack didn’t care al that much that she’d added the “us.” He too was ticked that the professor had taken it upon himself to send their pyramid al the way


to Washington, D.C.


“Now just a minute, young lady. You gave that over to me for investigation and that is precisely what I am doing. The Smithsonian Institution has access


to equipment I do not. They wil find an accurate date of origin. Is that not what you wanted from me?”


Jack thought about that. He’d been to the Smithsonian on his eighth-grade trip just this past spring and had been wowed by the sheer size of the place


—al the buildings, al the exhibits. Too many to see on just one trip.


Weezy’s lower lip showed just a trace of a quiver. “But you should have asked first.”


The professor nodded. “Yes, I suppose I should have. But I thought you would be happy to know that some of the greatest experts in the field wil be


studying your artifact.”


“Wel ,” she said slowly, “I guess I am. But what if something happens to it along the way? Or what if it gets lost? Things get lost in the mail, you know.”


“Oh, no. I did not send it by mail. I used overnight delivery. Federal Express. And I packed it very careful y in a box. It wil be fine. The Smithsonian

Institution handles valuable artifacts al the time. They wil take good care of it.” “They’d better,” she said.


Jack didn’t see much point in hanging around here any longer so he rose and

stood next to Weezy.


“Wil you cal us as soon as you hear anything?”


The professor slid a sheet of paper and a pencil across the desk. “Leave me your phone numbers. As soon as I hear from the Smithsonian, you wil

hear from me.”

As Weezy wrote down their numbers, Jack said, “Professor, have you ever heard of a klazen?”


Weezy stopped writing but did not look up.


The professor frowned. “An unfamiliar term. What does it refer to?”


“I’m not sure. A creature, maybe? A spirit?”


“No. Most sorry. I have never heard of such a thing.”


Swel , Jack thought. I’m batting zero today.


4

“Wel ,” he said, squinting at Weezy outside Professor Nakamura’s house, “what do you think?”


Her expression was grim. “I think I wish I had the pyramid back. I’ve got a bad feeling …”


Jack tried to look on the bright side. “Yeah, but you’ve got to admit, if anyone can find out what that thing is, it’s the Smithsonian.”


“I suppose.” Suddenly she perked up and looked at him with bright eyes. “What if they come back with the same age? Fourteen thousand years! Do


you know what that means?”


“It means Professor Nakamura wil have to eat a big plate of fricasseed crow.”


She gave his arm a gentle slap. “Who cares about that. It means we’l have to start rewriting human history!”


Jack thought about that and found it kind of scary.


“Yeah, I guess we wil .”


Just then a blue Mustang convertible pul ed up with a grinning Carson Toliver behind the wheel. He pointed to Weezy.


“Hey, you fol owing me?”


She reddened. “No, I, no, I mean, no, we were just visiting Professor Nakamura.”


This guy had just turned the smartest girl Jack knew into a babbling boob.


“Aw, too bad,” he said, dramatical y snapping his fingers. “I was hoping you were. A guy likes to have a pretty girl fol owing him.”


Weezy said nothing, just stared.


“Hey,” Carson added, “I bet you like the Sex Pistols.”


Weezy hesitated, then said, “Yeah. They’re cool.”


“Knew it! I could tel by the way you dress. I love to blast them as I tool down the road.”


You area tool, Jack thought.


“Want to try that sometime?”


“Yeah.” She swal owed. “Sure.”


“Great. I’l cal you up sometime and we’l go for a spin.”


He waved and roared off. Weezy watched him go, then grabbed Jack’s arm.


“Did you hear that? Carson Toliver just asked me out.”


“Yeah, to listen to the Sex Pistols—which you hate by the way. Or did you forget?”


“I didn’t forget. They’re awful.”


“Then why’d you tel him they were cool?”


“I couldn’t insult him.”


“If you ask me, he’sfol owing you.”


“Don’t be sil y. He lives right on this street.” She beamed. “And he thinks I’m pretty.”


Weezy had said she had a bad feeling about the pyramid going to the Smithsonian. Wel , Jack had the same sort of feeling about Weezy getting into


Carson Toliver’s car.


5

Jack sat by the living room window, pretending to read but real y watching the driveway.


Mom had the annoying Oklahoma! score playing, and he was forced to listen to “The Surry with the Fringe on Top” as he stood watch. Stupid, lame-o


song.


She was in the kitchen fixing dinner and Kate was helping. Dad wouldn’t be home from work for another half hour or so. Only Tom was unaccounted for.


He’d been gone most of the day but Mom said she expected him for dinner.


Jack wanted to know when he arrived so he’d have time to set up his sting.


When he saw Tom’s ‘79 Malibu pul ing into the driveway, he jumped up and hurried to the kitchen. He pul ed out the bag of pistachios and, while Kate


and Mom weren’t looking, emptied the envelope with the tepin-treated nuts on the counter. He’d just tucked the envelope into his back pocket when Kate


turned and saw the pile.


She frowned. “I’d eat those right now, Jack. You-know-who just arrived.”


Good old Kate, always looking out for him.


Jack shrugged. “They’l be okay.”


She shook her head. “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you.”


“Trust me, Kate,” he said with a smile. “I’m anything but a glutton for punishment.”


But, he thought, I’ve arranged some punishment for the glutton.


He started shel ing pistachios but ate them instead of adding them to the pile. He tensed as he heard the frontdoor screen slam. This was it. Tom stil


had a chance. He could turn Jack’s plan into wasted effort by walking past and leaving the pistachios where they were. His fate was in his own hands.


Jack pretended to be looking the other way as his big brother breezed into the kitchen. Without breaking stride and without the slightest hesitation, Tom


swept the nuts off the counter and into his hand, then popped them al into his mouth.


Jack yel ed, “Hey!”


Kate said, “Tom!”


Mom hadn’t noticed and Tom said nothing as he opened the refrigerator and reached for a beer. He never made it. He froze in mid-reach, then


coughed and spat the nuts into his palm.


“What the—?” As he turned toward Jack, his face started to redden. “What did you—?” Then the redness darkened. “Oh, my God!”


As Tom dove for the sink, Jack remembered what Mr. Canel i had said about water making the burning worse. He felt it only fair to warn Tom, but he


lowered his voice, Wil y Wonka style.


“Stop. Don’t. Come back.”


“Dear Lord!” Mom cried as Tom dumped the partial y chewed nuts in the sink and turned on the water.


He didn’t wait to get a glass, simply tilted his head under the faucet and let the water run into his mouth.


“Tom?” Kate said. “What on Earth are you doing?”


Tom lifted his head—his face was almost purple now—and pointed to Jack. “That little bastard—!”


Mom whipped him with her dish towel. “Thomas! I wil not have that kind of language in this house. Now you—”


Tom wailed and stuck his mouth under the faucet again.


“The burning!” he croaked between gulps. “I can’t stop the burning!”


Jack watched him, trying to keep from smiling. He felt like going over there and dancing around him, chanting, Gotcha-gotcha-gotcha!


Kate turned to Jack. “What did you do?”


Jack raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Nothing much. Just spiced them up a little.”


She smiled. “With what? Pepper?”


Jack nodded.


“What kind? Jalapeño? Habañero?”


“Hotter.”


She began to laugh. “Oh, this is rich—this is too rich!”


“It’s not funny!” Tom yel ed, his voice echoing from down in the sink.


Mom was clueless. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong with him?”


“He poisoned me!” Tom cried, then went back to drinking.


Mom obviously knew that wasn’t true, because she was half smiling as she turned to Jack.


“Why did you poison your brother, Jackie?”


Kate was stil laughing. “Tom stole his pistachios, but they had pepper on them!”


Mom hit Tom again with the towel. “Noware you going to stop stealing from him? Have you learned your lesson?”


“I’m going to kil him!”


“You’l do no such thing. And drink some milk. Water makes it worse.”


Tom lifted his dripping face. “What?”


Kate grinned at him. “The stuff that burns is an oil. Water spreads it around.”


“Oh, no!” Tom leaped for the fridge.


“And don’t you dare drink from the carton!” Mom told him.


6

Jack stood by while Kate told Dad what had happened.


“Serves him right.” He laughed, then settled down to watch the evening news

before dinner.


Though the burning from the tepin juice had been intense, it hadn’t lasted long.


Tom recovered and had retreated to his room in embarrassment. Jack was heading back to the kitchen when he heard a knock. He reversed direction


and arrived in time to see his dad opening the front door for Mr.


Bainbridge.


They shook hands, then Mr. Bainbridge pointed at Jack and smiled. “There’s the man I want to see.”


Jack looked around. Man? Me? Was he in trouble?


“Jack?” Dad said. “What for?”


“Seems he stood up for my brother-in-law the other day when that Bishop punk


was hassling him.”


Dad tilted his head down and looked at Jack over the top of his reading glasses. “That so?”


Embarrassed, Jack shrugged. “Not real y. Weezy’s the one who—” “Yeah. Walt’s not always reliable in what he says, but he told me you and the


Connel girl took his back against two guys a lot bigger.” Mr. Bainbridge looked at Dad. “Sound like your boy’s not afraid of anything—just like his old


man.”


Dad gave him a sharp look, then turned to Jack. “Grab us a couple of beers, wil


you?”


“Sure.”


As he left the room he heard Dad say, “No Korea talk, Kurt. You know how I feel


about that. Save it for the VFW.”


Yeah, Dad never wanted to talk about the war. He and Mr. Bainbridge had met


in Korea. Then, seven years ago, when his company transferred him


from Kansas City to Trenton, he looked up Dad. He loved to fish, and when he


learned how plentiful the trout and bass were in these parts, he decided Johnson was the ideal place to live. So he moved in with his wife, Evelyn, and


her brother, Weird Walt.


Jack pul ed out a couple of Carlings, red cans with a black label, and brought


them back to the living room. On the way in, he heard Mr. Bainbridge


speaking in a low voice.


“Yeah, Walt’s al right. Keeps to himself. Mostly we don’t know he’s there. But the


drinking … man, the guy’s always half lit. He says it’s because of


‘Nam, but come on—he couldn’t have seen any worse than we did above the


thirty-eighth. We—”


He cut off when Jack arrived with the beers.


“Ah, here’s the man we’ve been waiting for.” He laughed as he took the can from


Jack. “‘Mabel! Black Label!’ I see you’re stil stocking the Canuck stuff,


Tom.”


“They know their beer.”


They popped their tops, clinked cans, and drank.


Jack hesitated, then had to ask: “What did you mean by ‘above the


thirty-eighth’?”


Dad shot Mr. Bainbridge an annoyed look, then said, “North Korea and South


Korea are divided along the line of latitude thirty-eight degrees north of the equator. It’s cal ed the thirty-eighth paral el. When the commies in North


Korea tried to take over the south, we were sent in to kick their butts back above the thirty-eighth.”


Mr. Bainbridge wiped his mouth. “Which we did pretty easily, and that should


have been that. But some REMF ordered us above the thirty-eighth, and that’s when it got ugly. I remember—”


“Hold on there, Kurt,” Dad said, raising a hand. Then he turned to Jack. “What


you’ve just heard is a history lesson. Let’s leave it at that.”


Before Jack could protest, or ask what a REMF was, Mr. Bainbridge said, “Hey,


you hear what happened at Al Sumter’s wake?”


With no prospect of war stories, Jack had been about to retreat to his room. But


now he was al ears.


“I thought that was tonight,” Dad said.


“They had a viewing this afternoon. That freeholder, what’s his name?” He


snapped his fingers. “God, you see his name everywhere—”


Jack’s mouth felt as dry as pine needles. Final y he managed to say, “Mister


Haskins?”


He pointed to Jack. “You nailed it!” He smiled at Dad. “Good citizen you’ve got


there. Knows his civics.”


Jack decided to let him go on thinking that. No way could he tel him about


eavesdropping on Haskins and Steve’s father.


“But tel me,” Mr. Bainbridge went on, grinning. “Do you have any idea what the


hel a freeholder does?”


Jack shook his head. “Not real y.”


Mr. Bainbridge laughed. “Neither does anybody else!”


Jack wasn’t interested in what freeholders did. Who cared? He was interested in


the fate of just one of them. He had a premonition he needed


confirmed.


“What happened to him?”


“Keeled over dead, just like Sumter. Couldn’t bring him back. Seems like his


heart just stopped cold.”


Stopped cold … that was how Jack felt. Could it have been the klazen? Was there


real y such a thing?


“Wonder who’l be next?” Mr. Bainbridge said.


“What do you mean?” Jack asked.


“They say deaths come in threes. We’ve had Sumter, and now Haskins. Who’s


going to be the third?”


Jack must have looked as upset as he felt because his dad reached out and gave


his shoulder a gentle squeeze.


“That’s just an old wives’ tale, Jack. And don’t worry, if there’s a third, it won’t be


anyone from this house.”


Jack hadn’t been worrying about that—the idea of anyone in his family dying


was, wel , unthinkable. He’d been worrying about Mr. Brussard. He didn’t want Steve to lose his father. But he couldn’t say that to Dad. How could he


explain something he didn’t understand himself?


He turned to Mr. Bainbridge. “Can I ask you something?”


Both Dad and Mr. Bainbridge looked at him expectantly.


“Go ahead,” Mr. Bainbridge said.


“Have you ever heard of a klazen?”


Both frowned. Dad shook his head. “You asked me about that this morning.” He


glanced at Mr. Bainbridge. “Kurt?”


Mr. Bainbridge shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bel . What is it?”


“Wel … I heard the word and just wanted to know—”


“Hey, wait,” Mr. Bainbridge added. “I knew a Hans Klazen back in Mizzoo.


Dutchman. But that’s the only time I’ve heard the word.” He glanced at his watch. “Oops. Ev’l have dinner ready. Gotta go.”


He polished off his beer and handed Jack the empty. “Thanks for the brew,


sport.” Turning to Dad, he said, “You coming down to the VFW tonight for the

smoker?”

Jack knew that was a code word for the one night each month the VFW showed dirty movies.


Dad shook his head. “Not my thing.”


Mr. Bainbridge laughed. “Deadeye, you amaze me. After al we went through, how can you stil be a prude?”


Dad didn’t smile. “Just the way it is, I guess.”


Jack barely heard him. Deadeye? Mr. Bainbridge cal ed him Deadeye.Wasn’t that what they cal ed marksmen?


7

After their guest was gone, Dad headed upstairs to change out of his suit into something cooler. Jack fol owed.


“Why’d he cal you ‘Deadeye’?” he asked as his father unbuttoned his shirt.


“Did he?”


“Yeah. Does that mean you were a good shot in the army?”


He slipped out of his suit pants and hung them on a hanger. He was wearing light blue boxer shorts beneath.


“We don’t discuss the army or the war, remember?”


“Yes, but—”


“No buts.”


“Walt told me he was in a mental hospital once.”


Dad gave him a sharp look. “When?”


“After the war.”


“No, I mean, when did he tel you?”


“Yesterday afternoon. Why was he in?”


“From what Kurt tel s me, he came home from ‘Nam saying he could heal people with a touch. The VA hospital in Northport diagnosed him as a


paranoid schizophrenic, but harmless. He joined a faith-healing tent show in the South, and Kurt was told some wild story about him real y curing people


until his drinking got him kicked off the tour. They say he’s harmless, but stil … keep your distance.”


Heal with a touch … was that why he wore gloves al the time?


As Jack watched his father hang up his pants, he spotted the metal box on the top shelf of the closet. He’d seen it a mil ion times but now it took on


special significance.


“What’s in the box?” He’d asked before but it never hurt to try again. “Nothing important.”


“You always say that.”


He pul ed off his undershirt and Jack spotted the scar where he’d had his appendix removed.


“That’s because the contents don’t change.”


Jack was sure now that Dad kept his marksman medals and other cool army stuff hidden there.


First chance he got, he was going to sneak a peek.


8

After dinner, Jack turned on the living room television and started switching through the channels. Cable TV had arrived in Johnson during the winter, and


Jack’s family had signed up the instant their street was wired. For as long as he could remember, Dad had been complaining about the poor reception


from their aerial. At last he had a cure.


The real y neat thing about cable TV was the remote that came with the box. Their living room set was an older model where you had to get up and


cross the room if you wanted to change the channel. Al he had to do now was stand back and press a button. He loved it.


An al -news channel cal ed CNN was on, showing some comments by President Reagan fol owed by a story on Hurricane Alicia. Tom stopped to watch


on his way out the door. Jack kept an eye on him in case he had some sort of vengeance in mind for the pistachio episode.


After a few minutes his brother said, “An al -news channel? Whose stupid idea was that? Won’t last a year—I guarantee it.” Then he turned to Jack.


“And don’t think you’re home free, numbnuts. I never forget. Reprisal is on the way. It’l hit when Miracle Boy least expects it.”


Jack waggled his hand. “Ooooh, I’m shaking.”


Tom’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to throw a punch. Jack readied himself for evasive maneuvers.


But Tom only pointed a finger and said, “It’s coming. Get ready.”


As he slammed out the front door, Jack resumed switching channels. He’d decided to skip Steve’s tonight and catch some TV—maybe Cheersand


Taxi.They were always good for a laugh.


“Hold it,” Dad said.


Jack jumped and looked around. He hadn’t heard him come in.


His father pointed to the set. “Go back one.”


Jack did and saw a man in a blue blazer, a light blue shirt, and a patterned yel ow tie sitting at a desk and talking to the camera. His hair looked funny:


He’d parted it just above his right ear and combed it al the way across the top of his balding scalp to end above his left year.


“Who’s that?”


“Ed Toliver,” Dad said, snorting. “Mister Big Shot, tel ing everyone the surefire way to get rich in real estate.”


Carson’s father … that was why he looked familiar.


“Is that a bad thing?”


“According to him, the only sure way is to give him your money and have him invest it for you—and then let him take a hefty cut of the profits.”


Jack stared at the screen. “Wel , he must do pretty wel if they’ve got him on TV.”


Another snort from Dad. “That’s a public access channel run by the local cable company. Toliver gets a weekly slot because he claims his show is


educational. My eye.”


“You want to listen?” Jack prayed his father would say no.


“You kidding? See what else is on.”


As Jack’s thumb moved toward the channel button, he heard Mr. Toliver say, “I’d liketoclosetonight’sinstallmentalittledifferentlythanusual—witha


fewimportantremarksabouttheSeptimusLodge.”


He paused to listen.


“Iknowthiswillsoundstrangecomingfromabroadcastaboutrealestate,butI feelitmydutytospeakout.Thisweekhaspresenteduswiththree


deadmembersoftheSeptimusLodge.Onewasmurderedyearsago,andthe pasttwodayshavewitnessedthesuddendeathsoftwomore.”


Jack spun to face his father. “Was Mister Haskins in the Lodge?”


When his dad nodded, Jack turned back to the screen. Haskins was a member too! And he’d visited another Lodger last night—Mr. Brussard.


“Ithinkwe’relongoverdueforanswersfromtheSeptimusLodge.Diditorany ofitsmembershaveanythingtodowiththemurderofAntonBoruff?


AlthoughthecauseofdeathofmembersSumterandHaskinsappearsnatural,it seemsoddthattheycoincidesocloselywiththediscoveryof


AntonBoruff’scorpse.Idon’tknowaboutyou,butIhavequestions—questions thatwillnotbeansweredifIaloneaskthem.ThatiswhyIamcalling


forapublicinquiryintotheSeptimusLodge.”


“He should know better than that,” Dad muttered.


“Why?” Jack asked.


“Because he’s not going to get anywhere.”


“Inthisdayandageofafreeandopensociety,thereisnoplaceforexclusive andelitistsecretbrotherhoodsliketheSeptimusLodge.Haven’twe


learnedanylessonsfromWatergate?Orarewedoomedforevertogoon repeatingthesamemistakes?ThatiswhyIamcallingontheSeptimus


Lodgetoopenitsrecordstothepublic.Andiftheywillnotdosovoluntarily, thenIamcallingontheBurlingtonCountyDAandthestateattorney


generaltoinitiatelegalactiontoforcethemtodoso.Whathavetheygotto hide?”


Jack turned to his father. “Do you real y think the Lodge has anything to do with—?”


Dad shrugged. “How can I answer that? Nobody except its members knows anything about the Lodge—and there, I believe, lies the crux of Toliver’s


little tirade.”


“He doesn’t like secrecy?”


“No. I think he’d love the Lodge’s secrecy if he was in on it, but he’s not. They gave him a thumbs-down when he tried to join and I don’t think he’s ever


forgiven them.”


That surprised Jack. “But, like you said, he’s a big-shot real estate guy. I’d think they’d wanthim.”


Dad shrugged again. “Everything about that Lodge crew is odd. Membership is by invitation only. But they’re not like some exclusive country club that


admits only folks of a certain religion and a certain color with a bank account of a certain size. They’ve got whites, blacks, yel ows, Jews, Catholics—you


name it. Rich, poor, and everything between.”


“Then what was wrong with Mister Toliver?”


“Who knows?” Dad smiled. “Maybe they don’t like his comb-over.”


Jack wasn’t sure if asking might embarrass his dad, but he needed to know.


“Did you ever try to join?”


“Me? Nah! They tried to rope me in back in the early seventies—used a ful -court press—but I wasn’t interested.”


Jack stared at his father in shock. “They asked you?”


Dad laughed. “What? You say that like you think there’s something wrong with me.”


“No … I just … I don’t know … you never said anything.”


“What for? We went ‘round and ‘round for about a year, them asking, giving me tours of the Lodge—”


“You’ve been inside? What’s it like?”


“A lot of old furniture, odd paintings, and that strange sigil everywhere you look.”

“What’s a sigil?”

“Their seal—the thing over their front door. They must love it because it’s on everything.”


Jack shuddered. “Yeah, even its members.”


“Oh, so you heard about that.”


“Yeah. That dead body we found had one, and I saw it on Mister Sumter’s back after they gave up trying to revive him. Burned into their backs—ugh!”


“If that’s part of being a Lodge member, they didn’t mention it to me. But let me tel you, even if I’d wanted in, that would have changed my mind. That


would have been a deal-breaker.”


“I can’t believe you turned them down. They say anybody who’s somebody is a member.”


Dad smiled. “Wel , maybe I’m as much a somebody as I want to be. Besides, it’s easy to say anybody who’s somebody is a Lodger because no one


knows their membership. They’re secretive as al hel about that and everything else. I mean, if an individual member wants it known that he belongs, he’s


free to tel anybody who’l listen. But if not, it remains a secret guarded like Fort Knox.”


Jack shook his head. “But I stil don’t see why you didn’t join.”


Dad shrugged and headed back toward the kitchen.


“It’s a secret society. Too many secrets can wear you down.”


Wearyoudown?Jack thought after he was gone. Did that mean hehad secrets? How many?


9

“That’s gotta be the suckiest game ever made,” Steve said as they walked through the growing darkness.


“I thought the Pac-ManI got last year was bad,” Jack said, shaking his head, “but this was even worse.”


He and Steve had spent the last couple of hours on Eddie’s Atari trying to make sense of his ET:TheExtra-Terrestrialgame.


Steve waved his arms. “How do you take such a great movie and make a boring game out of it. Boooooring!”


This was the Steve Brussard Jack had grown to like over the past few years—funny, kind of loud, and very opinionated.


“And who designed ET? He looked like a pile of green Legos.”


Steve shook his head. “Enough to drive you to drink.”


Uh-oh.


Jack landed a friendly punch on his shoulder. “Come on. We had laughs without any of that.”


“Yeah, but we’d’ve had more with a toot or two. But it turns out you were right.”


“About what?”


“The booze. My old man asked me today if I’d been ‘sampling’ any of it.”


“What’d you tel him?”


He grinned. “‘Who, me?’”


“Which means you need to stay away from it—unless you’re looking to get busted.”


Jack hated sounding like Steve’s conscience, but he didn’t mean it that way. He was talking common sense here. When you see someone heading for


the edge of a cliff, you warn him.


“I amstaying away. Got no choice. He locked the liquor cabinet.”


“But what if he hadn’t?”


Steve grinned. “Wel then—different story.”


“Wel , then, maybe it’s a good thing it’s locked.”


“Wait,” Steve said, stopping and looking at him. “You think I’ve got some kind of drinking problem?”


Jack hesitated, then went ahead. “Wel , you’ve been hitting it pretty hard.” “There’s no problem, Jack. I just like it, is al . I can stop anytime I want.” Jack decided to back off. He wasn’t getting through anyway.


They resumed their journey toward Steve’s house—maybe tonight they’d make some real progress on the Heathkit—and were just crossing Quakerton


Road when Steve pointed off to their left.


“You see that?”


Jack fol owed his point but saw nothing.


“What?”


“A guy walking toward the lake. Looked like my dad.”


Real y …?


Jack looked again. Streetlights were few and far between in Johnson so it might be a while before whoever it was passed under another.


“Does he go out for walks much?”


“Hardly ever.”


“Probably not him then. But just for the heck of it, why don’t we fol ow and see?”


Because if it was Mr. Brussard, Jack wanted to know what he was up to.


His stomach tingled as they hung a left and hurried along. Tracking an unsuspecting man … kind of cool.


Then a strol ing figure passed under a light ahead.


“Yeah, that’s him,” Steve said. “Let’s catch up.”


Jack spotted a light in Steve’s eyes. He seemed to real y like his dad.


Jack felt a growing sense of disappointment. Mr. B wasn’t doing anything other than walking. Looked like he was heading for Old Town, most likely to


the Lodge.


They were getting closer as he came to the Old Town bridge, but instead of crossing over he veered right.


Interesting.


Quaker Lake was real y a pond, but “lake” sounded better with Quaker. It had a sort of dumbbel shape with the bridge crossing the narrow point. Mr.


Brussard stood on the bank of the south section, staring across at the Lodge on the far side.


As they approached Jack saw him reach into a pants pocket, pul something out, and throw it into the lake.


Whoa! What was that al about?


Jack mental y marked the location of the splash. He might want to come back sometime.


After another moment or two of staring—watching the ripples fade?—Mr. B turned and looked around and spotted them. He looked surprised and


concerned, but his tone was pleasant.


“Hey! What are you two doing here?”


“We were on our way home and saw you,” Steve said.


Before Mr. B could answer, a stocky man with longish black hair strol ed up. They shook hands and Mr. B introduced him as Assemblyman Vasquez.


Vasquez … Mr. B had mentioned him last night. Jack had the impression this was a prearranged meeting because neither seemed surprised to see


the other.


“Mr. Vasquez and I have things to discuss back at the house. What are you boys up to?”


“We’re gonna work on the computer,” Steve said.


“I think I’l take a rain check on that,” Jack blurted. “I’ve got a couple of lawns to do early tomorrow.”


True, but not why he was begging off.


“Later,” he said, and trotted away.


But instead of heading home he began running through the shadows. Sure as night fol ows day they’d be walking back along Quakerton Road. To avoid


it he cut through backyards, setting more than one family dog to barking. Jack wanted to reach the Brussard house first.


10

Now I amacting like a boy detective, he thought as he crouched in the shadows of the Brussards’ yard. How lame is this?


But so what? He had nothing better to do. TV offered only summer reruns anyway.


The man he’d seen with Mr. Brussard last night had dropped dead, and now this Vasquez guy they’d mentioned shows up. He sensed something going


on, but couldn’t say what.


No way he could talk to his folks about it—they’d think he was crazy.


Hey,Dad,there’sthisthingcalledaklazenthat’skillingmembersoftheLodge andMisterBrussardthinkshecanprotectpeopleagainstitbuthe’s


notdoingtoowell.


Right. That would fly—right out the window. They’d be rubberizing his bedroom.


He knew he should mind his own business, but he couldn’t. He told himself he wasn’t out to solve a crime or anything—wasn’t trying to be the Hardy


Boys—he simply wanted to know.


He had a good view of the front of the house from here. He’d watched the three of them enter, and now he saw the two men step into the den. After a


moment or two of hesitation—what if he got caught?—he steeled himself and crept forward to peek through the open window.


Mr. B and Vasquez stood facing each other. Steve’s father cradled an open humidor in one arm and was placing a little red box in Vasquez’s hand.


He heard Mr. B saying, “Wel , here it is, Julio. I tried to help Sumter and Haskins, but I don’t think they believed the klazen was such a real threat. Don’t


you make the same mistake.”


Some of what fol owed was garbled as they turned away from the window—then he heard him say, “… tomorrow at dawn, face your back to the sun,


and use it.”


Use what? Was the “it” in one of those little red boxes? Jack was dying to know.


The rest was garbled as wel . Next thing he knew, Mr. Brussard was leading the assemblyman out of the room. Jack darted back into the shadows and


watched the front door. He saw that strange handshake fol owed by good-luck wishes, and then they parted.


When Vasquez was gone, Jack crept back to the window and stared at the humidor.


What was in it? More little red boxes? And what was in them?


Not knowing was making him crazy.


11

When Jack got home he found his folks sitting side by side on the couch watching HillStreetBlues.After a little smal talk, he pretended to head to the


kitchen for a snack, but instead he sneaked upstairs to their bedroom. He went straight to his father’s closet, stood on tiptoe, and grabbed the box. As he


pul ed it down he heard things clink and thunk within.


Marksmanship medals and what else? Maybe some bul ets or other souvenirs from Korea. He reached for the latch, but stopped.


This didn’t feel right.


Since when was he so nosy, he wondered, feeling the cool metal against his palms. He’d gone from eavesdropping on Mr. Brussard to poking through


his father’s private belongings.


No … the reason this didn’t feel right was because it wasn’tright.


But something inside was pushing him, egging him on to pop the lid and take a look. Just one look—how much could it hurt? He pressed the lid release


and—


Nothing happened.


He pressed again but the lid wouldn’t budge. He fingered the tiny keyhole: locked.


Just his luck.


But the key had to be somewhere. He went to Dad’s dresser and searched the top. No luck. He pul ed open the top drawer, the sock drawer, where


Dad kept a shal ow bowl for odds and ends. Jack found spare change and rubber bands and paper clips, but no key.


And then an idea hit—he knew exactly what to do.


Replacing the box on the shelf, he closed the closet door and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He went straight to the cutlery drawer and pul ed out


one of the black-handled steak knives. It had a slim blade and a sharp point.


Perfect.


He slipped it into his pocket and sneaked upstairs again. Kneeling by the closet with the box cradled in his lap, he worked the knife point into the


keyhole, twisting it this way and that. He did it gently to avoid scratching the metal, but no matter how he angled or wiggled or twisted the blade, the lock


refused to turn. He fought the temptation to give a quick, hard twist—that might bend the blade or, even worse, break the lock. How would he explain that?


Disappointed, he stared at the knife, then at the lock. They made it look so easy on TV.


Wel , no use in sitting here like he was waiting to get caught.


Quickly he replaced the box, angling it just the way he’d found it, then made his way back downstairs as quietly as possible.


Two boxes—Mr. Brussard’s and his father’s—and no idea of what they held. Maybe he’d never know.


Bummer.


12

He didn’t feel like watching HillStreetBlues—for a cop show it was mostly talk—so he headed for his bedroom. He stil had that issue of TheSpiderto


finish. He passed Kate’s room—empty. Same with Tom’s. Both were out. He didn’t know where they’d gone, but he knew it had to be far from Johnson.


Nothing happening here. Ever.


He stopped when he came to his room and noticed the closed door. He always closed it when he was in it, but left it open when he was out. Could have


blown shut, but it was a heavy old hunk of wood and he hadn’t noticed much of a breeze tonight, if any.


Only one possibility: Tom.


Anddon’tthinkyou’rehomefree,numbnuts.Ineverforget.Reprisalisonthe way.It’llhitwhenMiracleBoyleastexpectsit.


Wel , Jack hadn’t been expecting anything tonight. Was this it? Had Tom left a booby trap of some sort before going out?


Jack inspected the doorknob. Nothing on it. He turned it and eased the door open an inch or so. He checked the space above the inside of the door


just in case Tom had set that corny old bucket-of-water-over-the-door trick. He couldn’t see Tom coming up with anything original.


But no—no bucket poised above. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and stood on the threshold, examining his room from a distance.


Finding nothing obvious, he stepped in and looked around.


At first everything seemed fine, but then a strange sensation began to creep over him, a feeling that something was wrong.He couldn’t put his finger on


exactly why or how, but he was sure someone had been in here, poking through his stuff.


Things weren’t quite as he’d left them. At first glance TheSpidermagazine looked right, but then he noticed how its back cover was partial y bent under


it. He’d never leave it like that—not after Mr. Rosen’s warning. He picked it up and smoothed it out. A least it hadn’t left a crease.


He took another look around. He was sure it hadn’t been his mom. Because if she’d messed with TheSpidershe’d have left it in a nice neat pile with


his comic books. She was a neatnik. When she came into his room—or any room, for that matter—she couldn’t help straightening and neatening things


up. Nothing here had been straightened. Touched, yes, but not straightened.


That left Tom.


Careful y, Jack opened his closet door. No problem. He pul ed the string to light the bulb in the ceiling. He was wearing his Vans today, and his black


Converse Al -Stars lay where he’d kicked them off Monday. Or did they? He couldn’t be sure. He picked them up and looked inside to see if Tom had left


him a little surprise. They were stil damp from Monday’s rain, and didn’t smel al that great, but he found nothing hidden inside. The clothes on the


hangers looked pretty much the same, but the top shelf …


Someone definitely had been messing around up there.


He stepped out and dragged his desk chair over for a better look. His comic book col ection was arranged in the usual way, but he could swear he’d left


his Hulksstacked against the left wal . They angled out now. He checked for his jar of leftover pepper juice. Yep. Stil sealed and as red as he’d left it. If


Tom had been up here he’d have taken it for sure and tried to figure out a way to use it on Jack.


But if it hadn’t been Tom, then who?


No. Had to be Tom.


He jumped down and pul ed the chair back. But why hadn’t he taken anything, or left anything?


Maybe whatever he was up to was stil in the planning stage.


As Jack pushed his chair into the desk’s knee hole he noticed how the screen in the window to the right wasn’t seated square in the frame. Never


noticed that before.


Why not?


Because I’m paranoid now, that’s why.


Maybe that was what Tom was up to. What did they cal it? Gaslighting.Right. Do weird little things to someone to make them think they’re crazy, like in


that movie.


But that wasn’t Tom’s style. A bucket of water over the door was more his speed.


Wel then, what was the story with the screen?


Jack stepped over to it and saw that the old-fashioned hook-and-eye latch had popped free. He grabbed the hook, pul ed the screen al the way in, then


latched it.


He looked out into the darkened yard. Their property lay on the north flank of Johnson and backed up to a neighboring cornfield. He couldn’t see the


moon itself, but its light played off the stalks.


Had somebody come in through the window? That somebody could be out there now, watching him. In fact he almost felt as if someone was.


He shook off a chil . Nah. Nothing like that. He was just reading too many weird books and magazines. Why on Earth would any stranger want to sneak into his room? Not as if he kept a fortune in his desk.


Desk—his money from USED and mowing.


He pul ed open his middle drawer and found his neat stack of bil s. Whew!


Get a grip, Jack.


13


A little later he flopped back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Somebody—a somebody named Tom—had been in his closet tonight. And the

only reason for that would be that he was planning something.

Since the best defense was a good offense, Jack figured it might be smart to do some planning of his own. But not something completely different. He


didn’t want to waste a second idea on Tom. Besides, he had al that pepper juice left.


He lay there thinking, scheming, and after a while he felt a smile stretching his lips: the exact same trick, only this time with a new wrinkle.


He went to the kitchen and searched through Mom’s junk drawer—where she kept everything she had no other place for—and found an old eyedropper


he’d seen some time ago. He grabbed that and the pistachios and headed back to his room.


He set up at his desk with the pepper juice and the eyedropper. This time he wouldn’t shel the nuts. Instead, he’d dose them while they were stil inside.


He picked out fifteen good-size nuts with wide-open shel s. Using the dropper, he added a generous amount of juice into each opening. When he was


finished, he placed the nuts on the windowsil to dry—and couldn’t resist taking a quick look outside to make sure no one was there.


Back in the kitchen he replaced the bag of pistachios in the cabinet. Then he wrapped a paper towel around the eyedropper, crushed it under his heel,


and threw the pieces into the trash. No way he wanted anyone—not even Tom—to use that on their eyes.


He returned to his room and dropped back on his bed, thinking about Tom sneaking through his room, just as he’d been in Dad’s. He didn’t like the


idea, just as Dad wouldn’t.


Maybe he should just forget about that box. He couldn’t get it open anyway.


Then he remembered something he’d seen at USED and suddenly the world seemed a little brighter.





1

“Hi, Mister Rosen!” he cal ed as he strol ed into USED. “It’s me, Jack.” “I can hear you,” the old man said as he ambled from the rear. “In China they

can hear you.” He glanced at the clock. “And it’s just after nine. What are you doing here three hours early?”


Jack held up the issue of TheSpiderhe’d finished last night. “I wanted to bring

this back.” He gently and reverently laid it on the counter. “See? The


same condition as when I took it.”


“So it is,” he said as he inspected it, turning it over and back again. “And this

couldn’t wait until noon?”

Jack had thought he could wait but found it impossible. He’d been so anxious to get here he’d had trouble concentrating on the Spider’s exploits last


night.


“I want to buy something.”


Mr. Rosen stared at him over his reading glasses. “Again—it couldn’t wait til later?”


“I suppose it could’ve but I wasn’t sure you stil had it.”


“And what might that be?”


“Let me get it and show you.”


Jack hurried al the way to the very rear of the store to where a beat-up old dresser sat in a corner. He’d been dusting it off last month when he’d pul ed


open the top drawer and found a folded piece of felt containing an assortment of metal doohickeys of varying shapes, al odd. Some of them reminded


him of the picks his dentist used when he was looking for cavities, others were half cylinders made of thin metal and flanged along the top.


Folded within was a smal booklet titled LockPickingMadeEasy.


He remembered thinking at the time how cool it would be to know how to pick a lock, but a quick look through the booklet had convinced him it was too


complicated to learn without spending more time than he cared to.


Last night had changed his mind.


He pul ed the kit from the drawer and brought it to the front where he slapped it on the counter in front of Mr. Rosen.


“How much?”


The old man picked it up, looked it over, then shook his head.


“Not for sale.”


Jack stiffened. “But—”


“If it was for sale it would be in one of the display cases already. You did not find this in a display case, did you.”


“Wel , no—”


“Then it’s not for sale. Put it back.”


Jack had trouble hiding his disappointment. “Then why do you keep it around?”


“Because often—too often, if you ask me, and even though you didn’t, I’m tel ing you anyway—I get locked trunks and furniture and the owners have lost


the key. Now, if the piece is old enough to have a warded lock, no problem—I have a set of skeleton keys that wil take care of those.”


Skeleton key … Jack liked the sound of that.


“But,” Mr. Rosen went on, “if it has a pin-tumbler lock—like that curved-glass china cabinet I’ve got sitting back there—I have to cal a locksmith.” He


frowned. “After a while, that runs into money, so I decided I’d learn how to pick locks myself.”


Jack’s spirits leaped. “You know how?”


Mr. Rosen shrugged. “It took a while, but I learned. Lot of good it does me now.” He raised his hand and held it palm side down. Jack noticed how the


fingers trembled. “A steady hand, you need, and I haven’t got that any longer.”


Jack’s mind shifted into high gear.


“Can you teach me?”


“Why should I do that?”


“So I can open locks for you.”


Mr. Rosen stared at him. “Am I detecting possibly another reason for wanting to be so helpful?”


Jack wasn’t about to admit to that.


“I just think it would be cool to be able to say I know how to pick a lock.”


True—every word.


“I don’t know.” Mr. Rosen put his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he continued to stare. It made him a little uncomfortable, as if the old guy was trying to do a


Vulcan mind meld. “Teaching a teenager to pick locks … that doesn’t strike me as the wisest thing.”


Jack didn’t have to fake feeling offended.


“If you think I’m going to rob somebody, then forget it. You can cal a locksmith instead.”


Jack gathered up the kit and started back toward the rear of the store.


“Wait-wait-wait. You shouldn’t get yourself in a dither already. I didn’t mean that. I meant …” He paused, obviously searching for something to say. “I’m


not sure what I meant. I know you’re a good boy.”


Jack wasn’t so sure he liked the “good boy” bit. He tended to think of himself as kind of cool and detached. He didn’t know if he real y was, but that was


how he wanted to be. At times he feared he was a nerd and didn’t know it. Nerds never knew they were nerdy. Not knowing was a major component of


nerdiness.


Mr. Rosen added, “And I know you’re honest too.”


That puzzled Jack. “How? I could be a master thief.”


He smiled. “I doubt that.”


And then Jack knew, or at least thought he did.


“The money I found!”


Mr. Rosen was nodding. “I may be many things, but careless with my cash I’m not.”


On three separate occasions since he’d started working here, Jack had found bil s lying around. First a single, then a five, and just last week a tenner.


“You were testing me?”


“Of course. Who knows when I might have to leave you in charge? When I return I’d like to find at least the same amount in the til as when I left.”


“You don’t trust me?”


“I do now. I didn’t know you when I hired you. This is your first real job, so it’s not like I could ask for references. So I tested you and you passed. Others


before you have failed.”


“Didn’t Teddy Bishop work here a few years ago?”


Mr. Rosen’s expression never changed. “Not for long. And don’t ask me any more because that’s al I’l say.”

Jack had found the bil s, known they weren’t his, and given them to Mr. Rosen. That was a test? He hadn’t given it a second thought: They didn’t belong


to him.


He’d learned that lesson back when he was eight.


He’d been out on a trip with his folks—couldn’t remember where—and they’d come to an unattended tol booth on an off-ramp from the Parkway. The tol


was twenty-five cents at the time and drivers were supposed to drop the exact change into a basket, which then funneled it down into the coin machine.


Whether by accident or someone’s design, the coin slot had become blocked, al owing the basket to fil with change.


Jack remembered his excitement when he’d seen the overflowing coins and how he’d starting rol ing down the rear window, yel ing, Freemoney!Let


megrabsome!But his excitement had died when his father turned to stare back at him with a disgusted expression. Jack couldn’t recal what he’d said


—something like, Areyoukidding?That’snotyours… or maybe, You’dtake somethingthatdoesn’tbelongtoyou?But that withering look … he’d


never forgotten that look.


Jack smiled up at Mr. Rosen. “So, I guess that means you’l teach me, right?”


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