F. Wilson - Secret Circles

No harm in hoping, he guessed.

But hope was dashed when he reached Quakerton and saw

Mrs. Bockman tacking a flyer to one of the utility poles. She wore a pinkish warm-up and sneakers.

He coasted up behind her and got a look at the poster: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? across the top, and a picture of a smiling, blond-haired kid below—the same photo Tim had shown him yesterday.

Jack didn‟t know what to say besides, “Can I help?”

She started and turned. Her brown hair was messy, like she hadn‟t combed it in a while, and her eyes were baggy and bloodshot like she‟d been crying instead of sleeping.

“Oh, Jack,” she said in a wavery, high-pitched voice. “Have you seen him? Have you seen my Cody?”

“No, ma‟am.” He hadn‟t meant to say “ma‟am”; it had simply popped out. Maybe because here and now, speaking to this devastated woman, it seemed right . “I haven‟t. But I can help you post those flyers.”

She hesitated. “I … I don‟t know. I need to be doing something.”

“Well, you can be looking for him while I‟m doing this. I‟ll put two on every pole in town—one facing each way.”

More hesitation as she stared at him. Then, “You were always nice to Cody, Jack. He looked up to you.”

Looked … that sounded like she didn‟t think she‟d get him back.

“We‟ll find him. Let me post those.”

“Okay. Every pole in town, both sides of the highway, right?”

“Right. Every pole.”

She seemed relieved. “Thank you, Jack.”

She finished posting the one she‟d been working on, then gave him her hammer, a container of tacks, and a box of flyers.

Jack hauled it all back to the Connell house and asked for help. Weezy was on board in a flash.

Eddie was griping about not being able to find his Star Trek electronic phasers — he‟d wanted some target practice—but even he volunteered. They got hammers from their father, split the flyers and tacks with Jack, and were on their way. Weezy took the south side of Quakerton, Eddie the north—because he was already there and wouldn‟t have to ride far—and Jack took Old Town.

As he passed the Lodge he had an idea. He coasted up the walk and knocked.

The man called Eggers, dressed in his all-purpose dark uniform, answered. He didn‟t know if Eggers was a first name or last. Not sure of his exact function either. He acted as doorman and chauffeur, but Jack wondered if he might be some sort of bodyguard too. He certainly looked powerful enough.

“May I help you?”

“Can I speak to Mister Drexler?”

Jack tried for another view of the mantel as Eggers did a Frankenstein-monster half turn and stepped back, but no luck. Mr. Drexler appeared in the doorway immediately, dressed in his usual immaculate white suit and tie.

“Yes, what is it? I hope you‟re not collecting for anything.”

“It‟s not about money. It‟s about a missing boy.”

Mr. Drexler‟s eyes turned to ice. “I‟ve heard about it. Terrible thing. You can‟t possibly think I know anything about it.”

Jack peeled off about a dozen flyers and held them out.

“No way. Why would you? I‟m just helping find him. We‟re hanging up these flyers and I wanted to know if you‟d take some.”

Mr. Drexler stared at them as if they might carry germs.

“And do what with them? Send Eggers around with a hammer and nails?”

“No, I just thought you might be able to hand them out to some of the Lodge members.”

“This is not the VFW or the women‟s club. We do not have smokers and don‟t find tea parties the least bit entertaining.”

Whoa. Talk about a cold guy. But Jack wasn‟t going to back down. He straightened his arm, pushing the flyers closer.

“Well, just in case you see any of your Lodge brothers. You know, just to help out. He‟s only five.”

Mr. Drexler hesitated a second, then snatched the stack from Jack‟s hand.

“Very well. If I see any. And now, good day.”

Some people …

As the door began to close, Weezy‟s words from last night popped into his head.

…promise me you’ll find a way in, because if you think I’m going to drop this, you’re wrong…

And with them, an idea.

“Who‟s doing your lawn?”

“At the moment, no one.” Mr. Drexler gave him an appraising look. “It occurs to me that I have on occasion witnessed you riding your bike around town trailing a lawn mower behind you.

From that may I infer that you cut lawns?”

“Um … you may. Want me to do yours?”

“The local Lodge‟s landscaper—former landscaper, I should say—has been released for

incompetence. More accurately: inattention. I believe in hiring locally, so … are you capable?”

Jack did a quick mental calculation. Lots of grass around the Lodge. Easily three times the average lawn, maybe four. What to charge … ?

“Absolutely … but it‟s a lot of property …”

“We‟ll pay you fifty dollars a week until frost halts growth. Is that sufficient?”

Sufficient? Was he kidding? Jack charged five bucks for the average forty-five-minute mow. He didn‟t know what to say.

Mr. Drexler sighed. “Very well, sixty dollars, but that is my final offer.”

Jack found his voice. “Deal.”

“Excellent.”

Mr. Drexler‟s cold blue eyes fixed on him, and for an instant Jack felt like a field mouse being eyed by a hawk. But the feeling vanished almost as soon as it came.

Rich! He was going to be rich ! Plus he‟d have lots of opportunities for another peek at the mantel.

“I hope you understand,” the man added, “that includes weeding the flower beds and such.”

“Weeding? Sure.”

For sixty bucks, of course he‟d weed.

“Good. Now that we‟ve come to terms on that—you drive a hard bargain, my boy—good day.”

He closed the door and Jack walked away thinking about how flush he was going to be and how this was a foot in the Lodge‟s door. He was sure, given enough time, he could work his way inside.

He moved on and attached a flyer to every pole and tree along every street in Old Town. A lot of them already sported posters for the Taber & Son Circus. As he tacked up Cody‟s picture next to one of those he thought of the canvas boss from last night and what he‟d said.

“Again?”

Had there been a connection between the circus and the boy who had gone missing in

Michigan? If so, there definitely could be one with Cody‟s disappearance.

But what could he do? He was a fourteen-year-old kid. He could do only so much. Tacking up the flyers was something, but didn‟t seem enough.

Had to be something else. If so, he‟d find it.

2

Every so often—like today—Jack got a chance to pick a lock.

After the posters were up, he

rode down to USED to see if Mr. Rosen needed him.

“I‟m glad you‟re here,” the thin old man said as Jack came through the front door. “We‟ve got a little work to do.”

Jack had begun working here last spring. USED sold pretty much anything and everything, as long as it was used. Well, not appliances or anything like that, but all sorts of furniture, books, magazines, toys, dishes, glassware, clothes, what ever. Jack cleaned and dusted, rearranged, and manned the cash register whenever Mr. Rosen took one of his naps in the back room.

A mahogany cabinet stood on gently curving legs near the front counter. Jack hadn‟t known mahogany from pine when he started, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to identify all the different furniture woods.

“A fellow brought it in yesterday, just as I was closing,” Mr. Rosen said. “He wasn‟t asking an arm and a leg, so I bought it. A nice piece.”