Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  “Good God! Why hasn’t any of this ever come out in the press?”

  “Because Gunsche was small potatoes, comparatively speaking. That, plus he was supposed to have been killed before the war ended.”

  “Another cover-up?”

  “Probably. A lot of military intelligence units got in too deep before they realized who they were dealing with. Then they couldn’t back out.”

  “You mean they wouldn’t back out, admitting their mistakes.” It was not a question.

  “One way to put it. Dozens of families have tried to live in that house you’re living in, Mr. Baxter. Something tragic and terrible happened to at least one member of every family who ever attempted to live there. A lot of people have died in that house, sir. It was empty before you bought it. Naturally the real estate people wouldn’t tell you what I just did.”

  “Yeah. All right, Paul. Do you know what happened to my sister?”

  “She escaped from the institution three years ago. It was her third escape since childhood. Same institution. The reason you could never find any paperwork about her is because someone other than the Baxter family has been picking up the tab for her care.”

  “That’s odd,” Phillip said. “I’m curious as to the how and why of that.”

  “I don’t know the why of it, yet. But I can tell you the who part. It’s the Vincinci family out of Bridgeport.”

  Phillip sat very still and shocked at that news. Vincinci was Jeanne’s aunt Morgan’s married name. The Vincincis were a very old and highly respected family, with roots that ran deep in Connecticut. Going back to the 1700s. What was the connection here? Phillip couldn’t figure it.

  “You still there, Mr. Baxter?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. You threw me a curve with that last bit, Paul. Give me some details.”

  “The Vincinci family paid the bills for your sister’s confinement. Up until she broke out, a Mrs. Morgan Vincinci was signing the checks.”

  13

  “All these years, and Morgan never told me,” Phillip said to Father Debeau. “But why is the Vincinci family involved? Where is the connection? I don’t understand it. None of this makes any sense. All this information does, to my way of thinking, is complicate an already twisted matter.”

  Debeau had blessed the house, the grounds, the contents, and prayed with Phillip. He had looked at the profaned Bible and burned it.

  Debeau sat up straight in his chair and snapped his fingers. “Monsignor Vincinci! Sure. I knew that name was familiar. He hasn’t been active for a long time; I haven’t heard him mentioned in years. Let me think. Ah! Yes. About forty years ago, between forty and forty-five years, when he was a young priest, the story goes that he performed an exorcism. I seem to recall hearing that he failed to follow church procedure and got in a lot of trouble. I believe he was attempting to exorcise a young girl. Maybe, oh, three or four years old.”

  Phillip glanced at the priest. “You said he was attempting?”

  “Yes. He failed. So the story goes. But he was eventually forgiven for stepping out of bounds, so to speak, and became a well-respected priest. But . . . I don’t believe he ever again held a parish church. Yes, that’s right. He became a scholar. Kept to himself, so I’m told. Became rather a mystery.”

  “Do you know the man?”

  “No. I’ve never met him.”

  “Could the girl have been my sister?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Where did the exorcism take place?”

  “I . . . really don’t know. Somewhere in Connecticut is all I ever heard. Really, not too much has ever been said about it. An exorcism is something one simply does not talk about.”

  Phillip nodded. “What relation is this Monsignor Vincinci to Morgan Vincinci?”

  “There again, I’m not sure. Brother-in-law, I believe.”

  “You’re not leveling with me, Joe. What’s the matter? Could it be that a little hanky-panky went on between a priest and a woman?”

  Debeau sighed. “Rumors, Phillip. Vague rumors are all I’ve ever heard.”

  The clunking of car doors put an end to the conversation. The family was back from church. “How do I introduce you, Joe?” Phillip asked the Catholic priest.

  “As what I am, Phillip. I believe enough lies have been told.”

  “A priest?” Jeanne said. She looked at Phillip. “I thought you told me you’d never again accept the Catholic faith.”

  “Joe is a friend,” Phillip said. He looked over at Nora. She was backed up against a wall, her face pale, her eyes glowing raw hate mixed with fear at Debeau. Debeau was smiling at the child. Phillip sensed a silent battle being waged between the man of God and the child of Satan. Nora trembled and dropped her gaze. “Nora, you and Phil go to your rooms and stay there, please. Mrs. Strassel, would you fix lunch?”

  “Right away, sir.” She left the room. She seemed glad to go.

  Phillip wondered about that.

  A lot of things were swiftly returning to Phillip’s mind. Jeanne had never liked the Catholic Church. They of course had friends who were Catholic, but religion was never discussed. And what was that remark of Morgan’s some years back? Phillip dredged it up from the recesses of his mind. “We broke with the Catholic Church years ago, Phillip. The Vincincis, the Garrisons, several families. We had our reasons.” And she’d never said another word about it.

  Jeanne said, “If this is about Nora, I don’t wish to hear it.”

  “It’s about a lot of things, Jeanne,” Phillip said. “But we’ll start with my sister. I think you know all about her.”

  Did she pale just a bit? Yes, she did, Phillip thought, watching his wife’s face closely.

  “Truth time, Jeanne,” Phillip prodded. “No more lying or dodging. Why did your family leave the Catholic Church?”

  She refused to meet his eyes. She shook her head. “I have no idea, Phillip. And I resent this inquisition.”

  Again his courtroom years came to the fore. He knew she was lying. “Jeanne, the time for half truths and deceit is over. Let’s try honesty for a change. Tell me about my sister.”

  Jeanne sat down heavily on the sectional. She breathed a deep sigh. She looked at Debeau. “Why couldn’t you stay out of this? Why did you have to come along and drag all this out into the open?”

  “Joe didn’t drag out anything,” Phillip told her. “I hired a private detective. He found out about my sister and about the Vincinci family paying for her being institutionalized. Would you please explain that?”

  “Your father was not killed in a car wreck, Phillip,” Jeanne said. “Nick Vincinci arranged that after your father was killed.”

  “No?” Phillip’s voice was soft. “Then how did he die?”

  “Your sister killed him. She escaped from the . . . asylum and hid in the back seat of his car. Just so happened he was going out of town that day. She cut his throat right outside of New Haven. One of the truck drivers for the Garrison Lines spotted your father’s car and called in. Morgan was contacted, and she called Nick. He took it from there.”

  Phillip sat down hard. “My mother?”

  “Jane—that’s your sister—came after her. Cut her up very badly. Your mother was hospitalized for a long time. She . . . lost her mind. So the doctors thought. She broke out of the institution and ran away. Years ago. Before we were married. No one knows where she is.”

  Phillip started to say something. Jeanne held up her hand. “Wait. Phillip, do you remember how we met?”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives. Ever since we were kids, babies.”

  “That was no accident, Phillip. You might even say our marriage was carefully arranged, and you’d be correct. The Garrison family, the Baxter family, and the Vincinci family go back a long, long way. You and I, Phillip, are fifth cousins.”

  Before Phillip could recover from his initial shock and speak, Else stuck her head into the room. “Will any of you be dining?”

  “No, Else,”
Jeanne said. “Feed Nora and Phil. And close the door. We don’t wish to be disturbed.” She looked at Debeau. “I’m sorry, Father. Would you care for some lunch?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “That will be all, Else.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She closed the door.

  “Fifth cousins, Jeanne?” Phillip asked.

  Again she sighed. “Maybe fourth. We . . . like to keep it in the family, so to speak.”

  “Keep what in the family?” Phillip raised his voice.

  “Don’t shout at me, Phillip. I’m trying very hard to maintain my composure.”

  Debeau stepped in. “Then the rumors are true, Mrs. Baxter?”

  “Yes,” Jeanne said, meeting his gaze. “Including the unspeakable ones.” She looked at her husband. “This is not easy for me, Phillip. I want you to know that. But it’s going to be very bad for you.”

  “It gets worse?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Her sigh was almost painful to hear. “Your mother had an affair. The affair produced a child. Jane. Your father forgave your mother’s . . . indiscretion and accepted the girl as his own. It was a mistake. Morgan tried to convince your mother to have an abortion. She refused.” She paused and dropped her eyes.

  Phillip said, “The real father?”

  Debeau picked it up. “Has to be a young priest by the name of Vincinci. Oh, goddamn these cover-ups.”

  Jeanne’s eyes turned hot. She flared at the priest. “You people make me sick! You think you’re so holy. Mrs. Baxter was in love with Mark Vincinci, and he with her. Haven’t you ever sexually desired a woman?”

  “Many times,” Debeau remained calm. “I may be a priest, but I’m still a man. But I have never violated my vows.”

  “Hurray for you,” Jeanne replied sarcastically.

  “What did you mean by that remark about keeping it in the family?” Phillip asked.

  “The Garrisons, the Baxters, the Vincinci family—well, we seem to have some sort of curse, or hex, or whatever you choose to call it, on us. Every generation seems to produce at least one babbling idiot. That’s my choice of description, since I don’t believe in demonic possession. That’s the reason my family broke from the Catholic Church. Before I was born. Morgan tried to get your father to split with the church. He refused.”

  “What happens to the children who are born marked?” Debeau asked.

  “I never said they were marked.”

  “You didn’t have to say it,” the priest told her.

  “Some have been helped,” Jeanne admitted. Reluctantly. The words seemed to contain a sour flavor by the way she spat them out. “Yes, by priests. The others are put away. Institutionalized in a . . . home up near the Massachusetts state line. Near Canaan.”

  “Let me guess,” Phillip said. “The Vincinci family owns the institution.”

  “Very astute of you, Phillip,” Jeanne told him. “Yes, that’s right. A very profitable place, so I’m told. I’ve seen it several times. I have a brother there.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Phillip said.

  “Among other things you don’t know.”

  Phillip ignored the sarcasm. “How—well—thick are the blood ties between our families?”

  “We’ve been inbreeding for two centuries, at least. One of these days it’s going to catch up with us, and the entire crop of babies will be born deformed and insane. It’s happening now, isn’t it?”

  “I . . . well, I don’t accept all you say, Jeanne,” Phillip said. “I don’t mean to imply you’re not telling the truth, just . . . well . . .” Then he got it. After his father had been killed and his mother had left, he’d had no one else. He had never questioned why he had been taken in so readily by the people who had raised him after he’d lost his parents. Now he knew. They were all related.

  Gunther. Gunsche. Sure. He let that lie for a moment. “Happening now?” Phillip asked. “You mean like Nora?”

  “Nora is a perfectly normal child!” Jeanne shouted at him. “Goddammit, she is.”

  “She isn’t, Jeanne. Arid you know it. I think you’ve known it for years.”

  She stubbornly shook her head.

  “Where is Monsignor Vincinci?” Debeau asked.

  “At the Center,” Jeanne said.

  “He’s insane?”

  “No. Not at all. He just doesn’t track very well. His mind tends to wander. He has good days and bad days. So I’m told.”

  “How about the family who helped raise me, Jeanne? The Gunther family.”

  Her eyes became hooded. “What about them?”

  “I think I’ll have my P.I. do a little checking on them.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I think he’ll discover their name was originally Gunsche. Right?”

  She said nothing.

  “You pushed for this house, Jeanne. You. You could have had any house you wanted. But you pushed me to buy this one. Why?”

  Jeanne sat silent for a moment. “Something . . . well, pulled me to this place,” she admitted. “I can’t explain it. The first time I saw it, I was drawn to it. It’s just as simple as that, Phillip. I had no other motive.”

  He believed her. Both men did. Phillip knew his wife was not a pathological liar, and only a practiced liar can lie that easily and smoothly. But what had pulled her? And why?

  “And you know nothing of the Gunther family?”

  She shook her head. “Very little. Only that we are all related, the Gunthers very distantly. But I never heard the name Gunsche before.”

  Phillip then played his wife both tapes, telling her everything. He told her about Sam and the jack-in-the-box. About his own dreams and visions. About the dead child tumbling out of the casket. And about Otto Gunsche.

  She sat in open-mouthed shock.

  Leaving his wife with the priest, Phillip went outside to the garbage, where he’d thrown Sam’s bloody pajamas. He brought them inside and showed them to Jeanne.

  She cringed at the sight. Phillip said, “Now tell me again that Nora is a perfectly normal child.”

  The tears spilled from her eyes. Long overdue, both men thought. When she was cried out, she lifted her tear-streaked face.

  “I thought love would be the cure,” Jeanne said. “I was wrong. I guess I knew it all along but wouldn’t admit it. I knew I had produced a . . . a monster when I saw that birthmark. That’s why I had the doctor tie my tubes. Not for health reasons—I’m healthy as a horse. Aunt Morgan sensed during the pregnancy that I was bringing forth a monster. That was the reason I had a hard time of it. Morgan said that was always the first sign. Some women have died giving birth to . . . well . . . one of them. But we, Morgan and I, thought we could save Nora. I think it almost worked, too.”

  “I commend your spirit,” Father Debeau said. “But you tried it by yourselves. You should have sought help.”

  Jeanne looked at him. “From a priest?” She spat out the words.

  “If you find one rotten apple, do you throw out the entire crate?” Debeau countered. “Of course not. You and the others, you’re blaming the Church for your misfortune. This cycle of Satan can never be stopped until we find the root cause for the curse? Do you agree with me on that point?”

  Reluctantly, she did.

  “Then blaming the Church all this time has been rather illogical, correct?”

  But Jeanne had more salvos to fire. “What has the Church done for this family?” she challenged him. “For more than two hundred years we’ve been cursed. You people haven’t found out why as yet. You and your kind have perhaps helped one out of ten. That’s not a very good average, is it, Father?”

  “No, it really isn’t. Dismal, I should say.”

  “Your honesty is disarming,” Jeanne admitted. She looked at her husband. “Now what?” The question was put very defensively.

  “We take first things first. Joe, what are the chances of helping Nora?”

  The priest sighed. H
e shook his head. “Truthfully, Phillip?”

  “Yes.”

  “The odds are weighed heavily against us. But there is always hope. I must warn you that it is going to be very ugly and very trying for you both. Satan is very near. We could all die attempting an exorcism.”

  “Is there no other way?” Jeanne asked.

  “No, Jeanne. None.”

  “You’ve done this before?” she asked.

  “Yes. Many times.”

  “Successfully?”

  “Sometimes. Certainly not always.”

  Jeanne shrugged her shoulders.

  “Don’t you have to get Church’s permission to do this?” Phillip asked.

  “According to protocol, yes. But I have permission in a manner of speaking. I have spoken with my bishop about this matter.”

  “I thought all this mumbo-jumbo stuff was done at night?” Jeanne said, an open sneer in the question.

  Debeau only smiled patiently. “Is there a place where your son can go to spend the night, Phillip?”

  “Yes. I’ll send him up to Alec’s. How about Mrs. Strassel?”

  “She knows what is going on.”

  “What do you mean?” Jeanne asked.

  “I sent her here. We’ve worked together for years. Her name is not Strassel. It’s Gunsche. She’s a nun.”

  14

  “You’re quite an actress, Sister,” Phillip said to Else.

  “Sister is not quite an accurate description,” Else said. “I was thrown out of my order ten years ago. I was branded a heretic and a militant. The Church, I believe, is decaying from within. We’ve got to come to grips with modern-day reality if we are to combat the evil all around us and meet the needs of the people we are to serve.” She smiled. “But I’m here to assist, not to preach to you.”

  “Oh, I agree with you, Sister. I’m curious. Do nuns often help in exorcisms?”

  “This one does.”

  “Your name is Gunsche?”

  “Yes. I am distantly related to Otto Gunsche. The Gunsche name is a fine, old, very honorable one. Otto was an evil man—is an evil man. My family has been attempting to locate him since 1945. We believe him to be in the New York City area.”