All water under the bridge. What he really wanted were answers, so he turned back to Mr. Foster.
“What were they looking for?”
“Remember I told you about things hidden in the Pinelands? That was what they were after: hidden things, lost items. And don’t ask me if they found any. I don’t know.”
This wasn’t getting anywhere. Jack took a gamble and said, “Could any of it have been part of the Secret History of the World?”
Mr. Foster trained his blue gaze on him. “Where did you hear of that?”
“From a friend.”
“The girl Mrs. Clevenger told me about? She seems quite fond of her. She’s the one who found the mound?”
“Yeah. But I’m the one who found the cage.”
“What cage?”
“The one made of big stones and shaped like a pyramid.”
Mr. Foster stared at him. “You have been exploring, haven’t you?”
Jack only shrugged.
“What makes you think it’s a cage?”
“Just a guess … I mean, from the way it’s built. Am I right?”
He nodded. “You haven’t told anybody about it, have you?”
Jack shook his head. “We didn’t want it dug up. We learned our lesson the first time.”
“You’re wise beyond your years. Some people live entire lives without ever once learning from experience. I thank you for that.”
Jack shrugged again. “I don’t like trespassers either.”
Mr. Foster laughed. “You’re quite something.”
“What was kept in the cage?”
The old man’s smile vanished. “Something long gone.”
“A lion? A tiger? A bear?”
I sound like someone from The Wizard of Oz, Jack thought. His mind flashed back to the shadowy thing he and Weezy had encountered last month.
“Take your pick.”
That wasn’t an answer. He seemed to be taking a cue from Mrs. Clevenger. Why couldn’t anyone give a straight answer?
“But it escaped.”
“How do you—oh, I see. The broken stone. Yes, it probably did. But it doesn’t matter. It’s gone. Extinct.”
“It could have bred—”
“Forget about it. It’s gone.” He glanced at where the sun was kissing the treetops. “And speaking of gone, that’s what you should be. It will be dark soon.”
Mrs. Clevenger arrived then.
“I should be going too,” she said.
Mr. Foster nodded to her. “Good seeing you, as always.”
Jack wondered why he didn’t offer the old woman a ride. Then again, Mrs. Clevenger always seemed to prefer moving about the Pines on her own. Mr. Foster turned and gripped the handle of the passenger door.
“Let me check on our little friend here…”
But as he pulled open the door the young raccoon leaped out and darted at full speed into the brush. In a flash it was gone.
Jack gawked at the spot where it had disappeared.
“But … but its legs! How—?”
“Couldn’t resist, could you?” Mrs. Clevenger said in a scolding tone. Jack turned and realized she was talking to her dog. “You know about the natural order.”
The dog stared up at her, panting, then shook itself.
“But its legs were broken,” Jack said. “How did it run—?”
Mr. Foster shrugged. “I guess they weren’t as bad as they looked.”
They were just as bad as they looked, Jack thought. Bloody, bent the wrong way … as broken as broken could be.
Then the dog had licked them.
Jack looked at the dog. The dog looked at him. Suddenly he felt creeped out.
“He’s not magic, is he?”
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Clevenger said, her lips flirting with a smile. “Let’s think about that. If I had a magic dog, that would make me a witch, wouldn’t it.”
Jack felt a chill. All those stories about Mrs. Clevenger being the reincarnation of the famous Witch of the Pines. Nonsense, of course. Fun to joke about, and scare little kids—he remembered being scared when his brother Tom had told him about it—but not to be taken seriously at his age.
Well … easy to joke about when hanging out at someone’s house. But here in the Pines, standing with these two strange people and an even stranger dog, with the sun setting, and a definitely crippled animal jumping up and running away, it didn’t seem the least bit funny.
Mr. Foster laughed. “She’s only teasing you, Jack.”
“Of course I am,” she said. “Dear boy, I’m no more a witch than your own mother.”
“And speaking of your mother,” Mr. Foster said, “I’ve never met the woman, but I imagine about now she’ll be wondering if you’re going to be late for dinner.”
Jack knew that wasn’t true. They always ate later than most people. But he took the hint.
“Yeah, I guess I’d better be going.”
Mr. Foster offered his hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Jack, but that doesn’t mean I hope we meet again. And I say that with only the very best of intentions.”
Jack’s hand seemed to disappear inside Mr. Foster’s as they shook. On the surface he seemed to be referring to his warnings about trespassing, but Jack couldn’t escape the feeling that he might have been talking about something else.
“Company,” Mrs. Clevenger said.
Jack looked and saw Weezy stopped about a hundred feet away.
“Is that the girl?” Mr. Foster said.
Mrs. Clevenger nodded. “That’s her.”
He tapped Jack on the shoulder. “Tell her what I told you: For your own good, stay off this land.”
Jack nodded as he hopped on his bike and rode toward Weezy.
“What are you doing here?” he said when he reached her. “I thought you said—”
“My mom went out and I needed to escape the house. Who’s that?”
“Mister Foster.”
Weezy’s eyes widened as she studied the man. “He’s real?”
“And how. And I just saw the weirdest thing.”
“Tell me about it as we ride back. I need to be there when my mom gets home or she’ll think I pulled a Marcie Kurek.”
“Run away? You—”
“Can’t say I haven’t thought about it.”
“Aw, Weez—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got nowhere to go and no way to get there.”
That was a relief.
“Okay, let’s go.”
As they rode away Jack felt six pairs of eyes on his back.
8
A violent thunderstorm swept in from the west just before dinner and knocked out the electricity. Jack looked out his bedroom window and saw that the whole town was dark. He heard a tap on his door and saw his father standing there with a flashlight.
“Can’t read, can’t watch TV,” he said. “Only one thing to do in a storm like this, don’t you think?”
Jack pumped a fist. “Lightning Tree!”
As he followed his father down the hall and through the living room, he heard his mother say, “Be careful.”
They dashed through the pelting rain to the car. After a quick drive through the eerily dark town, they parked at the end of Quakerton Road in Old Town, about a hundred feet from the Lightning Tree.
At some time in the past, before the memory of anyone living, it might have been a stately oak, but it was hard to tell now. Lightning had hit it so many times that most of its branches were gone, leaving only a tall, thick, charred trunk. It looked like a giant used wooden matchstick.
No one knew why, but something about the tree attracted lightning. It didn’t take a hit from every storm, but often enough to make the trip worthwhile. Sometimes half a dozen cars would be parked around the tree, waiting.
Theirs was alone tonight. Jack’s father used to drive him out here a lot when he was younger. Some fathers and sons went fishing or hunting together; Jack and his dad watched storms, though not so much nowadays. Maybe Dad though
t Jack was too old for it, or not interested, or too busy. Maybe all that was true, but Jack felt good coming out here again. Like old times.
“We’re kind of late,” Dad said. “It might have been hit already.”
Jack squinted at the top of the trunk, a tall shadow in the dim light. “I don’t think so.”
Dad turned off the engine. “Well, if that’s true, then we shouldn’t have too long to wait.”
As they slid back in their seats, Jack figured this would be as good a time as any to ask. But how was he going to slide into the subject?
He tried, “You’ve taught me a lot, Dad.”
“Hope so. And I hope it’s worthwhile stuff.”
“Oh, it definitely is.” Here goes, he thought, taking a breath and speaking as quickly as he could without garbling the words.
“Howaboutteachingmetoshoot?”
Jack concentrated his gaze on the tree as he waited for the reaction. It took a while coming. Finally …
“Shoot? Where did that come from?”
“Oh … just talking to a kid today whose father had been teaching him to target shoot. They were looking to buy marbles for targets—that’s how good he was getting.”
“You’re getting a little old to still be wanting a BB gun.”
Still studying the tree, he said, “Yes. I agree.”
Another pause, then, “Oh, no. Not a chance.”
Finally he looked at his father and found his blue eyes cold, his features like stone.
“Come on, Dad. I’m in high school. Guys I know have been shooting since they were little kids.”
“Yeah. Hunting. Is that what you want to do? Hunt?”
“Well, no.”
Locals often gave his folks venison or game birds when they had more than they could use, and Jack enjoyed eating them, but centering a deer in his sights and pulling the trigger, or blasting a pheasant out of the sky …
He’d have to be really hungry before he could do that. And maybe not even then.
“I was thinking of just a twenty-two. You know—for target practice.”
“A rifle is a killing tool. You do target practice to improve your killing skills. If you’re not going to use it to kill, you don’t need target practice.”
“Come on, Dad. It’s an Olympic sport. I—”
His father held up a hand. “Let me save you some breath and both of us some time: No guns in my house. Ever.”
“But—”
“I repeat: No. Guns. In. My. House. Ever. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?”
“Not even for home protection?”
“That’s what we pay the police for.”
“But what if someone’s in the house and—?”
“No, Jack. No.”
“I heard Mister Bainbridge call you ‘Deadeye.’”
“When?”
“Back in the summer. That must mean you were a good shot and—”
His father gripped Jack’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze—not painful but hard enough to ensure his attention. He locked his blue eyes with Jack’s.
“Look, Jack, I understand that you think guns are cool and fascinating and maybe even fun. I suppose I did too when I was a kid. But you get older, you have some experiences—”
“Like what?”
He looked away. “Like seeing men die from having half their head shot off, or worse, slowly bleed to death.” He looked at Jack again. “Let’s not bring up the subject again, okay? When you’re grown and living on your own, you can buy all the guns your heart desires. Live in an armory if you want. But here? No. Never.”
Jack wondered what had happened in Korea to affect him like this. Mr. Bainbridge had been over there with him and he hunted at every opportunity, and always seemed ready to talk about the war. Not Dad. He treated it as if it never happened.
The answer, Jack was sure, lay in that lockbox in Dad’s closet. If he could just get past that crummy little lock.
He decided to change the subject.
“Hey, Dad. Do you have a guiding principle?”
His father glanced at him. “A what?”
“You know, an idea or something that guides your life.”
“You mean like a philosophy?”
Jack shrugged. “I guess so.”
Dad was silent a moment, then said, “I guess I believe that all men are created equal, with unalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness—or something like that. Not original with me. You know where that comes from, right?”
“Sure. The Declaration of Independence.”
“Good. I think it pretty much says it all. A lot of good people have died to protect those rights. And I do believe they are unalienable. You know what that means?”
“They can’t be taken away.”
“Right.”
“But what if you’re a slave?”
“Just because some thug prevents you from exercising those rights, doesn’t mean they no longer exist. You have to—”
They both jumped as a bolt of lightning split the sky and lit up the inside of the car as it hit the top of the tree, loosing a shower of multicolored sparks. The immediate blast of thunder shook the car and rattled Jack’s teeth.
He slapped the dashboard and shouted, “Yes!” as his father whooped. They’d timed it just right.
Jack held out his hand for a five slap, but his father shook it instead.
“This was good, Jack. I’m glad we came.”
Except for the no-gun part, Jack couldn’t agree more.
THURSDAY
1
Jack pried at the window to the boys’ room. It moved a lot more easily this time. At least something was going right. For a while tonight he’d thought he wasn’t going to make it here at all.
The earlier thunderstorm had worried him. If it stalled and hung on through the night, he’d have to cancel his planned trip to the school. But it petered out shortly before midnight.
And so here he was in the wee hours of Thursday morning, standing on a bike seat in the middle of sopping bushes and yanking on a window.
The last thing Jack had done before leaving school earlier was slip into his now favorite bathroom stall and unlatch the window again. He didn’t know if anyone was noticing his recurrent trips—he doubted it because different guys were in the boys’ room whenever he came through—but anyone who did might think he had colitis or something.
Oh, well. Small price to pay.
Again, that uneasy sensation that eyes were on him, but when he looked around he saw no sign of life. Shrugging, he turned back to the window.
He wore only jeans and a rugby shirt this time and found he slipped through with much greater ease. The nylon warm-up had been perhaps a tad too clever. He guessed you could overthink things. Best to always remember the KISS rule: Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Toliver’s new lock opened just as easily as the old one. A shim didn’t care what the combination was.
Now, decision time: How to set this up?
He could simply leave the can inside on the top shelf and hope that Toliver would open it and make a fool out of himself. But he’d be suspicious as all hell. He’d probably notice that the can was too light to be full of peanut brittle and didn’t rattle when he shook it. It would take a real dummy not to guess it held something other than candy, and Toliver was no dummy.
Another option was to take the snake and coil it behind the locker door so that it popped out as soon as Toliver opened it. But that was exactly what had happened with the spider. Yeah, it would spook Toliver that someone had invaded his locker again, but anyone watching would have a feeling of déjà vu or been-there-done-that.
Jack liked a third option best: Set up the snake for a delayed deployment. It would be tricky but he thought he could bring it off.
He got down to work …
2
On the way home, as usual, he passed a variety of roadkill and the Lonely Pine Motel. He’d noticed Miriam’s station wagon there on
the way out, but now he noticed something else.
A man stood by the car, staring at the door to room three.
Jack slowed his bike and stopped, squinting through the dim blue light from the roadside neon sign. Something familiar about him …
And then he recognized Weird Walt.
Jack backed his bike deeper into the shadows. He didn’t want to be seen, and was curious what Walt was up to out here at two in the morning.
Had he come to try to cure the baby’s arm? Did he really think he could make it grow? But even if he did, why now? Why not in the light of day?
Maybe he didn’t want anyone else to know.
Walt took a step toward the door, then stopped. He seemed uncertain, and radiated something Jack couldn’t quite grasp. He took another step, then abruptly turned and started walking away—north along 206, toward Johnson.
Jack waited until Walt had gone at least a hundred yards before cutting across the highway and taking the back paths home.
While he waited he wondered about what he had just witnessed. Why had Walt walked a couple of miles to get here, only to turn around and go back? What had just happened? Or not happened? Or almost happened?
And then he realized what he had sensed in Walt as he’d stood outside that door: fear.
Walt had been afraid. But of what? Certainly not Miriam or her child. What, then?
3
Jack yawned as he stood with the group. The yawns had started a few minutes ago and now he couldn’t stop. So tired.
No mention of Easy Weezy on the inbound bus today. An encouraging sign, but that didn’t mean the story was dead.
First thing after leaving the bus, he’d dashed to the boys’ room to relock the window, then hurried back to the senior lockers. The area seemed more crowded than usual, and then Jack realized that some of the kids were hanging around near Toliver’s locker. So Jack hung too.
Just a face in the crowd.
When Toliver arrived he noticed the crowd as well. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he played to it.
“Come to see if my secret admirer’s left me another present?” he said with a grin.
This earned smiles from his audience.
Jack: Secret Vengeance Page 8
