Jack-in-the-Box
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Part Two
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1986 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL PRESS, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical Underground logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Office.
First electronic edition: September 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3534-5
ISBN-10: 1-60183-534-5
To the kid called Hollywood.
It’s like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It’s like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It’s like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You’re dead, and dead, and dead,
Indeed!
—Anonymous
Prologue
The antique and curio shop was dark. Traffic on the street in front of the small shop had dwindled to only an occasional vehicle. No footsteps of pedestrians tapped on the sidewalk. A light rain misted downward from the low-hanging clouds hovering wet and full and dark over the city. A dog stepped into the doorway of the shop, then suddenly bolted away, sensing danger and something very ominous—very close. The perception was nothing tangible, but terrifying in its unseen evil.
Inside the shop, the lid on a small wooden box sprang open. For a few seconds nothing appeared from the dark depths of the box. Then, like an awakening snake sensing food nearby, a jack-in-the-box slithered upward and out of the box. The toy was very old and the coiled spring in its canvas neck squeaked as the head snaked upward. The fabric neck was discolored and patched. The clown head and face grotesquely ugly, the paint chipped and splotchy. Music played from the tiny music box in the bottom of the case. But the gears were old and worn, the spring weak, so the music was just slightly out of tune— draggy.
The music was the Funeral March.
The ugly head weaved and bobbed back and forth, very slowly, keeping in measure and meter with the somber, melodious dirge. The eyes were not painted on but glass, carefully set into the face of the ugly clown head.
Then the eyes moved. They shifted back and forth, inspecting the surroundings. The glass orbs flickered with an unnatural light and life. The eyes became slippery with moisture. They moved easier now, sliding from side to side.
The lower jaw dropped open with a rusty click, exposing dirty yellow teeth. Real teeth. Carefully removed from the mouths of cadavers and meticulously set in place. The jaws were hinged, enabling the mouth to move up and down. A curious humming sound rolled from the mouth, a harsh, guttural sound. The hinged mouth moved up and down, clicking with each slap shut. The humming changed to an unintelligible grunting. After a moment the grunting turned into understandable words. A macabre little ditty filled the curio shop:
“The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out. The worms play pinochle on your snout.”
The jack-in-the-box laughed and laughed. Ugly. Evil.
The music slowed, becoming more discordant. Slowly the old wire in the fabric neck began to coil, the head sinking back into the cushioned depths of the case. Only the top of the blotched head and the eyes could now be seen. The eyes shifted, making one more inspection of the darkened interior of the shop. The music ground to a halt. The head disappeared into the box. The lid closed.
Unseen fingers moved the brass clasp, locking the top of the wooden case.
Very low, muffled chuckling came from the scarred box.
The jack-in-the-box waited, as it had for many years, in many lands, for someone to come along and see it, like it, and buy it. Take it home, where the evil therein could be unleashed. Somebody would. Someone always did.
Part One
1
“Nora,” the father said to his daughter, fighting to keep a lid on his temper, “why did you break that vase?”
“I didn’t,” the blond-haired, dark-eyed little girl replied, meeting her father’s steady gaze with an unwavering stare. “I told you. It just fell off.”
“The vase just fell off the stand? All by itself?”
“Yes sir. I was just walking by and it fell off.”
The father sighed heavily. It had been a long day. The ride from the city to home had taken longer than usual, the commuters packed in like little canned fishies for much of the way. Then the drive from the station to home. A woman with a station wagon full of kids almost broadsided him, running a stop sign. Then she shot him the bird. He didn’t need this immediately after opening the door. He was glad it was Friday. It had been a good but frustrating week at the law offices of Baxter, Sobel, Turner, and Weiskopf. Now this crap. Again.
Phillip Baxter stared in unbelieving silence at his daughter. As a parent, he knew perfectly well she was lying. She lied constantly. She lied even when the truth would serve her better. But as an attorney, he knew he couldn’t prove she was lying.
“All right, Nora,” he said. “Pick up the pieces, and don’t cut yourself doing it.”
“Why should I pick them up?” she demanded. “I didn’t break the vase.”
“Don’t argue with me, Nora!” He raised his voice. He calmed himself. “I’m not in any mood for it. Just do as I say.”
“Let the cleaning woman do it.”
“The cleaning woman, Nora, is gone until Monday. Now do it!” he snapped at her.
The child smiled, sensing in some small way she had bested her father, winning the verbal battle. Again. “Yes, father. Of course.” Smugly.
He almost slapped her. He had never struck the child and prayed he never would. But this time he came very close. It was all Phillip could do not to hit her.
Phillip turned away and walked into the den of the large, two-story home, located just off the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut. Phillip loved the old house, which
had been completely restored, but that trip to and from the city sometimes was a pain in the ass.
And so was Nora.
Phillip simply could not get close to his daughter. He couldn’t reach her. And God knew he had tried; but he just couldn’t understand her. There was something about the girl—literally about—her; she had wrapped some invisible cloak around her. And Phillip could not unwrap that deception.
Deception, he thought. Interesting description. But very apt.
“What was all that noise in the hall?” his wife asked.
“Nora broke the vase your aunt gave you and then lied about it.”
“I did not!” the girl screamed from the hall. “It fell off. Stop picking on me. Leave me alone. You’re always picking on me.”
Jeanne Baxter looked at her husband. “If Nora says it fell off, it fell off. Accidents happen, Phillip. Why do you always doubt what she tells you?”
Phillip walked to the bar, loosening his tie as he walked. Here we go again, he thought. Ol’ dad is the bad guy. Again. He fixed a drink and turned around, looking at his wife. “Because she lies, Jeanne. Nora. . .” He paused, detecting a slight movement by the archway separating hall from den. Nora was eavesdropping. Again. She was the sneakiest kid Phillip had ever seen. “Take the broken pieces and put them in the garbage, Nora.”
“And be careful, darling,” Jeanne called. “Don’t cut yourself.”
“Yes, mother.”
When Nora was gone, carrying the dustpan as if it contained wet dog droppings, Phillip said, “She lies all the time, Jeanne. I’ve caught her countless times. I’m getting tired of it. The child has a problem, and we’d better be doing something about it. Before it’s too late.”
“That’s ridiculous, Phillip. She’s just a little girl.”
There was no arguing with Jeanne—not about Nora. Nora was the baby, and there would be no more children. After a very difficult pregnancy and a rough time of it in the delivery room, the doctor had told Jeanne that was it. No more.
Tube-tying time.
In Jeanne’s mind, Nora was perfect. Faultless. Phillip picked on her, demanded too much of her. Jeanne could not see that the child was driving a wedge between husband and wife. Deliberately driving the wedge, Phillip thought. And the breech was widening.
Daddy Bad Guy.
“Go easy on the liquor,” Jeanne cautioned him. “We’re going out tonight.”
Phillip had looked forward to a hot shower, several drinks, an early dinner, and a slob evening and weekend. Jesus Christ! he thought. “Where to now?” he asked wearily.
“The Gipsons. The party’s been on for two months. I reminded you about it this morning, Phillip.”
“I forgot. OK? So how about Nora?”
“A sitter is coming over.”
Another one? he silently parried with her. How many does that make? The kid has run off more sitters than there were Indians at Little Big Horn.
Phillip tuned his wife back in. “ . . . better shower and change.”
“Right, Jeanne.” The drive to New Canaan was not bad; it was Matthew and Judy Gipson that Phillip could not abide. Matthew was an overbearing jerk. About five feet seven, he wore the Little Man syndrome on his shoulder like a badge of honor. Matt always had something to prove, was always challenging the other guy’s statement. Phillip had come very close, several times, to jacking Matt’s jaw. Judy was just a plain out-and-out bitch. Period.
“Try to be civil this evening,” Jeanne said, knowing what her husband was thinking. “Judy is my friend. In case you’ve forgotten.”
“How could I forget? Both of you keep reminding me.”
Jeanne rose from her chair. A tall, graceful, very pretty woman in her late thirties. Five years younger than Phillip. Short, honey-blond hair. A great figure. She could wear the same clothes she’d worn in high school, and did not have to work at keeping her figure.
Phillip, on the other hand, had to work to maintain a constant weight. But he had begun to believe it a losing battle. As the troubleshooting partner and head of the law firm, he had to travel extensively and was unable to keep any sort of regular schedule at his health club. Stocky to begin with, if he didn’t work at exercise he would end up looking like a butcher’s block. His thick hair was a light brown. Dark eyes. Big hands, more like a dock worker than a very successful lawyer.
“Are we about to have another of our famous semiserious discussions?” she asked.
“Not if I can help it,” he said.
A loud crash came from the direction of the kitchen. Jeanne rushed from the room. Phillip used that time to freshen his drink. Jeanne returned and said, “The coffee maker fell off the counter. I cleaned it up.”
Phillip knew he shouldn’t say it. But he did. “The coffee maker fell off the counter? All by itself?”
“Nora said the coffee maker fell off the counter. I believe her.”
“Right. Just . . . fell off.” Ignoring the dark looks from his wife, Phillip took his drink and walked out of the den, trudging slowly up the stairs to their bedroom. He tossed his shirt and T-shirt to the floor, knowing it would irritate Jeanne. He deliberately sat his drink on the dresser, without a coaster. He kicked off his shoes like an angry child, the shoes sailing in opposite directions.
“Just fell off the goddamn counter. Jesus!”
Naked from the waist up, Phillip looked at himself in the mirror. He was still, at forty-three, a powerfully built man. He had boxed in high school and college, in the heavyweight division, and had given some thought to turning pro.
“The Fighting Lawyer,” he said aloud, the old memories smoothing out his disposition, tempering his anger. He smiled as he looked around the room. He picked up what he had tossed on the floor and placed a coaster under his glass. It wasn’t Jeanne’s fault, but Nora was putting a big strain on a pretty good marriage.
He closed the bedroom door and stripped, stepping into the shower. He hit the cold water for a full minute, then cut it to hot, soaping away the grit and grime and tension of the city. He went back to cold, the hot and cold waking him, refreshing him.
Drying off, he dressed in underwear shorts and stood for a moment, wondering if this party was the jacket-and-tie type. “Hell with it,” he muttered. He dressed casually in slacks, shirt, and sport coat. He chose a shirt he could wear a tie with, if it came to that. He turned as a knock came at the door.
“Come.”
Phil Jr. stuck his head in and grinned at his father. “Sharp, dad. Sharp.” The boy was built just like his father, right down to his big hands.
Phillip returned the grin. “Yeah. Pretty spiffy for an old man, hey?”
The boy groaned. “Spiffy, dad?”
“How about a cool dude?”
“Go back to spiffy.”
“What do you have on tap for this evening, Phil?”
“Nothing that spectacular. Just going up the street to Alec’s for a party. Spending the night. His parents are going to the same place you and mom are going.”
“OK, boy, you know the rules. No boozing and no left-handed cigarettes.”
“Few beers, probably,” the boy admitted. “But the only one there with a car will be Jimmy, and he doesn’t drink.”
Phillip grinned. “Anymore,” he said.
“Yeah, right.”
Jimmy Hoover was sixteen, a year older than Phil. Jimmy had taken his mother’s station wagon out joyriding when he was fourteen. The wagon and two six-packs of beer. He had plowed into a store front and ended up in the meat department, with lamb chops hanging from his ears and rolls of wieners around his neck. He had been very lucky; he was not seriously injured. Except for his butt when his dad got through with him. Jimmy was president of the local chapter of Students Against Drunk Driving.
“OK,” Phillip said. “You know I trust you. And you know I’m not going to lecture you about drinking and driving when I’m going to be doing that very thing this evening.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool with it, dad.
Dad? Have you ever been drunk?”
“Oh hell, yes. We’d come off patrol in Nam and get blasted.”
“Over there I’d say you had a good excuse for doing it. How about in college?”
“Yes.”
“High school?”
“One time. And that’s the truth. Where is this line of questioning going, Phil?”
“No place in particular. I was just curious. Seems we don’t get much chance to talk like we used to. Back when I was a kid.”
Phillip didn’t smile at that, even though he found it amusing. “Yes, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t know why I work as hard as I do. I’ve got all sorts of junior eager beavers at the office who could be doing that. I’ve been very fortunate, Phil. You know that, don’t you?”
“I guess so. You mean like at the office? Financially?”
“Yes. We’ve built a very profitable law firm in fifteen years. But I’ve been away from home about as much as I’ve been home. I promise you, though, we’ll spend more time together next year.” If I’m alive, that is, he thought.
Now why would I think that?
“Lookin’ forward to it, dad. You and mom have a good time tonight.”
“Same to you, boy.”
Phillip went downstairs, meeting Jeanne on her way up
“They going to feed us at this shindig?” he asked.
“Party foods, lots of hors d’oeuvres. Things like that.”
“Well then, I’d better fix a sandwich. You want one?”
“No. I haven’t been drinking.”
He watched her climb the stairs and wondered why so many cheap shots had been flung about between them—from both sides—over the past two years. Hell, he knew why: Nora. He shook his head and went to the kitchen, fixing a huge sandwich and a glass of milk. He knew that alone would cut way down on his drinking. He could not drink after eating.
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