Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  Nora listened intently, alone in her hospital room. Jeanne had left the room, believing Nora to be asleep. Phil was staying at Morgan’s house, with several of Morgan’s friends with him.

  “Herb Peery was set up,” the cop said. “Why, I don’t know. It’s crazy. But I damn sure intend to find out the why of it.”

  “Good luck,” Terhune said.

  The cop nodded. “You believe in God, doc?”

  “No, I don’t, detective. Never have.”

  “I do,” the cop said softly. He walked out of the morgue, leaving Terhune alone with his thoughts and the body of Herb Peery.

  Terhune put out a hand to steady himself as that odd sensation once more filled his head. He bent down to pull the sheet back over Peery’s body. He looked up as an attendant entered the room.

  “I’ll do that, doctor,” the man said.

  “OK, Bobby. Thanks.” He stepped away. “Have you seen Dr. Morrison?”

  “I think he’s gone home, doctor. But he has the autopsy scheduled for first thing in the morning.”

  “Fine. I want to be present for it. Well, see you in the morning, Bobby.”

  “Good night, doctor.”

  As Terhune walked back to his office, he felt that odd sensation once more fill him. He stopped in the hall and shook his head several times. The sensation would not go away. It seemed to be growing stronger. Terhune started laughing softly.

  “All right,” he said aloud. Several nurses passed him, looking at him oddly. “Yes,” Terhune said. “That sounds like fun. Fine.”

  Dr. Terhune walked to the elevator and took it to the top floor of the hospital. He walked to the door leading to the roof and stepped out into the cold, windy late afternoon. He walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. He smiled. He removed his jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it aside. He stepped up on the edge of the roof and beat his chest like Tarzan. Several people in the parking lot looked up.

  “I can fly!” Terhune yelled.

  The people below watched in horror as the doctor went off the ledge head-first. He landed in the parking lot, on his chest and stomach. He died about three minutes later, from massive internal injuries.

  Nora lay in her bed on the crisp white sheets, and smiled.

  She just loved to play jokes on people. It was such fun.

  * * *

  Sam instinctively dropped to the concrete floor the instant the candles were blown out. He lay very still, all senses working hard. When he could hear nothing, he began very quietly easing his way across the floor, toward the wall opposite the wall containing the swastika. He pulled the nine-mm from his belt and placed his left hand over the hammer, his right thumb cocking the pistol, the left hand muffling the metallic click. He waited, crouched in the cool darkness of what Sam believed to be an old torture chamber. Or a meeting place for Nazis. Same thing.

  Footsteps thudded on the overhead. Sam gripped the Colt tightly, then relaxed his hold so his fingers would not cramp. He followed the footsteps with his ears as they made their way from the den up the hall and into the kitchen. One person.

  The footsteps stopped in the kitchen.

  Sam then remembered he had forgotten to lock the front door before he came down to the basement.

  “Mike Hammer I ain’t,” he muttered. What am I doing here? he silently asked himself. Jesus, I’m in this thing so deep it would take a crane to pull me out.

  He heard the footsteps enter the pantry. The door was slowly opening. Sam leveled the Colt in a two-handed grip, silently vowing that he would not go into that long sleep quietly, or alone. He would take as many of them with him as possible.

  “Make every round count, Sam,” he softly murmured.

  The door suddenly opened with a bang as it struck the wall. Sam’s nerves were stretched so tightly he almost pulled the trigger at the noise. He heard a gasp from above him. Lights from the kitchen flooded the basement. Sam could see the person standing at the top of the stairs. He exhaled slowly as his jangled nerves began to quiet. He slowly lowered the nine-mm, easing the hammer down.

  Dr. Sheela Harte stood framed in the bright light. “Sam?” she called. “Sam, are you down there?”

  “Yeah.” Sam stood up. “Down here, Sheela. Dammit, I almost wasted you.” He had slipped back into the slang of Nam combat. “You almost got your shit blown away, lady. Stay where you are until I can light these candles.”

  The candles lighted and flickering, Sheela stepped down the stairs.

  “How did you know I was in the basement?” Sam asked.

  “I didn’t. But I looked everywhere else. Then I saw the door in the pantry and the keys in the lock. I didn’t know where else to look.”

  She stepped onto the basement floor and hissed her revulsion at the sight of the huge swastika.

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “In spades. Sheela, what are you doing here?”

  “I called Joe. He told me you were out here.” Her eyes touched his in the semigloom of the basement. “I’m being watched, Sam. I was followed partway out here, but I lost them.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Sam? Joe told me to tell you that your car was wired to explode. Paul disarmed the device.” She looked around her. “What is this place?”

  “I don’t know. Not for sure. A part of Hell, I think.” He showed her the heavy, cut-off bolts and told her his theory behind them. “I believe I’m right,” he concluded.

  She shuddered. “Let’s get out of this place, Sam. It gives me the creeps.”

  “Very professional summation of your feelings,” Sam kidded her.

  “Right now I don’t feel very professional,” she replied.

  The candles blown out and gathered up, Sam and Sheela climbed the stairs into the bright lights of the kitchen. Both of them experienced the eerie sensation of wanting to look back over their shoulder as they climbed the steps. Both were relieved as the door was closed. Sam locked it and put the keys back where he’d found them, storing the candles away.

  Sheela looked at the locked door and sighed.

  “Me too,” he said.

  She knew exactly what he meant.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  Sam leaned against the sink and looked at the woman. “Joe tell you everything that happened to me this day?”

  “Your gunfight?”

  Sam neither changed expression nor acknowledged her question.

  “Joe told me you killed three Nazis and wounded another,” Sheela said. “You and Paul switched cars and Paul is now attempting to get information from the wounded man.”

  “You know if you don’t go to the police you could be charged and jailed?”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And?”

  “My interest in this is personal. I don’t care what happens to any damned Nazi.”

  “When did you change your name?” Sam guessed at that.

  “I didn’t. My father did. Before I was born.”

  “And your father was from . . .”

  “Poland. He fought in the Warsaw uprising. My uncles and aunts and cousins were all killed there. Or starved to death. Most of them. Those that were found alive were taken to Treblinka. They were never heard from again.”

  Sam nodded. “And you aren’t in the least appalled by my violence?”

  “It has been my experience—admittedly limited—in dealing with Vietnam veterans that you all are capable of violence. Especially those who were in special units.”

  Sam laughed aloud. The laughter felt good after the oppressiveness of the basement room. His laughter was not at Sheela, but at her remarks. Someday, Sam hoped, the shrinks would get it all together and discover that what was normal as described within the dry pages of textbooks was not normal in a stressful situation. And “normal” was a multifaceted word, not meaning the same from person to person. And there sure as hell was no thing as a fair fight. There was a winner and a loser. Period.

  Sam remembered the day his father and mother ha
d watched as an older boy picked on Sam on the sidewalk outside their apartment building. The boy told Sam he’d make a mark on the sidewalk with the sole of his shoe. He dared Sam to step over it. While the boy was marking the spot, his head down, Sam knocked the hell out of him.

  When you’re right, you’re right. There was no such thing as a so-called fair fight.

  “Why are you laughing and what are you thinking?” Sheela asked.

  Sam told her. And told her about his early decision to win if pushed.

  “What did your father do about that?” she asked.

  “He said he would pray for me. I told him I’d rather be paid for some karate lessons.”

  It was Sheela’s turn to laugh. “And that didn’t sit well with him?”

  “You got that right.”

  As they walked toward the den, Sheela asked, “You consider it normal to kill three human beings?”

  “If they were trying to do harm to me, yes. Besides, Nazis aren’t human beings. They’re monsters. Surely you would agree with that?”

  She studied his face and vocally played devil’s advocate, flip-flopping. “You don’t appear to be overcome with remorse.”

  Sam elected not to play her game.

  After seeing he was not going to reply, Sheela said, “I have some news that . . . probably concerns Nora. I heard it on the radio coming over here. A Dr. Terhune—I missed his first name—jumped off the roof of the hospital about an hour ago. Witnesses said he wasn’t pushed, so it is listed as a suicide. I’ll bet you he was Nora’s doctor. And I’ll bet you he was suspicious about the rape.”

  “You’ll get no bet out of me. Sheela, I—we—keep getting deeper and deeper in this quagmire, and I can’t see any end in sight.”

  “We all warned you to stay clear of this, Sam. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”

  “Yeah.” Sam checked his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o’clock. He looked outside. Dark. “Come on. I’ll buy you an early dinner.”

  “You’re hungry?”

  “Hell, yes. Phillip . . . used to kid me about it. I even enjoyed C-rats.”

  “Rats!”

  “No, no.” He laughed at her expression. “C-rations. Military field food.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  The morbid, haunting music began, drifting from the upstairs.

  Sheela paled. “What in God’s name is that?”

  “The jack-in-the-box. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  25

  Both Sam and Sheela were relieved to close the door of the Baxter house, leaving the laughter and the music confined in the house. Sam followed Sheela back to the Parkway. Back in New York State, they pulled over at a restaurant they both were familiar with and went in. As soon as Sheela smelled the aroma of food, she realized she was ravenous. They ordered drinks and studied the menu. After ordering, with Sheela in awe at the amount of food Sam ordered, she said, “May I make a guess concerning your childhood?”

  “Sure. But why would you want to?”

  “Based solely on the amount of food you just ordered. Sam, one person can’t eat that much.”

  “Oh yeah? Wait until you see me sometime when I’m really hungry.”

  “Nobody eats two Cornish hens.”

  “Wait until the dessert cart comes around. I’ll really show you something. Now what revelations do you have about my childhood?”

  “Well, I’m just guessing. It’s a game I like to play. Your family was very poor, right?”

  He looked at her to see if she was serious. She was dead serious. “Poor? Me? Sheela, my old man retired a millionaire several times over. That’s just the money I personally know about. I really don’t know what’s he’s worth.” He grinned. “Pop uses another attorney for that. He thinks I still got a noodle for a brain.” Again he grinned. “I gave him plenty of reason to think that, I suppose. I drove a new Corvette to college my freshman year. After I wrecked that, pop bought me a new Thunderbird. I totaled that one—me and Phillip—and the state police jerked my license. I’m really not a very good driver,” he admitted. “I will always believe pop had something to do with pulling my license. He shipped a bicycle up to me. And he was a lot happier after I stopped driving.”

  Sheela laughed at him and at her own hasty and totally inaccurate assessment of Sam’s childhood. “Well, you can’t win ’em all. Where are your parents now?

  “Down in Florida, living it up. They earned it, raising me.”

  Sheela watched in undisguised amazement as Sam devoured everything on his plate and then ordered and consumed a huge ice cream with chocolate charlotte.

  “And you never gain a pound, right?” she asked, a slight note of jealousy in the question.

  “That’s right. I can still wear the clothes I had in college. I’ve got a lot of nervous energy to burn up. I guess that takes care of the calories.”

  “I’d hate to have to cook for you.”

  “It would be a relief to keep company with someone who could cook,” he said drily.

  And that little imp with the bow and arrows slipped up behind them and conked them both on the noggin.

  * * *

  “The wounded man is no longer wounded,” Paul Weaver said. “He’s dead. The Connecticut police are having fits about the bodies, but you’re in the clear, Sam. We all are. Now, about Nora. I spoke with a buddy of mine on the Bridgeport P.D. He doesn’t believe it was rape. And you were right, Sheela. The doctor who took a header off the roof of the hospital onto the parking lot was Nora’s physician.”

  “Otto Gunsche?” Sam asked.

  “No luck there. I dead-ended on finding out where he lives. The Nazi lived long enough to convince me he didn’t know. The four dead goons were minor figures in Otto’s Nazi cells. Otto and his nasties do dabble in devil worship, but I don’t know to what extent. Not as much as I had first thought. And I’ll tell you something that might come as a surprise to you, Sam: I’m beginning to believe Nora and Otto have no direct connection. I think it’s coincidence. But,” he said, holding up a warning finger, “the two could come together.”

  “Then would you please explain why those creeps were after me?” Sam asked.

  “I wondered about that. Just before he died, the Nazi told me. Ernest von Meter.”

  Sam sank back into his chair. He slowly nodded his head. “The Nazi I helped deport almost ten years ago.”

  “You got it. He’s out of prison and believed to be back in this country. Somewhere in the Midwest. Nebraska, the guy thought. But he’s still got a hard grudge against you, Sam.”

  “Von Meter has to be at least sixty years old,” Sam said.

  “Around that,” Paul said. “But he’s more dangerous than ever. With a strong neo-Nazi group of cells to back him up. And getting stronger.”

  “Well, to hell with him. How about the basement of the Baxter house?”

  “You’re probably correct in your assessment. But we’ll probably never know for sure. The man who owned the house in the forties, during the war, is dead. But he was antisemitic. Anyway,” Paul said with a sigh, “I’ve ordered your car sent back to the rent people. From now on, you wanna go somewhere, one of my people will take you. Same goes for Debeau and Dr. Harte. Now give me that nine-mm of yours, Sam.”

  Sam reluctantly handed over his Colt.

  Paul said, “I’ll dispose of this. If you are questioned about it, and I don’t believe you will be, just tell them you gave it to Phillip Baxter a couple of years ago.” He handed Sam another Colt Commander. “That one is legal and registered. To me. I loaned it to you for protection.”

  Sam hefted the nine-mm. “We sure are dumping a lot on Phillip.”

  “He won’t mind,” Paul said.

  * * *

  Father Debeau returned to his own residence several days later. There was no reason for him to remain at Sam’s. The autopsy on Herb Peery found nothing that would have caused him to behave as he did. Paul posted a twenty-four-hour guard around
Debeau, Sam, and Sheela—off-duty NYPD personnel Paul used occasionally. People he knew could keep their mouths shut. Christmas came and went with nothing happening. Nora returned home and stayed there quietly. Dr. Terhune’s death was ruled a suicide. Sam and Sheela decided to bring in the New Year together.

  New Year’s Eve, and at the Baxter house Jeanne was preparing to step back into society, her first time since Phillip’s death. At the quiet mental insistence of Nora. She was going to spend New Year’s Eve with Judy and Matthew Gipson.

  And Nora had something special planned for her precious brother.

  “You are both sure you don’t want me to have someone come over and stay with you?” Jeanne asked the kids.

  “Don’t be silly, mother,” Nora said. “We’ll be fine. We’ll probably go to bed early.” She yawned. “I am rather tired.”

  Jeanne looked at Phil. “That OK with you, Phil?”

  “Sure, mom. We’ll be fine,” the boy assured her. “You go on and have a good time. You need some relaxation.”

  She kissed them both just as a car honked outside in the drive. Jeanne was gone a few moments later.

  Nora looked at her brother with a smile on her lips. “I think I’ll go upstairs and take a bath, Phil. Get into bed and read for a while.”

  “Yeah, OK, sis. I’m going to sit in the den and watch TV.”

  “Goodnight, Phil.”

  “Goodnight, Nora.”

  She watched as Phil moved zombie-like to the den, switching on the TV and sitting down. He had no idea what was on the screen. Nora left him and took her bath, then dressed in her Nazi uniform, complete with polished, high boots. She fitted the death’s-head insignia on the collars and took a four-by-four-foot Nazi flag from a trunk in her closet. She hung it carefully, lovingly on the wall, where the red flag with a black swastika set in a white circle seemed to dominate the room, casting an evil aura over everything.

  She took the jack-in-the-box from the closet and placed it on the floor, opening the lid. The jack-in-the-box slowly, almost shyly, wearing its foolish, evil grin, came wavering and jiggling out of the wooden case. It bobbed and grinned and clicked its yellow teeth in front of Nora. Nora pointed to the Nazi flag on the wall. The eyes of the clown head shifted, staring at the flag.