Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

Phil left just as the sitter arrived. She looked as though she had something to tell him, and Phillip had a pretty good idea what it was about: Nora. He had lost count of the numbers of sitters that had come and gone over the years. Just as the girl was about to speak, Jeanne came down and Phillip waited while the girl received her instructions on how to handle darling precious Nora.

  Stop it! Phillip silently berated himself. You are the girl’s father. You burped her and changed her diapers, held her while she puked, and loved her all the time. Stop thinking of the child as a kind of monster. You’ve just got to convince Jeanne the child needs some sort of counseling, and see to it that she gets it.

  Yeah, he thought. Good luck.

  On the drive to the Gipsons’, Jeanne was silent for several miles. She finally broke the silence. “Nora is convinced you hate her.”

  “Are you serious, Jeanne?”

  She was.

  “That’s ridiculous, Jeanne. Good Lord! You don’t believe that. Do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” She was honest in her reply. “I know only that Nora is a little girl and you want her to behave as an adult. That is very unfair.”

  Going to be a swell evening, folks, Phillip thought. But if we have to hash it out, fine, let’s do it, and to hell with the Gipsons. Both of them.

  “Jeanne, that is just not true. I want the girl to stop telling lies. Honey, face up to something—please? Nora has no friends. None. The other kids don’t like her.”

  “Of course not. That’s because she’s so much smarter than they.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Certainly. Nora is brilliant.”

  “Aw . . . come off it, Jeanne!” Phillip lost his fragile hold on his temper. “Both our kids are bright, yes, but not exceptionally so. Phil maintains a good grade average, sure, but he’s no genius. And neither is Nora. Both their IQ’s are above average, yes. But Nora’s grades are terrible. Dammit, Jeanne, the girl needs some help.”

  “What are you suggesting?” she flared at him, her words icy.

  “Nothing more than she see a good child psychologist.”

  “So now you think she’s retarded!”

  “I didn’t say that, Jeanne.”

  “There is nothing wrong with Nora!” she screamed at him, her words bouncing around the closed car.

  Phillip drove on in silence. There was no point in pursuing the matter any further. Maybe Nora would grow out of it. Perhaps it was just a stage she was going through. But Phillip didn’t believe that. Not for a minute. He had never told Jeanne about the time he’d found Nora torturing a bird that had some how been injured and landed in their backyard. She was enjoying it, laughing as she tormented the bird. By the time Phillip’s revulsion had passed and he reached the child, the bird was dead. He had never confided in his wife that he was sure Nora had been the one who had poisoned their dog, old Lucky. Lucky had never warmed to Nora. Something about the girl caused the dog to shy away. Phillip had never told his wife about the rumors that persisted: the other kids didn’t like to play with Nora because she was cruel and domineering and arrogant.

  There would have been no point in talking with Jeanne about it.

  She would not have believed him.

  But something had to be done, for the child’s sake. Only question was: What?

  * * *

  The party was a raging dud. With the exception of Carl Tremain, Alec’s father, it appeared that Matt and Judy had invited everyone that Phillip could not abide. But he forced a party-goer’s smile and struggled through the evening, making inane conversation and keeping his alcoholic intake very low. Phillip felt the tension between he and Jeanne was going to hit the breaking point before this night was over. And he certainly was not looking forward to that.

  The party—if that was what all the social posturing and jockeying for attention could be called—finally began to wind down. Phillip and Jeanne left as soon as it was socially acceptable to do so.

  Jeanne opened on him before he had backed out of the Gipsons’ drive. “What do you want to do, Phillip?”

  “What are we taking about?”

  “Us.”

  “There is nothing wrong with us, Jeanne. We’ve been married for eighteen good years. I have never been unfaithful, and no one could ever convince me you have. The problem is Nora. You want to hash this out now?”

  “We may as well.”

  “All right. You’ve got to face up to the fact—and it is a fact—that Nora needs a little bit of help. It isn’t some dreadful illness, baby. But it could develop into something very serious. I firmly believe that. Honey, Nora is a human being, and all human beings are very complex. I have my faults, you have your faults, Phil has his. Why can’t Nora be flawed in some minor way? You know she tells lies, Jeanne. You know it. She lies to me, to you, to her brother, to her classmates—notice I didn’t say friends, ’cause she doesn’t have any—and she probably lies to herself. So let’s find out why she lies, and do something about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “You think she’s crazy?”

  Not going to be easy, he thought. “I think she needs help, Jeanne. And it’s our responsibility to see that she gets it.”

  “Do you want a divorce, Phillip?”

  “Who in the hell said anything about a divorce, for Christ’s sake?”

  Jeanne turned her face away and looked out the window. “There is nothing wrong with Nora, Phillip. She is going through a stage, that’s all.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” And she would not speak another word on the long drive home.

  Phillip paid off the sitter and called a cab for the girl. From the look on the teenager’s face, Phillip knew Nora had pulled something. He braced himself.

  The girl said, “I won’t be back here, Mr. Baxter. You’ll have to find another sitter.”

  Same old story, Phillip thought. Good Lord, how many does this make? And why won’t any of them be specific as to what Nora does to drive them away? “All right, Lisa. I want to thank you for all the times you’ve come over. Care to tell me why you won’t be coming back?”

  The girl sighed. “I don’t want any hard feelings, Mr. Baxter.”

  “I assure you, Lisa, there will be no hard feelings.”

  “Nora is . . . well, weird, Mr. Baxter. Frankly, I’m afraid of her. I don’t wanna say no more about it. Here’s my cab. See you, Mr. Baxter.”

  2

  Saturday morning dawned dull and gray, with a sharp wind blowing. An early reminder that winter came quickly after fall. And Phillip wondered if this winter was going to be a bad one. They were overdue.

  Rising early, leaving Jeanne asleep, Phillip dressed quietly in the darkened bedroom. Khaki trousers and flannel shirt and loafers. He went downstairs and fixed coffee. Phil had spent the night at Alec’s, and Jeanne always slept very late on Saturday mornings. Phillip knew that as soon as he left the bedroom, Nora would slip into bed beside her mother. They would remain in bed most of the morning.

  Phillip had deliberately left his briefcase at the office. He had vowed to cut back on the amount of work he brought home. Now he wished he had something to do. Anything to keep him occupied and out of another argument with Jeanne.

  But he felt sure they’d have another blowup before the weekend was over.

  Divorce. Jeanne had actually brought that up. Was it really coming to that? Christ, he wished he hadn’t quit smoking. He could use a cigarette right now. Maybe he’d take up smoking again.

  He had to talk to someone about Nora. But who would it be? For all his talk about friends, Phillip himself wasn’t overloaded in the true friend department. But who was? No one has that many real friends. Lots of acquaintances, but few friends. Sam Sobel and Bob Turner and Ed Weiskopf were his closest friends. College, Nam, then a partnership in what many in legal circles called the hottest and most successful law firm going. Odd, the four recently graduated law students all going into the service together
, landing in the same unit, and all of them making it out alive.

  They had formed their friendship as freshmen, and it had stood the test.

  So it came down to which one Phillip wanted to confide in.

  Sam was recently divorced; a rather messy affair. But Phillip was closest to Sam, a New Yorker born and reared. For all his complaining about the city, Sam would never leave it for a place “out in the wilderness,” as he referred to anywhere outside of New York City. But Sam was a solid guy. You got a problem? Attack it! Maybe he would call Sam. Go into the city and have lunch.

  Bob was the serious and studious one of the quartet. Absolutely no sense of humor. None. Business all the way, all the time. A brilliant lawyer, Bob was steady and prodding and meticulous. A good, solid family man, but not the one to talk with about Nora.

  Ed was a clown. A natural actor and great courtroom lawyer who could have the jury laughing one minute and sobbing the next. But Phillip knew he wouldn’t talk to Ed about Nora.

  It came down to Sam.

  Phillip suddenly felt eyes on him, that itchy feeling in the center of his back. Turning his head, he looked at Nora, standing a few feet away. Damn, she could move quietly. He wondered how long she had been standing there.

  “Morning, honey,” Phillip said.

  “Good morning, father,” she said formally. “I’m going with mother to visit Aunt Morgan in Bridgeport.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. We’ll be back sometime late tomorrow.”

  It was then Phillip noticed the child was fully dressed. Anger reared up white-hot within him. Thank you very much for telling me, Jeanne dear. “Well, then. You two have a good time.” He fought to keep the anger out of his voice.

  “Oh, I’m sure we shall,” Nora said with a smile. She turned and left the kitchen.

  Phillip gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. He stood up, shoving back his chair, turning it over. He left it there. He checked his pockets for keys and wallet and money clip and walked out of the house, slamming the front door. He went to his BMW and backed out of the drive without looking back at the house.

  Had he looked back at the darkened den window, he would have seen Nora standing there, a smile on her lips.

  Phillip drove the four blocks to the Tremain house. Carl Tremain was picking up the morning paper. Phillip braked and stopped, getting out and shaking hands with the man. “Enjoy the party last night?” he asked with a grin.

  Carl laughed. “About as much as you did, Phillip.”

  “Yes. I don’t suppose the boys are up?”

  “Is it noon already?” Carl smiled.

  “I keep forgetting. Look, Carl, Jeanne and Nora are leaving for the weekend and I’ve got to go into the city. Could I impose on you and Betty to look after Phil today?”

  “Oh, sure. Consider it done. Just call when you get back and we’ll send him home.”

  * * *

  “Hey, sarge!” Sam said with a grin as he pulled Phillip into his apartment. Phillip had been promoted to buck sergeant just one week before getting wounded in the leg. Just one month before their tour of duty was over. None of the four partners had chosen ROTC in college.

  Phillip looked around him at the large apartment. “I’m not . . . ah, disturbing anything, am I, Sam?”

  Sam laughed, catching the implication. “Naw. No beauties parading around naked, ol’ buddy. Hey! This is great. Let’s have a slob Saturday. Wander around and get mustard on our shirts and talk about what heroes we were back in our younger days.”

  “Sounds great, Sam. But I have to talk to you. I got a problem. At home.”

  “Oh no, Phillip. Not you and Jeanne?”

  “Well, that’s sure part of it.”

  “Damn, I hate to hear that.” Sam locked up the apartment and they went to a nearby restaurant and ate a huge breakfast. Phillip laid it out for his friend.

  “She’s a compulsive liar, Phillip. But you’ve caught it in time. A child psychologist can work it out. I don’t see the problem.”

  “According to Jeanne, there isn’t any problem. According to Jeanne, Nora doesn’t tell lies. It’s my fault. I’m picking on her.”

  Sam lifted his dark eyes, meeting Phillip’s gaze. “Oh. Well, that muddies the water some, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. She asked me last night if I wanted a divorce.”

  “Phillip, you mind me being terribly blunt?”

  “That’s why I came to see you, Sam.”

  “I think they both need to see a shrink.”

  “You might be right. For damn sure one of them does.” He paused while the waiter poured them more coffee and left. “I’m keeping Phil out of this. But I’m caught up in the middle and dammit, Sam, I just don’t know what to do.”

  Sam sipped his coffee and said, “If you’re looking for an easy answer, there isn’t any, buddy.”

  “I know, I know. Maybe I’ve been kidding myself. Hoping you’d have a ready solution. I don’t know what direction to take.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I made a mess out of my marriage.” He grimaced. “Deliver me from ever getting involved with another princess.”

  Phillip laughed, the laughter feeling good. “It wasn’t all your fault, Sam.”

  “Oh, I know that. But fifteen years right down the drain. Well, it’s ancient history.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “Damned if I know. I can’t find her or them. I know she’s somewhere in the city, but where is up for grabs.”

  “Where do you send her checks?”

  Sam looked up, grinning. They laughed. Together they said, “To her lawyer!”

  * * *

  The jack-in-the-box heard stirrings in the shop. It waited, coiled in the darkness and safety of its wooden home. Its existence had been a long and varied one. Hand-carved and fitted in a small village in Germany, the jack-in-the-box was more than a hundred years old.

  It had traveled from Germany to France to England, then to America. Its history was interesting. And very bloody.

  It was about to get bloodier.

  * * *

  Phillip and Sam roamed about a part of the city, on foot and in taxis. They had a few beers and talked on a variety of subjects, with Phillip keeping his drinking to only a couple a beers, knowing he had to drive back to Connecticut later on that day. Sam, on the other hand, almost never drove, didn’t own a car. He drove only when he was out of town on business. Besides, he was a perfectly awful driver.

  “You and Jeanne always had, to my way of thinking, the ideal marriage.” Sam spoke around a dripping hot dog. His third in an hour. Plus a garlic bagel. And a milkshake.

  Phillip marveled, as always, at his friend’s ability to eat anything he wanted and never gain a pound. “So did I. But when it started going downhill, it snowballed on me.”

  “How about another hot dog?” Sam asked.

  “Good Lord, no! Those aren’t kosher, you know.” Phillip kidded him.

  “Neither was the garbage we ate over in Nam.”

  “True. So, Sam, after mulling it over in that razor-sharp mind, you have any questions or answers?”

  “One question.”

  “What?”

  Sam burped. “You got a Tums?”

  Laughing, the two buddies walked on, with Sam finally stopping in front of a curio shop. “Wanna browse?”

  “Why not?”

  They roamed the store for about fifteen minutes before Phillip stopped in front of a small battered wooden box with a brass clasp holding the lid tightly shut.

  “What is this box?” he asked a clerk.

  “A jack-in-the-box. Very old, sir. Supposed to be cursed. It was made in Germany, about 1875, we think.”

  “What kind of curse?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Germany, huh?” Sam said. “Open it up. Maybe a Nazi will jump out.”

  Sam had no way of knowing just how close he was to describing the evil therein.

  P
hillip looked at him. “Sam, sometimes I worry about that sense of humor of yours. It can really be sick.”

  Sam laughed.

  “May I open the box?” Phillip asked.

  “Sure,” the clerk replied. He flipped the brass switch. The lid fell back. For a moment nothing happened. Then Phillip heard a weird whistling. But it didn’t seem to be coming from the box.

  He looked around. Sam was whistling the old G.I. tune. The words go, “There’s a place in France, where the women . . .” You know the rest.

  “Jesus, Sam!”

  “I’m just trying to cheer you up. I could sing ‘There’s a Rose That Grows in No Man’s Land.’ ”

  “Spare me.”

  “Tin ear,” Sam muttered.

  Then both of them grew quiet as music began to drift out of the wooden box. They recognized it as the Funeral March. Then the grotesquely ugly clown’s head began uncoiling ever so slowly, waving like a snake rising out of the box.

  Phillip could not take his eyes off the macabre-looking clown’s eyes. They seemed to pull at him. “Fascinating.”

  “If you find that ugly toy fascinating, it’s time for me to start worrying about you!” Sam said.

  The clown’s eyes locked with Phillip’s. He heard himself saying, “I want this.”

  “You have got to be kidding!” Sam said. “The stupid thing’s cursed, all right. It makes grown men do crazy things!”

  The clerk quoted him an absurdly high figure. Phillip and the clerk stood for fifteen minutes, haggling over price. They finally settled on a figure. Sam stood by shaking his head and clucking like a mother hen as Phillip paid his bill and requested the clerk put the jack-in-the-box in a box, with a cord, for easier carrying and to avoid breakage. He was charged a dollar for the box.

  “No charge for the twine?” he asked.

  “On the house.” The clerk smiled.

  “You have to be either out of your mind or your tastes run toward the grotesque,” Sam said. “Jeanne is going to take one look at that ugly thing and toss you both out into the yard.”

  “Maybe. But something about this thing caught my attention . . . So what do you have on the burner for this evening?”

  “I got this hot patootie coming over to the apartment for an evening of fun and games.”