Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  “Dad, don’t hit me,” Phil said.

  Phillip raised his big fists. He tucked his chin into his shoulder and shuffled toward his son, his fists held in the classic boxer’s position. He faked Phil out with a right and then busted the boy in the mouth with a left.

  Phil’s head snapped back as blood leaked from a cut lip. Phil stumbled, caught his balance, and darted into the hall, his father right behind him.

  Phillip roared at the boy. “Come back here and fight, you goddamned little son of a bitch!”

  * * *

  “We’ve got to make better time,” Father Debeau said to the three other priests in the car. “Damn this snow.”

  “Steady, Joe,” the oldest priest, a bishop, said. “It won’t do Mr. Baxter any good for us to be killed in a car crash.”

  “When he ordered me out of his house last night—this morning—and got his pistol, threatening me, I knew that Nora had grown stronger and had taken control,” Debeau said. “It took me hours to get in touch with all of you. Nobody would answer the damn phone at the Baxter house.”

  The bishop looked disapprovingly at Debeau.

  Each of the four priests had a small black leather bag, either on the seat beside him or on the floorboards at his feet.

  Picking up speed slightly, the rear end of the car slewed around sickeningly. Father Debeau regained control and drove on as fast as he dared. There wasn’t enough snow to close the Merritt Parkway, but it did make driving hazardous.

  “Where did you send the private detective?” the bishop asked, after offering up a small silent prayer for divine help in guiding Father Debeau’s hands on the wheel. And his heavy foot.

  “Bridgeport, to get the aunt. If she’ll come,” he added. “Damnit, it’s a good ten miles off the Parkway to the house, and we haven’t even reached the exit yet.”

  “Steady, Joe,” the bishop said.

  * * *

  Phil circled around through the house and reentered the den through a side door. He had put his father’s pistol in a small French desk.

  The boy’s eyes were savage as he thought about the. 45. All reason had left him as Nora silently took control of his mind and actions. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled silently and unseen by his mother toward the desk. He opened the drawer and found the big .45, his fingers closing around the butt. He knew what to do from watching TV and movies. Crouching by the desk, he pulled the slide back, jacking a round into the chamber. He eased the hammer down.

  “There you are, you little sneak!” Phillip shouted, spotting his son. He ran toward the boy, knocking furniture aside as he charged.

  Jeanne staggered to her feet, rushing between her son and her husband. “Stop it!” she screamed at Phillip.

  Phillip backhanded her, knocking her spinning, stunning her, bloodying her mouth. She fell against a wall, pulling the drapes down with her.

  A neighbor, outside getting firewood, stood staring, wondering what was going on.

  “Jerry?” his wife called from the porch. “What’s wrong?”

  “Put your coat on, Linda. Come out here. Phillip Baxter is beating up on his wife.”

  “Are you serious? Let me get my coat.”

  “Goddamn you!” Phil yelled at his father. “You leave mother alone!”

  Phillip saw the gun in the boy’s hand. He grinned. “You won’t shoot me. You don’t have the guts for it.”

  “Leave mother alone!” the boy shouted. He began backing up.

  Phillip followed his son, his hands balled into fists. He lunged toward the boy, swinging a hard fist. The blow caught the boy on the side of the head, squarely on one ear. Phil’s head rang as pain and shock momentarily deafened him. He reeled backward and fell out into the hall. Quickly he staggered to his feet, not losing the gun, and ran toward the stairs.

  Phillip was lumbering and panting and cursing as he followed his son.

  Nora and Jeanne crouched on the floor in front of the drapeless windows, in full view of the neighbors, screaming and crying.

  “Jerry, do something,” Linda urged.

  “Do what? Phil’s got a gun in his hand. Oh, to hell with it. You’re right. I gotta do something.”

  “No, wait.” She pulled him back. “You’ll get yourself shot. Wait for a minute.”

  Phil turned as he reached the top of the stairs. He jacked back the hammer on the .45, pointing the weapon at his father. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted. “Leave us alone, dad. Get out of this house or I’ll kill you.”

  On both sides of the Baxter house, even though to each side lay a large vacant lot, neighbors were gathering, brought outside by the yelling and screaming. The men and women stood in the heavily falling snow, not knowing what to do or what was going on. This was definitely not like the Baxter family.

  “Somebody should call the police.”

  “Yeah.”

  But no one did.

  Yet.

  Phillip started up the stairs, walking slowly toward his son.

  The boy took aim. Blood leaked from his battered and bruised mouth and face. One ear was swelling; he could hear nothing but a roaring in that ear.

  “I’m gonna take that gun away from you,” Phillip said. “And then I’m going to jam it down your throat.”

  “Stay away, dad.” Phil backed up slowly, the gun pointed at his father’s chest.

  Phillip continued his slow march up the stairs. “When I get through with you, boy, I’m gonna take a belt to your sister’s butt. Then I’m gonna beat your mother and teach her who’s boss around this place.”

  Phil began crying, the tears mixing with the blood from his mouth. “Don’t force me to pull this trigger, dad. You’re making me do It! You’re crazy, dad! Insane. I mean it, dad. If you come any closer, I’ll pull this trigger. God forgive me, but I swear I’ll do it.”

  Phillip suddenly roared and charged the boy. Phil pulled the trigger, the report reverberating through the house. The big slug caught Phillip in the center of the chest, the force of the impact literally lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward. There was a shocked look on his face as he fumbled for the railing. Everything suddenly became clear to him, everything returned to him. He could hear the jack-in-the-box laughing as the music played.

  “Forgive me,” Phillip managed to say. “Forgive my son and guide him, God. I . . .”

  He felt himself falling, falling, falling. The darkness took him.

  Then there was nothing left to feel as his dead body slowly rolled down the stairs and came to rest crumpled and bloody on the floor.

  The neighbors came on the run. They rushed into the house. They gathered in numb, shocked silence, staring at the bloody body on the floor.

  One couple broke away from the group and went into the den. While his wife offered what comfort she could to Jeanne and Nora, the husband lifted the phone and punched the police emergency number.

  A patrol car was in the vicinity and arrived at the Baxter house in less than five minutes.

  The officer thought it strange that the child should be comforting the mother, whispering gentle words to her, calming her. He wondered about the woman’s bloody face and the bruised and swollen face of the girl. Such a pretty little thing, too.

  Phil sat on the landing, the .45 beside him. The boy was crying.

  The quartet of priests saw the flashing lights long before they reached the Baxter house. To a man, they knew they were too late.

  The bishop ordered Joe to pull over a block from the house. “We can’t tip our hand now,” he cautioned. “If the worst has happened, we have to find out how much control the girl now has.”

  “I can feel the evil from here,” one of the priests in the back seat said. “Bishop, I have never experienced anything like it.”

  “Nor I,” the bishop concurred. “Pull up a little closer, Joe.”

  A police officer stopped them as they slowly drew closer to the evil-emanating death house. Joe rolled down his window.

  “Officer,” h
e said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “I don’t know, Father. I don’t know if the family was Catholic.”

  “They aren’t,” a woman spoke from the snowy sidewalk. “They seldom attended any church. It’s just awful. I don’t understand why the boy killed his father.” She walked back to the warmth of her house and closed the door.

  “Good night, officer,” Joe said.

  “Good night, Father.”

  The priests drove slowly past the house. Through the open front door they could see the blanket-covered body of Phillip Baxter. They drove on.

  “You must not blame yourself, Father Debeau,” the Bishop said. “You did all that you could do. Had you not heeded the man’s warning, he might have killed you last night.”

  “I know,” Debeau said. “But that doesn’t lessen the pain. I have Sam Sobel’s number. I must call him, tell what has happened.”

  “He is in very grave danger,” the fourth priest finally spoke. “We must warn him.”

  “I shall,” Debeau said.

  No one noticed the gaunt-looking woman in the shabby coat standing at the edge of the woods behind the Baxter house. She was smiling.

  “It’s over for poor Mr. Baxter,” the younger of the priests said.

  “And just beginning for me,” Joe said. “I hope I don’t make any mistakes in dealing with this. A lot of innocent lives are hanging in the balance.”

  The bishop looked at him. “God will guide you, Father Debeau. And God does not make mistakes.”

  18

  “Phillip thought you and Debeau and Detective Weaver were all against him,” Sam told Sheela Harte. He was sitting in her office, both of them preparing to go to Connecticut. To view the body.

  The law firm personnel had immediately closed the office, many of them not believing the tragedy had happened. The office would not reopen until after the first of the year.

  “I sensed that from talking to him,” she said. “The. . . last time I spoke with him. Phillip was under terrible pressure from Nora. He was a strong man—a very strong man, mentally and physically—but no one mortal is strong enough to fight Satan alone.”

  “If you had known Phillip as I did, you would have known he would try. There was no backup in the man. None at all.”

  “Yes. I saw that.”

  “All right, Sheela. We’ve cleared the air. Now would you please level with me?”

  She sighed heavily and stared at him. “First I’ll tell you what Joe said about it. He said to plead with you to leave the city. Get out for a time. You’re in very grave danger here, Sam.”

  “The best friend I ever had in this world is dead,” Sam said. “I’m not running. I’ll see this through if it kills me.”

  “Nora might well kill us all, Sam. I’m . . . not at all certain you fully understand what we’re up against. Nora’s powers are awesome. I can’t stress that enough.”

  “I’m staying.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “All right, Sam. Well, there isn’t that much more to tell. As far as I know, the coming together of Phillip, Joe, and Paul Weaver was pure coincidence. I know Paul because I’ve used his services before. Joe had met him several years back. Paul told me late last night he didn’t want Phillip too deeply involved because Phillip was a lawyer.”

  Sam cocked his head. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I’m coming to that. I said coincidence. Perhaps it wasn’t that at all. I’m wondering about that. Perhaps a . . . higher power brought us all together. I don’t know.”

  “God?”

  “Yes.”

  “You leaning toward that supposition?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. How am I in danger, Sheela? Because I’m a Jew?”

  “Yes. That’s one of the reasons. The other is that to Nora, you’re the enemy. Weaver is a Nazi hunter. He has devoted a lot of free work in searching down old Nazis and bringing them to justice. In a manner of speaking.”

  Sam grunted. “Reading between the lines, I would have to say that Paul Weaver doesn’t always operate within the limits of the law.”

  “That is correct. And that is the reason he wanted Phillip kept somewhat in the dark. Paul knows—as does any reasonably astute person who doesn’t live in a cave in Tibet—about the resurgence of Nazism in this area over the past few years. He believes Otto Gunsche is here, directing the operation behind the scenes, so to speak.”

  When he heard that, Sam knew nothing could make him run away. Not now. “Including this . . . well, occult business?”

  “Paul doesn’t know if the two are directly connected. He thinks they may be.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s right.”

  “Debeau?”

  “The same. But let me add this, Sam. I’m frightened.”

  “Join the club,” Sam admitted.

  * * *

  Phillip looked so natural, so real, so alive. Sam expected him to sit right up in the casket and wisecrack, wearing that grin of his. Something like “Ha-ha, boys. I fooled you, didn’t I?”

  Sam mentally tossed that aside. He had to accept that his good and close friend was gone—forever.

  This will not go unavenged, sarge, Sam told him. I promise you.

  He shifted his eyes to what remained of the Baxter family, sitting alone across the deeply carpeted and hushed room. The little she-devil Nora sat demurely, her gloved hands in her lap. A very faint trace of a smile on her lips.

  Sam despised her with a passion that frightened him. He could scarcely contain his rage, his urge to kill. He fought the emotions back, back into the smoldering dark reaches of his mind.

  Their eyes touched across the room; a silent battle raged. Each understood the other as Satan threw down an invisible gauntlet.

  Silently and expressionlessly, Sam more than willingly, eagerly picked it up.

  Nora very slightly nodded her head in understanding.

  “Don’t look up,” Sheela warned in a low whisper. “But here comes Father Debeau and Weaver. Joe is wearing street clothes. Should be interesting to see how Nora handles this. And Jeanne. I’ll bet she won’t remember Joe.”

  “Does either Paul or Debeau have a stake in his hand?” Sam returned the whisper.

  She looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “To drive through her black little heart,” Sam whispered, the murmur failing to hide the harshness and hate within him.

  “Steady, Sam,” she said.

  “Mrs. Baxter,” Debeau said, extending his hand. “I am so sorry. I knew your husband only slightly. I was a . . . client of his. Please accept my condolences.”

  Nora abruptly excused herself, going to the ladies’ room. Loathing filled her at the mere thought of touching the priest’s hand. She felt like puking.

  Seated across the room, Sheela whispered to Sam, “Jeanne doesn’t recognize Joe. Now do you see how powerful Nora is?”

  “She has a weakness,” Sam said. “And I’ll find it.”

  Jeanne took Debeau’s hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Debeau. Joseph Debeau.”

  Not one trace of recognition crossed Jeanne’s face. She smiled and released his hand. Debeau and Weaver left her and walked to the open casket. Paul whispered, “The kid didn’t want to touch you. Why?”

  “Perhaps I left my mark on her,” Debeau said. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Weaver grunted. “I still think we ought to shoot her. I know, I know,” he said. “But now what . . . ?”

  “We view the remains and leave.”

  In the ladies’ room, Nora stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes glowed with evil fire and hatred. They rolled side to side in her skull; they spun up and down. The room grew warm; a slight sulfuric odor drifted about. No doubt about it, the child thought. The filthy priest was a strong man. And somehow he had gained even more strength in the past thirty-six hours. The “how” of that troubled Nora,
for she knew she had bested the priest the other night. Whipped him.

  Now she knew she would have to kill him. Kill Debeau, and anyone else who stood in her way.

  Especially Sam. She was going to enjoy doing that.

  Weaver glanced at Sheela as he walked past her, out of the room, and jerked his head very slightly toward the outside. Sheela had watched as Nora had left her chair. She had not returned. Sheela counted a slow sixty, then left the room, Sam with her.

  “Sam,” Debeau said. “Is it all right if we meet at your apartment in, say, two hours?”

  “The sooner the better,” Same replied.

  * * *

  “You know we’re going to have to kill the kid,” Paul said. “Let’s accept that as fact, and do it.”

  “I’ve told you, Paul,” Debeau said patiently. “We’ve been over all that. It’s far too late for it. Nora can be destroyed, but she cannot be killed.”

  “That makes no sense to me, Joe,” Sam said.

  “No mortal can kill her,” the priest explained. “It cannot be done without the help of God.”

  “You mean,” Sam said, “just as in law, there is a procedure? ”

  “That is correct.”

  “And that’s where you come in, right?”

  “Yes. But even I, who have studied Satan all my life, cannot do it alone.”

  “Then that’s where we come in,” Sheela said.

  “That is correct.”

  “All right. You want our help. Fine. But how can we help?”

  “You can be strong. You can be my eyes and ears in detecting any weakness in the girl. And when the moment comes, all our faith combined can destroy the child. But you must keep your faith.”

  “I don’t have any faith,” Weaver said sourly.

  “I don’t believe that, Paul. Your work has disillusioned you, that’s all. You have faith.”

  Weaver grunted, thinking: What a strange group of people. A lady shrink, a Jew, a Catholic priest, and a P.I. who doesn’t much believe in anything. Be a damned miracle if we pull this off.

  “No matter what we do,” Sam said bitterly, “it won’t bring Phillip back.”