Jack-in-the-Box

by William W. Johnstone

  “Neither do I. But what do we tell the police? That the devil made Phil or Nora do it?”

  “Damn!”

  “I concur. But that doesn’t bring us any closer to putting a stop to this madness, does it?”

  “What next, Paul?”

  “Kill Nora.”

  “But Father Debeau said . . .”

  Paul cut him off. “I know what Joe said. Listen, Sam, Joe is a very fine, decent man, a very honorable man. But he is basically a peaceful man. Naturally. It’s his profession. I’m not. Now I’ve got you all covered with my people and personnel from the NYPD. You might not hear from me for several days. You may never hear from me again. If you don’t, you’ll know I failed.”

  “Paul!” Sam shouted. “Don’t try this alone. One person can’t do it. But together . . .” He checked his words, realizing he was speaking to a broken connection.

  He told Sheela what had happened. “I got to call Father Debeau.” He punched out the numbers and heard a sleepy voice say hello. “Father Debeau?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sam Sobel.” He briefed the priest and told him what Paul was planning.

  Debeau sighed heavily. “The brave fool. And that poor Tremain boy.”

  “Joe, we’ve got to move, and we’ve got to move now.”

  “Don’t go off half-cocked, Sam. You’d be playing right into Satan’s hands.”

  “Do we have a choice, Joe?”

  “No.”

  After hanging up from Debeau, Sam called Jeanne. The phone was answered on the first ring. “Jeanne? I just heard. What is happening at your place now?”

  “The police are here, Sam. Oh God, Sam. It’s just terrible. Those poor kids.”

  “Put the officer in charge on the phone, Jeanne.”

  “Lieutenant Blassingham, Mr. Sobel.”

  When Sam donned his attorney’s clothes—in this case, his skivvies—he did not mince words. “Why are you there and what have you asked Phil?”

  “Relax, counselor,” the cop said. “Phil’s in the clear. We just wanted to ask him about Alec Tremain. We found where his father’s gun cabinet had been broken into. The kid was as surprised as anyone; showed us where his dad kept the key. Hell, Mr. Sobel, Phil was in his pajamas and sound asleep in front of the TV when the first team got here.”

  “I’m going to ask you honestly, lieutenant: Is it essential that I come out right now?”

  “No, sir. We’re clean on this end. We’re leaving right now.”

  “Will you be at work in the . . . this morning?”

  The cop grunted. “With eighteen dead kids, one kid stark raving insane, and the community up in arms—what do you think?”

  “Then I’ll see you in a few hours, lieutenant.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Steve Blassingham sat for a silent moment, staring at Sam. He cleared his throat and said, “Would you mind repeating that, Mr. Sobel?”

  “You heard me, lieutenant. It wouldn’t be any different the second time around.”

  “Ah . . . yeah!” the detective blurted. He rubbed a hand across a tired face. “Mr. Sobel, I really don’t appreciate your humor.”

  “I’m not joking, lieutenant.”

  Blassingham took a sip of cold coffee, grimaced, and tossed the paper cup into the wastebasket. “Devil possession? Evil jack-in-the-boxes? Haunted houses? Come on, Mr. Sobel!”

  “Call Detective Archie Fremont of the Bridgeport P.D. Ask him his opinion, off the record, of Nora’s rape. Go ahead.” He gestured toward the phone.

  “I been knowin’ Archie for years. But what’ll it prove?”

  “It might prove to you that Nora is vicious and cunning and ruthless.”

  “Maybe that’s true. But that don’t prove she’s possessed by the devil.”

  “It’s a starting place for you. I already know the truth.”

  Blassingham hesitated, then grabbed the phone. Bridgeport P.D. on, he asked to speak to Fremont. He chatted for a moment, swapping good-natured insults with the other cop as old friends will, and then asked about the rape case. Blassingham listened, grunting every now and then, said he’d be back in touch, and hung up.

  Blassingham looked at Sam. “That’s one for you, counselor. From what Archie said, I’d say the kid molested the guy and then started hollering rape. But it doesn’t prove devil possession.”

  “What faith are you, lieutenant?”

  “cathodic.”

  “Would you believe a priest?”

  The cop’s eyes grew wary. “Well, I’d sure listen to what he had to say.”

  “Nora killed a nun.”

  “Why wasn’t it reported? Never mind! I’m sure it’s got something to do with the devil.”

  “You want to talk with the priest here?”

  “No,” Blassingham said quickly. “Café just up the road. The priest with you?”

  “Sitting out in the waiting room. But I’d rather not meet in public. I want you to hear some tapes Phillip and I recorded.”

  “We can use the back room of the café. I’ve used it before. Guy who owns it is a retired cop. It’s very private.”

  “Half an hour?”

  “I’ll call ahead and tell him the two of you are on the way.”

  “Three. I have Dr. Sheela Harte with me. She’s a child psychologist.”

  “Naturally,” the cop said drily. “Why didn’t I guess? ”

  Blassingham listened to what Debeau had to say, what Sheela had to say—beginning from when Phillip first entered her office—and then listened to all the tapes.

  He leaned back in his chair, his face suddenly sweaty. “Jesus!” he said. “Holy Mother of God!”

  “I gather we can no longer compare you with Thomas?” Debeau asked.

  “I get the point, Father,” the cop said. “All right, let me play the doubter for a moment. Not that I’m fully convinced, mind you. Who killed all those kids at the Tremain house?”

  “Phil, probably,” Sam said. “But I doubt if he remembers doing it.”

  “That would depend entirely upon whether the boy has renounced all faith in God,” Debeau said. “If he’s now willingly in league with Satan, he knows exactly what he did, and will kill again if commanded.”

  Blassingham crossed himself. He looked at Father Debeau. “Can you . . . uh . . . you know, exorcise the kid?”

  “I doubt it,” Debeau said. “Priests are not magicians, lieutenant. Several weeks ago, on the night of Phillip’s death to be precise, four of us were coming to the Baxter house to do just that. When we saw what had happened, we all agreed it was too late. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what to do about the situation.”

  “I can work on the Baxter kid and maybe come up with enough to shake his story,” Blassingham said.

  “Nora would probably help you,” Sheela said. “In her sly little way.”

  “That would be cutting off just the tip of the tail of the snake,” Debeau said. “We want to crush the whole monster.”

  Blassingham shook his head. “Wait a minute, people. Just hold on. Jesus. I can’t go to my boss with this stuff. Any of it! He’d toss me out on my ear.”

  “There is a private detective name of Paul Weaver,” Sam said. “He’s been working on this with us. He’s going to try to fight Nora alone. Probably within the next day. Maybe today. He’s not going to make it alone.”

  “Now what are you trying to tell me?” Blassingham asked.

  “That Nora will kill him.”

  Blassingham nodded. “As I said, you know I can’t go to my boss with this. He’d have me committed. But OK, I’ll agree that wherever this kid, Nora, goes, something terrible happens. But,” he lifted his eyes, taking in the trio, “I get the feeling there is a lot more that you’re not telling me.”

  Debeau, Sam, and Sheela sat quietly. Debeau finally said, “What do you mean, lieutenant?”

  “Like those three neo-Nazis we found, shot to death with a nine-mm. I don’t suppose you’d own a nine-mm, Mr. Sobel?”


  “Sure do. I loaned it to Phillip Baxter.” Forgive me, Phillip.

  “Sure you did, Mr. Sobel.” Blassingham expelled a long breath of air. “This county just set a record for murders. That Tremain house looks like a slaughterhouse. I never seen anything like it. There’s maybe a couple of guys, three at the most, that I could convince to help me—us—on this thing. Maybe four guys; I forgot Shawn Cosgrave. Big, wild Irishman. He’d help, for sure. Christ, I must be nuts for doing this.”

  “Then you’ll help?” Debeau asked.

  “Yeah,” the cop said wearily. “Why not?”

  * * *

  The car pulled up behind Paul Weaver’s car, parked just up the block from the Baxter house. Two men got out. Paul knew they were cops the instant he spotted them. He watched them in the rearview as they walked up to his car.

  Paul rolled down the window. “Something, boys?”

  “I’m Shawn Cosgrove, this is Burt Riley. We’ll be working with Father Debeau and Mr. Sobel on this. . . thing, Paul, don’t try this alone.”

  “You boys going to stop me officially?”

  “No, Paul.”

  “You boys get in out of the cold. We’ll talk. I got a big thermos of coffee.”

  Seated in the warmth of the car, the off-duty cops accepted paper cups of coffee. Shawn said, “Anything going on at the Baxter house?”

  “That little she-devil knows I’m out here watching her and the house.” Paul said. He handed Shawn high-powered binoculars. “Top floor, last window on the front.”

  Shawn lifted the field glasses and sighted them in. “Yeah. I got her. Pretty little kid. But what is that thing she’s holding?”

  “Antique jack-in-the-box. It’s alive,” Paul tossed that at the cops.

  “Alive?” Burt said.

  Shawn dropped the binoculars and let out a yelp of pain as the glasses grew too hot to hold, burning his hands. “What the hell!”

  Paul chuckled grimly. “She’s been playing tricks on me for a couple of hours. Rocking the car, turning on the lights, the wipers, the radio. Turning off the heater, the ignition. She’s having a fine old time.”

  The engine suddenly died. The windshield wipers began working. The radio came on. But it was no local station. The funeral march began playing through the speakers. Burt Riley was suddenly bounced up and down on the back seat, spilling his coffee and banging his head on the roof of the car.

  The engine came back on. The wipers stopped working. The radio became silent. The cop in the back seat settled down.

  Paul never took his eyes off the faint figure of Nora, a half block away. “You boys see what I mean?”

  “Holy shit!” Burt said, squirming around in the back seat, trying to avoid the coffee spill.

  Shawn’s arm suddenly shot up, the hand held against the roof of the car by some immensely powerful invisible force. He tried to pull his hand down. He could not.

  “Relax,” Paul said. “Think of God. Of a worship service. That will free you. Or it should.”

  Shawn closed his eyes and thought of the past Sunday’s Mass. He recalled the priest’s sermon. His arm dropped free.

  “I’m not believing this,” Burt said. “I see it, but I’m not believing it.”

  Burt suddenly began rocking back and forth, his head whipping to and fro as his torso jerked uncontrollably.

  The cop’s movements were abruptly halted, the suddenness of it tossing him to the floorboards.

  “You boys sure you want in on this piece of action?” Paul asked.

  Burt crawled back onto the seat. His voice was shaky. “Could we back off if we wanted to? Not that I want to,” he quickly added.

  “I don’t think so,” Paul said. “That is just a hunch on my part. No, I think we’re closer to death than any of us have ever been. Another hunch on my part. I’ve had a lot of time to think about . . . spiritual matters sitting here today. Let’s just say I’ve gotten closer to God than I’ve been since I was a little boy.”

  The cops sat quietly and listened.

  The radio began playing a dismal dirge, the music draggy and off key.

  The music stopped.

  “I thought about making some sort of deal with God,” Paul said. “Then I recalled something a preacher said one time about God not making deals. So I rejected that idea. I think. But,” he sighed, “one thing I know for sure. And that is, that little monster in that house has to die. That’s the bottom line, boys.”

  “And you are . . . ?” Shawn left the question openended.

  “I’m going in that house after her,” Paul said. He pulled a Smith & Wesson model 57 from a shoulder holster. He hefted the big .41 magnum. “And I’m going to shoot her right between the eyes.”

  28

  Jeanne sat alone in the den—alone except for her thoughts. What she didn’t know was that the words in her head were not her own. She had known all along, as she had admitted to Phillip and Debeau, that Nora was an evil child. She had known all along her daughter had manipulative powers. She just didn’t know to what extent. Now she knew, but it was too late. She had no more control over her own thoughts, her own life, her own destiny. There had been a complete reversal of roles between mother and daughter.

  Nora was now in total control.

  But some very tiny part of Jeanne’s mind was fighting the new suggestions being silently forced into her brain. They were disgusting suggestions. Jeanne would absolutely, positively refuse to obey.

  The thought-thrusts became stronger.

  Jeanne would absolutely, positively refuse. Jeanne would absolutely, positively . . . Jeanne would absolutely. . .

  Jeanne would.

  She rose from her chair and picked up her purse. She looked up as Nora and Phil entered the room. “I’ll be driving up to Bridgeport to see about Aunt Morgan. I’ll be back late this evening.”

  “Do your duty, mother,” Phil said.

  “Yes, mother,” Nora said. “You will kill her, won’t you?”

  “Of course, darling,” Jeanne said.

  Jeanne slipped into her coat and left the house.

  Nora looked at her brother just as the haunting music began. Brother and sister began laughing.

  * * *

  “Sam,” Bob Turner said, “I know you and Phillip were more like brothers than friends and partners, but do you realize what you’re saying? Good God, Sam! We could put this down on paper and sell it to a scriptwriter.”

  Sam had expected this. If Bob or Ed had accepted the story straight out, he would have worried about their mental state. He shifted his gaze to Ed. “There are about ten members of the NYPD, one entire private detective agency—the ones we use—five or six members of a Connecticut police department, a child psychologist, and a priest working on this thing, boys. Just listen to these and then make up your mind.”

  He played them all the tapes.

  “Jesus Christ!” Bob blurted.

  Sam didn’t let up. He told his friends and partners everything. Those awful hours in the hall of the Baxter house. The hideous images. He and Phillip perhaps seeing the vague outline of Satan. He told him about Nora’s so-called rape. He told them everything.

  Ed slumped back in his chair in the firm’s conference room. “But there is still more you haven’t told us, right, Sam?”

  “I’ve told you everything that is pertinent to this matter,” Sam said shortly.

  “All right, Sam,” Ed said. “As you wish. Just what is it you want us to do about . . . Nora?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “Other than keep it to yourselves, of course.”

  “I’m gonna run right home and tell my wife,” Bob said sarcastically. “And I’m sure Ed’s going to do the same thing. I can just imagine her reaction.”

  “Pointless thing for me to say,” Sam said. “Forget I said it.”

  “What can we do?” Bob asked.

  Sam stood up, pushing his chair back. “I’ll be out of pocket for . . . , I don’t know how long. Until this mat
ter is resolved. I hate to dump my case load on you guys . . .”

  Ed and Bob both waved that off. Ed asked, “What else can we do, Sam?”

  Sam’s eyes were bleak. “Pray for me.”

  * * *

  The P.I. and the two off-duty cops watched Jeanne leave the house and drive away. As she drove past them, they all commented on the odd expression on her face.

  “Tail her,” Paul said. “If she heads for Bridgeport, get to the hospital ahead of her. I think she’s going to pull something.”

  “The old lady?” Shawn asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Shawn left, taking the unmarked car. Burt and Paul sat in the car and watched as Phil left the house, carrying something in a paper sack.

  “Now what?” Burt asked.

  “I don’t know. But you take the car and follow him. I’m going in that house and do what should have been done a long time ago.”

  He was out of the car and gone before the off-duty cop could protest.

  Burt lost Phil for a minute, then picked him up again as the boy cut through back yards. He seemed to be angling toward the old water tower, about a mile and a half from the Baxter house.

  But what would he be going there for? the cop thought. And what would he be carrying in that sack?

  Unanswered questions.

  Burt parked the car and continued following Phil on foot. He stayed well behind the boy and didn’t think he had been spotted—yet.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “No doubt about it. The kid is heading for the water tower.”

  But why?

  That question was soon answered as Phil pulled something out of the bag and discarded the bag. He was holding a long length of rope.

  Then it hit Burt. The kid was going to hang himself!

  Burt was still a good three hundred yards away when Phil started to climb the old tower. The cop began running and yelling.

  “Don’t do it, boy! Come on, now. Let’s talk about this.”

  Phil climbed faster. Burt slipped in the mud and fell heavily. Jerking himself up, he ran toward the tower.

  “Phil! Phil Baxter! Stop, Phil. Talk to me, boy!”

  Phil climbed faster and higher.

  “I ain’t gonna make it.” Burt panted. “I ain’t gonna make it!”