Jack: Secret Circles

by F. Paul Wilson

  Tell me about it, Jack thought.

  5

  They beat the storm home by minutes. Jack got in just before his mother and polished off his homework before his father arrived.

  The storm was over by the time he finished dinner. He threw on a green Ea gles sweatshirt and announced that he was going to take a ride over to the Connells’. Which he did: He rode his bike over to their house, into their driveway, and immediately out again.

  Jack hated to lie.

  He rode down Quakerton, dodging puddles as he headed for USED. He noticed half a dozen cars parked in front of the VFW, and spotted Walt standing by the front door. He wasn’t keen on announcing his presence, but he wanted a closer look at him.

  “Walt?” he said, strolling up the walk.

  “Huh?” Walt turned and grinned. “Hey, Jack. I hope you don’t think you’re gettin’ in.”

  In the light from the front of the post Jack could see that Walt’s eyes were still clear. Did that mean he might still be “needed”?

  “Nah. I don’t smoke.”

  Walt laughed. “Good one.”

  More cars were pulling up and parking, more vets strolling into the post. If Mr. Bainbridge appeared and spotted Jack, he’d for sure mention it to his father. Best to get out of sight.

  He waved and headed back to his bike. “See ya.”

  He rode across the street to USED where he parked in the shadows alongside the store. He watched the VFW from those shadows until cars stopped pulling up and the front door closed. Then he stole across the street and around to the rear of the post.

  The backyard was dark, making it easy to find the basement window: He simply followed the light. Someone had opened it for ventilation and air laden with cigar stink wafted out.

  Jack knelt for a look and immediately felt the moisture from the wet grass soak through the knees of his jeans. Crap. He should have thought of that. He bent forward and found himself overlooking the TV set.

  A motley group of mixed ages, shapes, and sizes: World War II vets in their late fifties and early sixties, fiftyish Korean survivors like his father and Mr. Bainbridge, and the Vietnam vets in their late thirties and early forties. They all had one thing in common: They’d made it through the fire of war. The experience bonded them. They seemed genuinely to like each other.

  Smoke layered the air as some stood around smiling and talking, beers in one hand and stogies in the other, while others sat at the tables shuffling cards or counting out chips.

  Boys’ night out …

  He spotted Mr. Vivino in the mix. Jack bet his wife and daughter were glad he was out having a good time and not beating on them. He watched him move through the crowd, grinning, laughing, shaking hands. Mr. Politician. Mr. Freeholder-to-be.

  We’ll see about that.

  Jack backed away a bit when he saw Mr. Bainbridge approach. He bent and disappeared behind the top of the TV. From this angle Jack couldn’t see what he was doing, but guessed he’d opened the cabinet doors. Half a minute later he rose and turned to the crowd.

  “All right,” he said, holding up the cassette boxes. “Which do we want—Pizza Girls or Electric Lady?”

  Jack tried to project his thoughts through the window: Electric Lady … Electric Lady … Electric Lady …

  “Pizza Girls!” someone cried.

  “Yeah!” said another voice. “Pizza Girls!”

  A chorus of “Pizza Girls!” followed.

  No-no-no-no!

  “Pizza Girls it is!”

  Jack suppressed a groan as Mr. Bainbridge popped open the box and pulled out the cassette. He realized then he’d made an awful mistake. He had no idea how long these movies ran. What if they showed only one per smoker? He should have hidden Pizza Girls behind the cabinet with the Electric Lady cassette. Then they would have had to play Jack’s tape.

  And worse, he still didn’t know if his copying had been successful.

  He wanted to kick something.

  6

  Jack paced the dark, narrow aisles of USED. He’d let himself in but left the lights off so he could hang out while the film was running. Every twenty minutes or so he’d sneak over for a peek into the basement. So far, the same every time: some watching the TV and making wisecracks, some playing cards, some in deep conversation. He’d seen Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop, the local lawyer and proud father of blubber-butt Teddy, with their heads together. They looked like they were planning a revolution.

  The one thing Jack could never see was the TV screen, so he had no idea what the men were watching. At this point, he didn’t care. He just wanted it to be over so they could move on to the main attraction.

  He stopped at the store counter and grabbed the flashlight Mr. Rosen kept there. He flashed it on one of the clocks. It had been an hour or so since the film started. He doubted it was over yet but guessed he should check again anyway. Who knew? Maybe the tape would jam and they’d start the next film early.

  Once more he hurried across the street to the rear of the post. As he peeked in the window he spotted Mr. Bainbridge approaching the TV.

  “I think that deserves an Academy Award, don’t you?” he said to his buddies.

  Some laughed, some clapped, some kept talking, and the cardplayers barely looked up from their hands. Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop still plotted in the rear of the room.

  Mr. Bainbridge ducked out of sight, then reappeared holding another cassette box.

  “Okay!” he announced. “For our next Oscar contender we have Electric Lady!”

  This was greeted by halfhearted cheers and clapping from the vets, and a silent fist pump from Jack.

  Yes!

  He settled onto his already wet knees and sent up a prayer that there’d be something on that tape.

  Mr. Bainbridge stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled out the unlabeled cassette. He frowned as he turned it back and forth in his hand.

  Put it in the machine, Jack thought. Just. Put. It. In.

  Finally he shrugged and did just that.

  “Okay! Electric Lady—here we go!”

  A few scattered claps amid the chatter and then he stepped to the side and watched. Jack couldn’t see the screen, only Mr. Bainbridge’s face. But soon enough, if Jack’s copy had been successful, that face would tell the story.

  He studied his expression. The smiling anticipation changed to a puzzled frown. But that didn’t mean much—if Jack’s tape was blank, that was how he’d react.

  Jack watched the frown deepen as the squinty eyes widened and the cigar slipped from loose lips and fell to the floor.

  Jack tightened his fists. He could think of only one thing that would cause that sort of reaction.

  The video had transferred.

  And then he heard the voice from the TV’s speakers.

  “I’m sick of it, goddammit! Sick of it!”

  Mr. Bainbridge gaped. “What the … ?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to—”

  “Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it! Stop-it, Daddy!”

  He wasn’t the only one noticing something wrong. A couple of the men who were seated up front lost their grins as the reaction began to spread through the room like ripples from a stone dropped in a still pond.

  “Sally!”

  One of the cardplayers noticed and nudged the guys on either side. A player with his back to the screen turned. And then farther into the room people stopped talking and stared at the screen. Gradually the room became a silent sea of stunned faces.

  “Don’t you ever hit me!”

  Only Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop, against the back wall, continued talking. Eventually they must have realized something was wrong because they clammed up and looked around.

  “Wha—? Goddammit, someone’s at the window!”

  Jack focused on Mr. Vivino’s face … watched the blood drain from it as his eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.

  “What the hell is that?” he shouted.

  “Well, if I didn’t know better,” one
of the cardplayers said, “I’d say that was you beating the crap out of Cathy.”

  Mr. Vivino let out a cry like an enraged animal and charged the TV with his arms extended before him, fingers curved into claws.

  “Gimme that tape! Gimme that tape!”

  But he never reached the set. Hands grabbed him and stopped him. He fought, he twisted, but a grim-faced pair of his fellow vets held him back from the machine.

  “Who did this?” he shouted. “Who’s the Peeping Tom son of a bitch who did this?”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” said Mr. Bishop, pushing to the front. “I only caught the end there. What’s this all about?”

  “Rewind it, Kurt,” someone said. “I missed it too.”

  Mr. Bainbridge bent and reached forward. “I could do with another look myself. Not sure I believe what I saw the first time.”

  “Don’t!” Mr. Vivino cried, trying again to struggle free. “It’s a lie! It’s a fake!”

  When Mr. Bainbridge straightened, he had his cigar again. He stepped back to join the rest of the vets who’d crowded forward in a tight, three-deep semicircle before the TV, their eyes fixed on the screen.

  Jack didn’t need to see. The scene was burned onto his brain. The voices conjured the visuals.

  Mrs. V in the painful armlock … slammed against the wall …

  The vets’ faces became grimmer.

  Sally rushing up … getting knocked down.

  Gasps from some of the vets.

  Aldo Vivino kicking his wife.

  The hardened vets wincing.

  Finally the angry shout about seeing someone at the window … end of video, end of story.

  Dead silence in the room as all turned shocked gazes toward Mr. Vivino.

  Finally Mr. Bainbridge spoke: “Al … Al, my God, you kicked Cathy? Kicked her? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Mr. Vivino wrenched free and lunged toward the TV, screaming, “Gimme that tape! Gimme that goddamn tape!”

  Mr. Bainbridge swung a fist that caught him in the gut. Jack winced as the man doubled over and sank to one knee.

  “I don’t think so,” Mr. Bainbridge said.

  After catching his breath, Mr. Vivino rose to his feet. He was pale and sweaty and looked somehow smaller as he licked his lips and darted quick looks left and right.

  “Hey, guys, it’s not what it looks like.”

  “I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Mr. Bainbridge said in a voice dripping with scorn. “We’re soldiers, Al. Women and children are noncombatants.”

  This brought a chorus of agreement from the other vets.

  Jack realized that they had started off the eve ning as comrades in arms, good-buddy veterans of foreign wars. That had changed. They were now husbands and fathers, and they were sickened and angry.

  “And you know what?” Mr. Bainbridge said, getting in Vivino’s face. “You’re not going home to night. ‘Cause if you do, you’ll probably take it out on Cathy. So Evelyn and I are going over, and we’ll stay there all night if we have to.”

  Mr. Bishop stepped forward. “I cannot believe this, Al. I cannot believe it!”

  “Hey, you know how it is.”

  Mr. Bishop reddened. “I know no such thing. I’m going to help Cathy get a restraining order against you. And as for that tape, I’m delivering it to dye-fuss first thing tomorrow.”

  Dye-fuss? Jack thought.

  Then he got it: DYFS—Division of Youth and Family Services. They dealt with cases of child abuse.

  “No!” Mr. Vivino wailed. “You can’t do this!”

  Jack had heard enough. He rose, brushed off his knees, then his hands.

  What was that expression? My work here is done.

  He felt strange. He hadn’t known if his plan would work, but he’d expected to feel happy and satisfied if it had.

  Well, it had worked out perfectly: Mr. Vivino’s abuse had been exposed and his name was mud. He wouldn’t be beating on Sally and her mom anymore.

  So why didn’t he feel great?

  7

  Jack’s mind was elsewhere as he pulled his bike out from beside USED. He was just starting up Quakerton Road when he was startled by a screech of tires. He looked up and saw the grille of a Bentley inches from his front wheel.

  The window rolled down and a familiar voice spoke from within.

  “You almost dented my car.”

  Jack walked his bike to the window. “Sorry, Mister Drexler.”

  His sharp-featured face floated into view. “Even worse, if you’d broken a leg I’d have to find a new groundskeeper.”

  Groundskeeper … was that what he was?

  “Wouldn’t want to put you to extra trouble.”

  “Speaking of groundskeeping, I’m awaiting an invoice for your ser vices.”

  “Invoice … is that like a bill?”

  The thin lips curved ever so slightly upward. “Very much like a bill. In fact, exactly like a bill.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Jack had never billed anyone in his life, but he was sure his father would know what to do.

  The window rose and the car glided away.

  As Jack watched it go he realized the Lodge was empty now—or at least would be for a while.

  And it had no alarm system.

  And the pyramid was probably back in its spot on the mantel.

  And his luck had been running high today.

  Still, he hesitated. A big step. Sneaking into the Lodge meant breaking the law, risking arrest. But he and Weezy had as much right to that pyramid as anyone—maybe more. And maybe getting it back would take Weezy off the emotional roller coaster she was riding. If nothing else, she’d stop talking about it. That would be a relief.

  Do it, he thought.

  If not now, when? He was feeling nearly invincible tonight.

  Now … it had to be now.

  He headed back to USED for the lock-pick kit.

  8

  Thunder rumbled as they approached the rear of the Lodge.

  “Why are we walking?” Eddie whined. “That’s why God gave us bikes—so we don’t have to walk.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Weezy said, “that we can’t leave three bikes outside.”

  “Oh, yeah. Duh on me.”

  Jack led the way. He’d been here only a little while ago to pick the lock. He hadn’t said anything about that because he didn’t want word of that particular skill getting around. He could have sneaked in and found the pyramid on his own—if it was still here—but he’d made a deal with Weezy.

  … we’ll do it together …

  “See?” he said. “All the lights are off and the car’s gone.”

  “But how do we get in?”

  “I don’t know.” He pointed to the back door. “Maybe they forgot to lock up. You heard Mister Drexler: No alarm system because why would anyone want to rob the place? Didn’t seem to worry much about a break-in. Try the door.”

  Weezy grabbed the knob, twisted, and the door swung inward.

  “What?”

  Jack looked first at Eddie, then Weezy. He couldn’t make out their faces in the darkness.

  Then lightning flashed. Instinctively he jumped, but the flash illuminated their uncertain expressions.

  “Hey,” he said as thunder followed. “We’re here. We’ve come this far. The least we should do is take a quick look to see if the pyramid’s inside.”

  “Okay,” Weezy said, her voice tight. “Let’s do it.”

  Jack turned to Eddie. “You with us?”

  A long pause, then, “Okay, as long as you can guarantee we’re not gonna see Gargamel in the white suit.”

  “Mister Drexler?” Jack laughed. “I can pretty much guarantee it.”

  “All right. But if I go in with you guys, it’s just for a look because, I mean, I don’t know any kid who’s been inside the Lodge.”

  “But you can’t blab about it,” Weezy said. “This isn’t legal. You could get us all in trouble.”
>
  “I won’t say a word. Just want to go inside so I can say—just to myself and nobody else, okay?—that I’ve been inside. But when it comes time to snatch back your baby pyramid, I’m outta here. Don’t want anything to do with that.”

  “Fine. What ever. Let’s get in and get out and get home.”

  Jack stepped inside and turned on the flashlight from USED. He held the door for Weezy and Eddy, then closed it behind them. The other two each had flashlights of their own and turned them on.

  “Keep the beams toward the floor,” Jack said. “We don’t want anyone spotting the light.” Lightning lit the windows as he started into the kitchen.

  “That’s it,” Eddie said. “I’m done.”

  Jack turned to him. “What?”

  “I’m here, I’m inside, that’s all I wanted. You two can go get your pyramid. I’m history. See you at home.”

  With that he turned and slipped out the back door. It had started to rain.

  Weezy seemed to waver, then said, “Let’s go.”

  He led her to the front room where he swept his flash beam across the mantel, stopping when it found the pyramid.

  Lightning lit the room as he heard Weezy gasp.

  “They put it back! It’s here! It’s really here!”

  “It sure is.” When Weezy didn’t move, just stood there staring, he added, “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours.”

  She handed him her flashlight, and he stuck it in his back pocket. Then he watched as she took the pyramid from the mantel and cradled it in her arms like a baby. She gazed down at it a moment, then looked up at Jack. Were those tears in her eyes?

  “I can’t believe it,” she said in a hushed tone that seemed to teeter on the edge of a sob. “It’s back … I’ve got it back. And they’re never taking it away again.”

  Fine with Jack. The sooner they were out of the Lodge, the better.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Feeling jubilant, he trained his flash beam on the floor and led Weezy toward the back door. They’d done it. No doubt about it—today was his day.