Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  Phillip slowly nodded his head. “Yes. And the fits she threw about going to church. What about this changing birthmark, son?”

  “It’s a number, Dad. A perfect six.”

  “A six?”

  “Yes sir. That’s it. I really didn’t pay that much attention to it at first. I just figured it was caused by her growing, that’s all.”

  Phillip sat quietly, trying to bring to mind what it was about the number six that refused to come to the fore in his mind. It would come to him. Something in the Bible, he felt. But he’d never been much of a student of the Bible. To tell the truth, he wasn’t all that sure he believed very much of it.

  All that was about to change.

  “Phil, your mother and I have been remiss in some ways bringing you up. We didn’t give you a solid church base. I apologize for that. Looking back, I can see where we leaned toward your sister’s wishes. Catered to her whims. But from what you’ve told me, I can guess that you’ve given your sister a lot of thought. You really believe your sister is possessed?”

  “Yes sir. The other kids are afraid of her. Animals don’t like her. We can’t keep sitters for very long. They’re afraid of Nora. One told me she can make. . . well, things . . . happen.”

  “What kind of things, son?”

  “They won’t talk about it. Adults don’t seem to trust Nora. I’ve noticed that. And she is never invited to kids’ parties. Never.”

  “I’ll agree with what you say. But none of that makes your sister a prime candidate for devil possession.”

  “I know that, dad. It’s just a . . . feeling I have. I’ve heard other kids talking. About Nora. Alec’s little sister, for one. I’ve overheard her talking to her friends. They hate Nora, dad. They really hate her. They all say she’s cruel and bitchy, she’s selfish, she’s mean—God, name it, Nora’s been called it.”

  Phillip sighed. He could go along with his son believing Nora mentally ill; he believed that himself. But possessed by the devil? No. He didn’t believe in all that baloney. Made for good books and movies, but it ended there.

  Didn’t it?

  Sure it did! What in the world was he thinking?

  “What do you think about your sister’s turnaround?” Phillip asked.

  “It’s an act,” the boy answered quickly and bluntly. “She’s faking it. She probably overheard you and mother talking about sending her to a psychologist. She’s playing with you, dad. She knows her mother will believe anything she says. She has mom wrapped around her little finger. It’s you she knows has seen through her act.”

  Sharp boy, the father thought. Then something terrible in thought and scope struck Phillip. He tried to push it out of his mind. It would not leave. He stirred in his chair. He willed the awful thought to leave him. It remained. He shook his head, refused to accept it.

  “What are you thinking, dad?”

  “That little Donner girl. What was her name? Carla. That’s it.”

  The boy’s smile was not pleasant. “I was wondering when you’d put that together.”

  “Son . . . ?”

  “That was no accident, dad.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying, Phil? Carla Donner fell down the stairs.”

  “No sir. I will believe to my dying day that Nora pushed her.”

  Suddenly it was as if Phillip had been hurled forward in time. Scenes flooded his mind. He tried to push them out. They would not leave. It was cold in his mind. Dead, stark winter. Snow on the ground. He was hitting Jeanne with his fist. Phil was running toward him, shouting and cursing at him. The scene changed to some time later. He was stalking his son through the big house. Phil had a pistol in his hand. The father cornered the boy. Phil raised the pistol . . .

  The scenes were gone.

  Phillip could not remember any of them.

  He came to the defense of Nora. “You have no right to say those things, Phil. You have no proof.”

  “Dad, there were three kids playing in the Donner house. Carla, Jenny Wright, and Nora. Carla hated Nora. A lot of kids remember her saying that. Including Jenny. And if mom would admit the truth, Nora told her she’d like to see Carla dead. I heard Nora tell mom that. Mother has just conveniently forgotten it. Mrs. Donner stepped outside for two minutes at the most. When she got back, Carla was lying on the floor at the base of the stairs, her neck broken and her skull fractured. She died about twenty-four hours later.”

  “And Jenny was so traumatized by the . . . accident, she has never spoken a word since that day,” Phillip picked it up. “The child is institutionalized.”

  “That’s right. But none of it seemed to bother Nora, did it, dad?”

  For a fact, Phillip thought, his daughter had shown no signs of remorse or grief. “No, it didn’t, Phil.”

  “Dad, what ten-year-old kid keeps her room as spotless as Nora keeps hers? She has made her own bed, cleaned up, dusted, vacuumed—the whole bit—since she was about eight. I know, I know, that’s what helped endear her to mother. Mother’s little perfect child,” he said bitterly.

  “Sour grapes, Phil?”

  “No sir. I know it sounds like it, but I don’t mean it like that. Nora . . . well, dad, it’s like she doesn’t want anyone to know what she has in that bedroom.”

  Phillip looked confused for a moment. “Wait a minute, Phil. Nora does all that cleaning?”

  “Yes sir. I thought you knew.”

  “I thought the housekeeper took care of Nora’s room.”

  “Dad,” the boy said patiently, “you’re gone a lot of the time. When you’re here, you leave for work before dawn and most of the time you don’t get back home until after dark. Dad, you don’t know what goes on in this house. Have you even seen the housekeeper we have now?”

  “Of course I have! ” Phillip said indignantly. “Mrs. Horn.”

  The boy smiled sadly. He shook his head. “Dad, Mrs. Horn left here more than a year ago. Mrs. Carter takes care of the house.”

  “Oh. Oh really? I didn’t know that. Your mother takes care of the household matters. Why did Mrs. Horn leave?”

  The boy leaned back in his chair and looked at his father. “Three guesses, dad. And the first two don’t count.”

  “Nora.”

  “Give the man a cigar. Or a cigarette,” he said, looking disapprovingly at the cigarette in his father’s fingers.

  Phillip ignored that. “What did Nora do to make Mrs. Horn leave?”

  “Dad, don’t you and mom ever talk?”

  “Not much in the last couple of years,” Phillip admitted.

  “Well, Nora did a lot of things. She wouldn’t speak to the woman. Followed her around and stared at her. Sat and stared at her. The vacuum cleaner would come unplugged. Cleaning supplies would be moved. The air would be let out of the lady’s tires. Furniture would be moved, and mom would jump on the housekeeper about it. When she would try to tell mom she didn’t do it, Nora would tell mom the woman was lying. Then things began disappearing. Mom accused Mrs. Horn of stealing. Mrs. Horn really got mad and told mom off. Mom fired her on the spot. About six months later the missing articles were found up in the attic. Of course Nora put them there. I really felt sorry for Mrs. Horn. She was a nice person.”

  “Was?”

  “She’s dead. I heard she turned on the gas and stuck her head in the oven.”

  “How long after she was dismissed from here?”

  “Not very long.”

  “Shit!” Phillip spat out the profanity.

  Six six six! The numbers jumped into his consciousness. The Mark of Satan. That was it. He couldn’t remember which book. “Sit still,” he told Phil. He went into the kitchen for more coffee, his mind working overtime.

  Carla Donner killed by Nora? Nora a killer? No. No, he couldn’t accept that. The child was mean, yes; but a killer? No. Or was she?

  Christ, he sighed. He didn’t know what to believe.

  He poured more coffee and returned to the den, taking his seat again. “I’m sorry to say,
Phil, I don’t even know where the Donners moved to.”

  “Vermont. They were both killed a year after Carla died.”

  Phillip lifted his eyes. “Killed? How could I have missed that?”

  “You were overseas, dad. It was old news by the time you got back.”

  “How were they killed, son?”

  “I think their car ran off the road. Plunged a couple of hundred feet into a creek or a river. Something like that. I remember the date, though. May the sixth.”

  Then it came to Phillip. That other elusive little worry-bug that had been prowling around the dark reaches of his mind.

  Nora was born January sixth. Jeanne’s parents died thirteen months later, on February sixth. Fourteen months later, on March sixth, the kitchen in the Baxter home caught on fire. A neighbor saw the smoke and called the fire department.

  Six six six.

  Coincidence?

  Maybe.

  But there were just too damn many sixes popping up. Did that mean anything, though? Phillip just didn’t know.

  Father and son heard the front door open and close, the sounds of laughter drifting to them. Jeanne and Nora were home.

  * * *

  On Thanksgiving the Baxters drove up to Bridgeport to have the traditional dinner with Jeanne’s Aunt Morgan. Jeanne’s brother came down from his farm and for a few hours Phillip forgot about his daughter’s strange behavior.

  Aunt Morgan was one of Phillip’s favorites. In her late seventies, the lady was spry and her mind sharp. Her home, located outside of Bridgeport proper, was a old Victorian-style house that had been in her family for more than a hundred years. Filled with expensive paintings and antiques and priceless china and vases, here, Phillip recalled, Nora had always been on her best behavior. She might be a holy terror on the way up, but once here, she epitomized Jeanne’s perfect child.

  And Phillip had never understood that.

  But just as it had been for more than two weeks, Nora’s behavior was faultless. She was indeed the perfect little girl.

  And still Phillip could not bring himself to trust her.

  Unknown to Jeanne or Phil, or to any of his partners except Sam, Phillip had asked one of the junior members of the firm to investigate the death of Carla Donner and the institutionalizing of Jenny Wright. Discreetly, of course. But so far it had produced nothing except slow going.

  “What’s the point of it, Phillip?” Sam had asked.

  “The truth, Sam. As much of it as I can find out, that is. But damn, it’s a cold trail.”

  “Nothing so far, huh?”

  “Odds and ends and bits and pieces. But nothing I can tie together.”

  “You going to keep on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if Jeanne finds out?”

  “She’ll divorce me,” Phillip said flatly and surely. “And do it without a second thought.”

  “Risky, Phillip.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Sam had walked away, scratching his head.

  Aunt Morgan broke into Phillip’s thoughts on this Thanksgiving day. “You look troubled, Phillip,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know, Morgan. Nora is . . . well, strange at times.”

  “She’s a little brat!” the old woman said bluntly, surprising Phillip. “I set her straight a few years ago. I told her I saw right through her goody-goody act, and if she ever pulled any of her damned shenanigans around me, I’d use her butt for a broom.”

  Phillip chuckled for a moment. “I’m surprised she didn’t run straight to her mother and tell on you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she did. But Jeanne knows who controls the purse strings in this family. Me! Jeanne was cool to me for a time after that, but she got over it.”

  Phillip looked at Morgan and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

  “Something else, Phillip?”

  Phillip shook his head.

  “Yes, there is. But you’re not ready to talk about it. I’ll be here when you get ready.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Please do.”

  After spending Thanksgiving day with the family, Phillip left Jeanne, Phil, and Nora and took the train back to Stamford and a taxi to his still and quiet home. He was just a few days away—he hoped—from wrapping up a long-running case, and was forced to work on it overtime. Jeanne accepted it without complaint. She’d been married to a successful attorney for too long not to know this was what bought the fine clothes, the expensive automobiles, the lovely home, and the security.

  Phillip worked two twelve-hour days, spending a lot of time on overseas calls, and was deep in sleep when the phone rang on Sunday morning. He fumbled for the phone, dropped it, and finally hauled the whole thing into bed with him.

  “Yeah,” he said groggily.

  “Your child is evil,” a woman’s voice said. “She is marked by the devil. She must die. Kill her before it is too late.”

  Phillip came wide awake and sat up in bed. “What? Who is this?”

  “Your girl-child is marked by Satan. She must die before she kills you all and spreads her evil.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Perfectly well. You have been warned.”

  The connection was broken.

  Phillip looked at the clock on the night stand. Nine o’clock. He felt rested and alert. And scared. The adrenaline pumping. He looked at the buzzing receiver in his hand. Slowly he hung up and swung his legs to the floor.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, he thought: I know that voice. I’ve heard that voice before. But where?

  It would not come to him.

  He showered and shaved and made coffee. Just as he was sitting down behind his desk in the study, the phone rang again. Phillip clicked on the phone recorder and picked up the phone.

  “Phillip Baxter,” that voice sprang through the lines. “Your daughter is evil. She is just like your sister.”

  “My sister!” Phillip shouted. “I don’t have any sister.”

  “Yes, you do. Her name is Jane. You never saw her. She was . . . put away the year you were born. She is evil, just like Nora.”

  A sister? “Who is this. Goddammit, tell me who you are.”

  “No. I cannot. That would serve no useful purpose. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. It’s dangerous. I’ve been watching Nora since she was born. The child is the daughter of the Dark One. She must be destroyed. If she reaches the age of twelve, it will be too late. Then she will be almost impossible to stop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it, Phillip,” the mysterious but somehow familiar voice said softly.

  “I don’t know what to think. Except that you’re nuts!”

  “You’re forgetting your early training in the Church.”

  “Sixes?”

  “Yes.”

  The age of twelve. “But that makes only two sixes.” The Bible verse came to him: And his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

  From Revelation. The Mark of the Beast.

  “Add the six she wears hidden on her neck,” the woman said.

  Six six six.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I know many things. Destroy the child before she destroys you. You must do as I say. Now I must go.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up. Tell me how a little girl could destroy me.”

  The woman sighed. “She can turn son against father, brother against brother. You must remember this: She has the power of Satan with her. She is very dangerous.”

  “Don’t hang up. Please.” Suddenly Phillip’s head seemed as though it would burst as a raging headache struck him. He had a very quick and vivid glimpse of what he hoped was not the future. Again it was bitter cold outside, with snow on the ground. In the house Jeanne was lying on the floor, her mouth bloody. Phillip was stalking his son through the house. The boy had a gun in his hand. Phillip was cursing his son. The boy raised the pistol, p
ointing it at him. The scene changed. People were milling about a funeral home. A coffin lay with flowers covering it. But Phillip could not see who was in the casket. It was a man, but he could not make out the face. People were crying. The scene changed again. A terrible sight filled Phillip’s head. A young man was hanging from a banister, a rope around his neck. His neck was broken, his face dark, his tongue protruding from swollen lips.

  Laughter exploded through Phillip’s head. Then sounds of weeping overrode the laughter.

  His headache eased. The terrible scenes faded away.

  “I know what you’re going through,” the woman said. “And I’m sorry. You must be watchful of your sister. She is evil.”

  Phillip listened, not knowing what to believe.

  The woman said, “You must burn Nora’s companion. That must be done quickly. Before it is too late.”

  “What companion? What are you talking about? You’re speaking in riddles.”

  “I cannot be more specific. To do so would mean my death. I have been hiding from the Dark One and his followers for years. Burn it. But be careful. It will know you are coming to do it harm. Be careful.”

  “What are you talking about? What companion of Nora’s?”

  “Then you must call a priest. Together, the two of you must destroy Nora. It has to be done. I know it’s a terrible thing to say. But it must be. Goodbye.”

  Before Phillip could protest, the connection was broken.

  Phillip thought he heard laughter in the house. A shuffling sound coming from above him.

  He lifted his head, listening. But the sounds were gone.

  Was it real? Had he really heard the sounds?

  What was going on?

  7

  Sam listened to the tape recording Monday morning in Phillip’s office. He listened to it twice before he spoke.

  “And you don’t have any idea who this woman is?” Sam asked.

  “I feel as though I should know. Yes, I do know that voice. But I just can’t quite put a name to it.”

  “Your sister?”

  Phillip shook his head. “Sam, I don’t have any sister.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Phillip sighed. A man totally frustrated. “Not . . . entirely. No.”