Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  “Fine,” Jeanne said. She looked down at the woman’s suitcase. Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before. “You came awfully sure we’d hire you, Else.”

  “Eh?” Phillip said, not understanding his wife’s remark.

  Else smiled. “I have never been turned down, Mrs. Baxter. I don’t know why, but it’s true.”

  “You’re keeping your record intact. Come on, I’ll show you to your quarters. Would you get her suitcase, Phillip?”

  “What suitcase?”

  “That one.” Jeanne pointed.

  Phillip looked down, eyeballing the large suitcase. He hadn’t noticed it. Must be the bump on my head, he thought, picking up the suitcase. Christ, what did she have in the thing—lead bars?

  And neither Phillip nor Jeanne thought to call the agency to check on Mrs. Else Strassel.

  After settling in, Else inspected the kitchen and the pantry, then sent Phillip packing off to the supermarket with a grocery list about a foot long. As he was backing out of the drive, Phil came in from school. Phillip waved him over and they drove to the store together.

  On the way, Phillip told his son most of what had transpired that day. “Wow!” the boy said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, dad? Did Nora tell you what happened at the funeral?”

  “No. She didn’t say anything to me.”

  “The, ah—what do you call it?—the thing the casket sits on?”

  “The bier?”

  “Yes sir, that’s it. It collapsed. The casket hit the floor and sprang open. The little girl’s body fell out.”

  “Oh Lord! Horrible! What a terrible thing for the girl’s parents to see.”

  “Yes sir. But the funeral people say it couldn’t have happened. Those things lock in place. They said—and this is street talk—somebody heated the legs, weakening them. Investigators found where the legs had been subjected to extreme heat, causing them to collapse.”

  “And it couldn’t have been done a long time ago, the stress just now affecting the legs?”

  “They don’t believe so. Someone would have noticed it. And it couldn’t have been done during the last twenty-four hours. A member of the family was with the little girl constantly from the moment the morticians got through with her.

  “Then how . . .?” Phillip let that trail off as suspicions grew in his mind.

  “No one knows, dad. But it sure happened.”

  Phillip thought of Nora’s eyes whirling around in her head. The intense heat he had experienced while in her room. Her entire head turning around and around as if made of rubber.

  “What are you thinking, dad?”

  “Nora.”

  “Yes sir. Me too.”

  11

  No doubt about one thing, Phillip thought, sitting down with a contented sigh after dinner. Else Strassel certainly knew her way around a kitchen.

  She had served rouladen: braised stuffed beef rolls, prepared with hot mustard, chopped onions, bacon, pickles, celery, leeks, and parsnip. She had prepared spatzle: tiny dumplings very slightly flavored with nutmeg, quite delicious. And pilze mit tomaten und speck: mushrooms with tomatoes and bacon.

  And everybody had eaten too much.

  Then Else received quiet cheers and won Nora’s heart by serving a dessert of lebkuchen hauschen: a lovely gingerbread house. It was so beautifully decorated, Jeanne hesitated to cut into it.

  Sam had called just before dinner. He had hit a minor snag with one of Phillip’s cases. Phillip told him about Else and what she was fixing for dinner.

  Sam had grunted. “You come back into the office goose-stepping, and I’ll personally shoot you.” Then he laughed. “It sounds delicious. I wish I’d been there.”

  “Well, you’re aware of the time of year and what I’m going to do this weekend. So come on out and spend some time.

  “Saturday all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good. I’ll rent a car.” Sam knew what reaction that would bring from Phillip.

  “Oh no, Sam. Don’t do that. The last time I rode with you I nearly lost all faith in automobiles. I’ll pick you up at the station. Call me Friday and tell me what train you’re coming up on.”

  “OK,” Sam said, when he finished chuckling. “Talk to you Friday.”

  Jeanne came into the den and sank onto the sectional. “I ate so much I feel absolutely miserable.”

  “I know the feeling. Where are the kids?”

  “Nora is with Else. They really hit it off well. Phil is up in his room, studying. Phillip?”

  “Umm?” He pretty well knew what was coming.

  “I don’t want to hear that tape.”

  “As you wish, Jeanne.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Not in the least.” He was rather relieved, not looking forward to more arguments with Jeanne. He had made up his mind to go this alone; he felt he could get more done that way. He glanced at Jeanne. She was definitely worried about something.

  “What do you have planned for your month off?” she asked.

  “A little genealogical work.” Not quite a lie. But he was not prepared for the shocked look on his wife’s face. For some reason, that remark really shook her. But why?

  “Well, that’s . . . interesting, I guess. Your family or mine?”

  “Mine.” She was very relieved at that, and it showed on her face. Was there something hanging on her family tree she would prefer to keep hidden? If so, what? “I’d kind of like to know about my ancestors.”

  “Your mother or father’s side?”

  Phillip paused for a heartbeat. “Mother’s side of the tree.”

  She chewed on her lip. “Well, don’t dig too deeply, you might find a pirate hanging from a yardarm.” She tried a smile that turned out to be a grimace.

  What was going on? “We all have our black sheep, darling.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. She took a deep breath. “I’ll be at Judy’s most of Thursday and Friday. The country club bash, you know?”

  “Yeah,” he said drily. He endured the things every year. He hated them. “I’m going up to New Haven and start there. Leave about seven forty-five, I guess. Be back when you see me.”

  Her stare held a curious flavor, one that Phillip could not read. Was that fear in her eyes? Phillip thought it was. But fear of what?

  “Have fun,” she said flatly. She left the room.

  * * *

  Phillip and Father Debeau definitely did not have fun. They struck out all the way around in New Haven. Lots of babies had been born in 1940-41, but none to Elizabeth and Phillip Baxter. There was not a single family still living in the old neighborhood who was there when Phillip was a boy. The doctor who had delivered Phillip was dead. Everywhere they turned, they hit a dead end.

  Over lunch Debeau said, “I have a suggestion.”

  “I’m certainly open.”

  “It will probably be expensive, but I would suggest hiring a private detective.”

  Phillip groaned. “Now why didn’t I think of that? The firm uses a very reputable agency. Sure. That’s the way to go with this matter. I’ll call him right now.”

  “Phillip? Have him check on your house while you’re at it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I felt evil when I looked at your house, remember? I would say that is a very old house.”

  “Between eighty and a hundred years old. I think that’s what the realtor told me.”

  “Have him check its history. You might be surprised at what he finds.”

  * * *

  Phillip and Debeau met with Paul Weaver the next morning. Paul was average in height, weight, complexion, hair color, and dress. Nothing about him stood out or attracted attention. But Phillip knew the man was one of the best P.I.’s in the city. He had worked in various branches of military intelligence for twenty years, pulling the pin after his twenty.

  Phillip told Weaver everything that had happened, then played the tape fo
r him. He leaned back and braced himself for laughter from the P.I. It did not come.

  “Interesting case,” Paul said. “Finding out if you have a sister won’t be all that difficult. I’ll just check birth records in a five-state area. It’s all computerized now; it won’t take long. But odds are she was born in Connecticut. I would say the phone call probably came from your mother, Mr. Baxter.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. That would be my first guess. The woman in your attic was probably your sister—if you have a sister, that is. If anything weird happened in or around your house, that won’t be hard to find out. I’ll be a free-lance writer doing research on old homes in the area. People love to talk. I should have something for you in a couple of days. A week at the most.”

  “You make it sound awfully easy, Mr. Weaver,” Debeau said.

  “Well, it involves a lot of good contacts and a lot of legwork and snooping, Father. I’ve been doing this most of my life. I went into the army right out of college, straight into the ASA. Then into, well, other areas of intelligence work. I’ve operated in most of the free world countries. Spent two years working covertly behind the Iron Curtain. Believe me, this case is a piece of cake.”

  * * *

  Phillip and Sam spent most of Saturday gathering up and untangling Christmas lights and decorations, checking them out, and replacing bulbs. Sam got a kick helping out, keeping up a steady stream of wisecracks. Else Strassel frowned at Sam’s wisecracks.

  “Are you Jewish?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Sam grinned. “Unorthodox.”

  Else shook her head and walked off.

  Over coffee Phillip asked, “Don’t you believe in anything, Sam?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam replied, turning slightly serious. “I used to. Kind of like you, I suppose. Certainly there is a higher power. I think it would take an arrogant fool not to believe that. Has the Son of God already walked on this earth? I don’t know. Neither does anybody else. Except God. And I’m not exactly His confidant. Our time in Nam kind of turned me around, so to speak. Got me to thinking about a lot of things. We used to talk about it, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Seems like a million years ago.” He looked around him. “Sam? You ever think about the VC girl we raped?”

  “Yeah.” His reply was soft. “Funny you should ask about that. I hadn’t thought about it in years. Just completely forgot about it. Then . . . oh, ’bout two-three weeks ago it just popped back in my head. Hell, I know when it was. It was the day we—you—bought that jack-in-the-box.” He raised his eyes and stared at Phillip. “That’s it, isn’t it? That thing is evil, right?”

  “Yes. As ludicrous as it seems and sounds.” Phillip told Sam about his hiring of a private detective. He leveled with his old and dear friend about everything.

  “This is wild, Phillip.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know, I’ve joked and kidded most of my life,” Sam said. “I once reached the point where no one would take me seriously. My father was about ready to disown me. Really! But I’m deadly serious about this. . . situation you’re in. It frightens me. And I’ll tell you why. Outside of my family I have never told this to anyone.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “When I was a kid I used to dream, have nightmares, about a jack-in-the-box. It came close to unhinging me. I used to hate the night; I was afraid to go to sleep. I fought sleep. Almost became very ill because of that. I was, oh, a good thirteen years old before the dreams finally faded.”

  “You know what brought them on?”

  “Sure. I have—had—a couple of aunts who made it out of Belsen. They used to tell stories about one of the camp commanders and his jack-in-the-box. The man was totally perverted and insane. He used to carry the jack-in-the-box out to the line-ups. He’d flip the switch and the thing would jump out, grinning and bobbing and rolling its eyes. Whoever it looked at got gassed. I was joking back in that curio shop to keep from screaming. And I’ll tell you something else, Philip.”

  Phillip thought he knew what was coming. He braced himself.

  Sam’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. “That’s the same jack-in-the-box.”

  * * *

  Phillip walked around the house, trying to collect his thoughts. He felt like an innocent man in a jail cell. He did not know what to do. He felt Sam was correct in thinking the jack-in-the-box had once been in the hands of a Nazi. And the devil.

  Was there a difference?

  He thought not.

  But what to do?

  When he walked back into the den, Sam was holding a book and looking at Phillip strangely.

  “Sam?” Phillip said. “What’s the matter with you? You look ill.”

  “Looks like you had us all fooled, ol’ buddy.” Sam’s voice was odd sounding, strained.

  “What do you mean?” Phillip was sure he detected some . . . force in the room, working its evil.

  “You’re quite an actor, Phillip. I wasn’t snooping into your personal effects, but I just found it odd that you would have something . . . this hideous in your library.”

  “What is that book?”

  “Come on, Phillip. Don’t try to lie your way out of this. Anyway, if the book is bad, the dedication is even worse.”

  “What are you talking about, Sam? Let me see that book.”

  Sam tossed the book to him. Phillip had never seen it before. If he had, he would have burned it. It was a book defending what the Nazis did to the Jews during the thirties and forties. “Sam, I have never seen this book before in my life.”

  “Yeah, sure. And I guess you don’t know about the dedication either?”

  Phillip opened the book. The handwriting jumped out at him.

  TO MY GOOD AND DEAR FRIEND, PHILLIP BAXTER: MANY THANKS FOR YOUR LEGAL HELP AND THE MONIES YOU’VE SENT OVER THE LONG YEARS. YOU HAVE BEEN A GODSEND. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS BOOK AS A SMALL TOKEN OF MY GRATITUDE.

  J.MENGELE

  “Mengele!” Phillip blurted. “Oh, come on, Sam. You don’t believe I would help that creature, do you? And if I did, would I leave this book out in the open? Think about it, man. You’ve known me for a quarter of a century. You know me better than any living man.

  Sam glared at Phillip. Then his shoulders slumped as Phillip felt that odd force leave the room. Sam’s eyes changed. He laid the book on an end table and rubbed a trembling hand across his face.

  “What is happening here, Phillip? Of course I don’t believe any of that. Why did I say it? I felt like I, well, wasn’t in control. What is going on?”

  Debeau’s words came to Phillip. “We’re being manipulated, Sam. Divide and conquer, I would say.”

  “Gee, Phillip, I feel like such a fool. I feel as though I’ve been in a trance.” He looked at the table. “Where did I put that book?”

  “Right there on the table. I watched you put it there.”

  Both men looked at the table.

  The book was gone.

  In its place lay a tiny silver swastika.

  Sam looked at what had been the most hated symbol in the free world. He lifted his eyes to Phillip’s. “Phillip you wanna know something?”

  “Sam, I’m just as scared as you are.”

  “No, you’re not, buddy. And I don’t have to tell you why.”

  * * *

  Sam sat straight up in bed. He was soaked with sweat. His face felt hot, feverish. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might explode in his chest.

  That dream. That evil-looking jack-in-the-box with that horrible clown’s face. Swaying and laughing. He hadn’t had that dream in almost thirty years. But he sure had dreamed it this night. He was certain that lousy swastika had brought it on. He looked at his watch. Twelve-one.

  But had it been the dream that had awakened him? Sam didn’t think so. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t think it was. He mentally willed himself to calm down, take deep breaths. He lay in bed, his heart slowing. He listened. There! There it was. Someone was calling his
name.

  “Samuel,” the whisper came to him, a harsh and guttural sound. “Samuel? Are you listening, Samuel?” The whispering changed to an ugly laugh.

  “Yeah, I’m listening,” Sam returned the whisper. He sat up in bed. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What am I saying? What am I doing? This isn’t real. I’m still dreaming.”

  “No, you’re not dreaming. Listen,” the voice said.

  Voices filled Sam’s head. Screaming and crying and begging. Men and women and children. Screams of pain as someone was being beaten. The thudding of clubs striking living flesh. A harsh voice yelled, “Achtung, achtung, schwein-gesicht. Lassen, lassen.”

  “No!” Sam whispered. “I won’t listen to this. I won’t!”

  “What’s the matter, Samuel? Are you afraid? Would you like to take a trip, Samuel? Back to 1941, perhaps? I can show you some lovely sights and sounds.”

  Hysterical laughter boomed in Sam’s head, almost blocking out the weeping and screams of pain.

  “Hear that, Samuel?” the harsh voice whispered. “They’re going to the gas chambers. Would you like to see it?”

  “No!” Sam roared. Screaming his rage, he jumped from the bed and flung open the door, almost running into Phillip, who was racing up the hall.

  “What’s the matter, Sam? I heard you yell.”

  “Voices, Phillip. Terrible voices. Someone was talking to me. And I dreamed about that jack-in-the-box.”

  “I can’t rouse Jeanne. It’s like she’s in some sort of trance. I looked in on Else. She looks like she’s in a coma.

  “Phil?”

  “There’s his bedroom.” Phillip pointed.

  Sam threw open the door. Phil was sleeping on his back, his mouth open. He appeared to be unconscious rather than sleeping.

  “Phil!” his father shouted.

  The boy did not move.

  The men looked at each other, neither of them having any idea what might be coming at them next.

  A strange, glowing light appeared at the far end of the hall, close to the short flight of steps leading to the attic.

  Both men stared speechless as the light became brighter.

  Then they both heard the music. That somber dirge that came from the base of the jack-in-the-box.