Mr. Vivino cleared his throat. “His term was about to expire this year so I’m running to take his place. I’m here to ask your folks for their support.”
“And you’ve got it, Al,” Jack’s father said, rising from his chair and extending his hand.
No surprise there. His father and Mr. Vivino—his first name was Aldo but everyone called him A1—were both members of the local Veterans of Foreign Wars post. Dad’s war had been in Korea. Tony’s father was a Vietnam vet like Walt. They’d both come back in one piece—at least physically—but Mr. Vivino worked for an engineering firm in Cherry Hill while Walt … well, Walt spent his time being Weird Walt.
Jack’s dad was trim, with blue eyes and thinning hair. He held his steel-rimmed reading glasses in his free hand. Jack realized the rising, the handshake, and the promise of support were a subtle heave-ho. Dad was probably hungry.
“Mine too,” Mom said.
Jack could tell she wanted to get dinner on the table.
Thankfully Mr. Vivino picked up on it.
“Tom and Jane, I appreciate that.” He shook Mom’s hand. “I’d be honored if you’d allow me to put a sign up on your lawn.”
“Sure,” Dad said. “Be our guest.”
Jack could almost hear him thinking, Anything. Just go.
Mr. Vivino shook Jack’s hand again, then led Sally out by the hand.
“Bye, Sally.”
Sally looked up and gave him a little wave as she followed her father out. Still no smile.
Jack wished he knew a way to change that. He wished something else …
“I wish I could vote,” he said as he followed his folks to the kitchen.
“So you could vote for Al?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he’s Tony’s father.”
Or should that be was Tony’s father? he wondered.
He guessed he’d always be Tony’s father.
“I guess that’s as good a reason as any to vote for a freeholder. There’s five of them, so any bad apple that happens to land in that barrel can’t do much damage.”
That brought Jack up short.
“You think he’s a bad apple?”
Dad laughed. “Not at all. No, I’m just saying the freeholder system tends to keep things running smoothly. I think Al will be a good addition.”
“Why?”
“Well, partly because of Tony. He was a good kid, and I think that says something about his father.”
Jack felt his throat constrict. He hadn’t thought about Tony in a long time.
He remembered the long summer days they’d spent in the Vivinos’ backyard pool, the two of them cannonballing while an ever-smiling Sally paddled around in her floater vest.
Good times.
Then he remembered the wake and seeing Tony in his coffin looking like a shrunken wax doll.
“You miss him, don’t you,” Dad said.
Jack nodded, unable to speak around the sudden lump in his throat.
Yeah, he missed Tony. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much.
12
That night he dreamed of Tony’s wake.
Lightning strobed the sky as he ran through the rain to the front door of the funeral home.
Inside, he pushed through a crowd of adults in dark suits and dresses. They were drinking and talking and laughing while waitresses passed among them with trays of canapés.
What’s going on? he thought. This isn’t a party. A kid is dead, robbed of his entire life. How can you be happy? How can you laugh?
Worse than that, they were ignoring Tony.
Jack wove through them until he came within sight of the coffin. The lights flickered as the storm lit and rattled the windows. He stopped, afraid to move closer. But he forced one foot in front of the other until he was standing by the kneeler before the coffin.
The top was open and Tony lay within, dressed in his Little League uniform with his first baseman’s glove and a ball tucked in beside him. He’d loved baseball.
Another flash and the lights went out. The people behind Jack went on talking and laughing as if nothing had happened. But Jack stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move.
Still another lightning flash, but this one kept flickering, revealing Tony sitting up in the coffin and staring at him with pitch-black eyes.
“Save them, Jack. I can’t do it, so you’ve gotta. Save them.”
And then the lights came back on, but not in the funeral home—
—in Jack’s bedroom.
He blinked up at his mother and father standing over his bed.
“What? Where?”
“That must have been one hell of a nightmare,” his father said.
“Nightmare?”
“Screaming like a banshee.”
“Are you okay?” his mother said, concern large on her face. “You sounded so frightened.”
“I guess I was. Tony was in the dream.”
Dad nodded. “No stretch as to why you were dreaming about him.”
Yeah. Of course. Mr. Vivino’s visit. But what had Tony meant?
“Save them, Jack. I can’t do it, so you’ve gotta. Save them.”
Save whom?
SUNDAY
1
Jack wheeled his bike past the VIVINO FOR FREEHOLDER sign stuck in his front lawn and cruised over to North Franklin. He had no destination in mind, just wanted out of the house for a while before it started raining again. It had rained during the night, so no sense in trying to cut the sodden mess that the lawns would be. He simply rode and thought about his dream last night and the whereabouts of the little black pyramid and what the canvas boss had said about a missing kid in Michigan.
As he approached Quakerton Road, he wondered if Cody had been found. Mom hadn’t mentioned him. He supposed someone would have called her, but you never knew. Cody’s folks might be so happy to have him back they hadn’t got around to spreading the word.
No harm in hoping, he guessed.
But hope was dashed when he reached Quakerton and saw Mrs. Bockman tacking a flyer to one of the utility poles. She wore a pinkish warm-up and sneakers.
He coasted up behind her and got a look at the poster: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? across the top, and a picture of a smiling, blond-haired kid below—the same photo Tim had shown him yesterday.
Jack didn’t know what to say besides, “Can I help?”
She started and turned. Her brown hair was messy, like she hadn’t combed it in a while, and her eyes were baggy and bloodshot like she’d been crying instead of sleeping.
“Oh, Jack,” she said in a wavery, high-pitched voice. “Have you seen him? Have you seen my Cody?”
“No, ma’am.” He hadn’t meant to say “ma’am”; it had simply popped out. Maybe because here and now, speaking to this devastated woman, it seemed right. “I haven’t. But I can help you post those flyers.”
She hesitated. “I … I don’t know. I need to be doing something.”
“Well, you can be looking for him while I’m doing this. I’ll put two on every pole in town—one facing each way.”
More hesitation as she stared at him. Then, “You were always nice to Cody, Jack. He looked up to you.”
Looked … that sounded like she didn’t think she’d get him back.
“We’ll find him. Let me post those.”
“Okay. Every pole in town, both sides of the highway, right?”
“Right. Every pole.”
She seemed relieved. “Thank you, Jack.”
She finished posting the one she’d been working on, then gave him her hammer, a container of tacks, and a box of flyers.
Jack hauled it all back to the Connell house and asked for help. Weezy was on board in a flash. Eddie was griping about not being able to find his Star Trek electronic phasers—he’d wanted some target practice—but even he volunteered. They got hammers from their father, split the flyers and tacks with Jack, and were on their way. Weezy took the
south side of Quakerton, Eddie the north—because he was already there and wouldn’t have to ride far—and Jack took Old Town.
As he passed the Lodge he had an idea. He coasted up the walk and knocked.
The man called Eggers, dressed in his all-purpose dark uniform, answered. He didn’t know if Eggers was a first name or last. Not sure of his exact function either. He acted as doorman and chauffeur, but Jack wondered if he might be some sort of bodyguard too. He certainly looked powerful enough.
“May I help you?”
“Can I speak to Mister Drexler?”
Jack tried for another view of the mantel as Eggers did a Frankenstein-monster half turn and stepped back, but no luck. Mr. Drexler appeared in the doorway immediately, dressed in his usual immaculate white suit and tie.
“Yes, what is it? I hope you’re not collecting for anything.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about a missing boy.”
Mr. Drexler’s eyes turned to ice. “I’ve heard about it. Terrible thing. You can’t possibly think I know anything about it.”
Jack peeled off about a dozen flyers and held them out.
“No way. Why would you? I’m just helping find him. We’re hanging up these flyers and I wanted to know if you’d take some.”
Mr. Drexler stared at them as if they might carry germs.
“And do what with them? Send Eggers around with a hammer and nails?”
“No, I just thought you might be able to hand them out to some of the Lodge members.”
“This is not the VFW or the women’s club. We do not have smokers and don’t find tea parties the least bit entertaining.”
Whoa. Talk about a cold guy. But Jack wasn’t going to back down. He straightened his arm, pushing the flyers closer.
“Well, just in case you see any of your Lodge brothers. You know, just to help out. He’s only five.”
Mr. Drexler hesitated a second, then snatched the stack from Jack’s hand.
“Very well. If I see any. And now, good day.”
Some people …
As the door began to close, Weezy’s words from last night popped into his head.
… promise me you’ll find a way in, because if you think I’m going to drop this, you’re wrong …
And with them, an idea.
“Who’s doing your lawn?”
“At the moment, no one.” Mr. Drexler gave him an appraising look. “It occurs to me that I have on occasion witnessed you riding your bike around town trailing a lawn mower behind you. From that may I infer that you cut lawns?”
“Um … you may. Want me to do yours?”
“The local Lodge’s landscaper—former landscaper, I should say—has been released for incompetence. More accurately: inattention. I believe in hiring locally, so … are you capable?”
Jack did a quick mental calculation. Lots of grass around the Lodge. Easily three times the average lawn, maybe four. What to charge … ?
“Absolutely … but it’s a lot of property …”
“We’ll pay you fifty dollars a week until frost halts growth. Is that sufficient?”
Sufficient? Was he kidding? Jack charged five bucks for the average forty-five-minute mow. He didn’t know what to say.
Mr. Drexler sighed. “Very well, sixty dollars, but that is my final offer.”
Jack found his voice. “Deal.”
“Excellent.”
Mr. Drexler’s cold blue eyes fixed on him, and for an instant Jack felt like a field mouse being eyed by a hawk. But the feeling vanished almost as soon as it came.
Rich! He was going to be rich! Plus he’d have lots of opportunities for another peek at the mantel.
“I hope you understand,” the man added, “that includes weeding the flower beds and such.”
“Weeding? Sure.”
For sixty bucks, of course he’d weed.
“Good. Now that we’ve come to terms on that—you drive a hard bargain, my boy—good day.”
He closed the door and Jack walked away thinking about how flush he was going to be and how this was a foot in the Lodge’s door. He was sure, given enough time, he could work his way inside.
He moved on and attached a flyer to every pole and tree along every street in Old Town. A lot of them already sported posters for the Taber & Son Circus. As he tacked up Cody’s picture next to one of those he thought of the canvas boss from last night and what he’d said.
“Again?”
Had there been a connection between the circus and the boy who had gone missing in Michigan? If so, there definitely could be one with Cody’s disappearance.
But what could he do? He was a fourteen-year-old kid. He could do only so much. Tacking up the flyers was something, but didn’t seem enough.
Had to be something else. If so, he’d find it.
2
Every so often—like today—Jack got a chance to pick a lock.
After the posters were up, he rode down to USED to see if Mr. Rosen needed him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” the thin old man said as Jack came through the front door. “We’ve got a little work to do.”
Jack had begun working here last spring. USED sold pretty much anything and everything, as long as it was used. Well, not appliances or anything like that, but all sorts of furniture, books, magazines, toys, dishes, glassware, clothes, what ever. Jack cleaned and dusted, rearranged, and manned the cash register whenever Mr. Rosen took one of his naps in the back room.
A mahogany cabinet stood on gently curving legs near the front counter. Jack hadn’t known mahogany from pine when he started, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to identify all the different furniture woods.
“A fellow brought it in yesterday, just as I was closing,” Mr. Rosen said. “He wasn’t asking an arm and a leg, so I bought it. A nice piece.”
“Nice finish.”
Jack spotted a few nicks and scratches, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to fix those.
The old man pointed to a spot by the left wall.
“I cleared a space for it over there. Help me move it already.”
Together they slid it across the floor. Just as they were shimmying it into place against the wall, the street outside lit up, followed by a rumble of thunder.
“Swell,” Jack said. “Another storm.”
At least his bike was sheltered under the store’s front overhang.
Mr. Rosen stepped to the front window and stared out.
“Like cats and dogs it rains. Where will it all go?”
“The lake?”
He turned and looked at Jack. “And after that?”
Jack shrugged.
“I have another job for you,” he told Jack as he returned to the cabinet and tugged on its door handles. “It’s locked and they lost the key. I’ll need you to open it for me.”
Jack put on an evil grin and rubbed his hands together.
“Goody!”
“You like this lock picking a little too much, I think.”
“Like it?” Jack said as he headed toward the rear where they kept the kit. “I love it.”
And he did. A fair number of the old pieces came locked with no key. Mr. Rosen used to pick the locks, but his hands had become too shaky for the fine manipulations necessary. So this past summer he’d taught Jack the technique. Every lock Jack conquered was a thrill.
“A Willie Sutton I’ve made.”
Jack returned with the kit. “Who’s Willie Sutton?”
“A famous bank robber. When he was asked why he robbed banks, he supposedly said, ‘Because that’s where the money is.’”
Jack laughed. He kind of liked that.
The day grew dark outside as he inserted a tension bar into the cabinet’s keyhole and began caressing the lock’s internal pins with a slim, curved-tip rake. The lock hadn’t been opened in a long time and the pins resisted movement—happy right where they were. He was just coaxing them to move when three things occurred almost simultaneously:
A sun-bright
flash, followed instantly by a deafening crackle-roar, and then darkness as the lights went out.
Mr. Rosen groaned. “Another power failure already!”
“Swell,” Jack said, feeling around on the floor—he’d jumped and dropped the rake.
He found it and was about to go looking for a flashlight when he realized he didn’t need light. Once the tiny tools were in the keyhole, the job was all feel.
He went back to work, teasing the pins into motion. When they were all in place, he twisted the tension bar and was rewarded with a solid click.
“Got her!”
He grabbed the knobs but didn’t pull.
“Good boy,” Mr. Rosen said, approaching with a flashlight. “Wait for me.”
This was a game they’d begun to play and, next to the actual picking of the lock, Jack’s favorite part. Who knew what lay within a long-locked cabinet or drawer? A skull? An ancient, forbidden book like the Necronomicon? A clue to an unsolved crime? So far he’d been frustrated, but you never could tell. The latest could always hold a surprise.
Mr. Rosen trained the beam on the doors.
“All right. Go ahead.”
Jack pulled on the knobs and swung the doors open to reveal …
Empty shelves.
“Bummer.”
The overhead lights came on just as the front door chimed. Jack went to see who it was. He found a black-haired man in a white suit standing by the counter tapping his silver-headed black cane on the floor. Eggers stood by the door.
“Mister Drexler,” Jack said, pretty much at a loss for anything else to say. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I came for my tango lessons. Why else would I come to a shop called USED?”
“I’m … sorry?”
He smiled. “A terribly lame attempt at absurdist humor, I’m afraid. But you did ask a rather inane question.”
Jack thought about that, then nodded. “I guess I did.”
“I’m glad you see that. Please try to avoid such in the future.”
“I’ll do my best. Anything I can help you with?”
Jack: Secret Circles Page 6
