F. Wilson - Secret Histories

shelf at the far end of the room.

“Now I know you’ve heard parts, or maybe even al of this before, but you’ve

never heard it like this.”

He seemed to be trying to sound cheerful when he real y wasn’t. If that was the

case, he was doing a lousy job.

“Heard what?” Steve said.

“Tchaikovsky’s 1812Overture.”

Steve groaned. “Aw, man! Classical music?”

Jack was no fan himself. The only thing he liked less was opera. Listening to

some of those fat ladies’ wailing voices was like fingernails on a

blackboard.

“Wait. Just wait. It’s a long piece, but I’m going to get you to the good part. This

was digital y recorded and they used realcannons for the finale. You’ve got to hear it to believe it.”

Jack didn’t know what “digital y recorded” meant, but real cannons … that might

be cool.

Mr. B fiddled with some buttons. “Let me advance it to the sixteen-minute mark

so as not to strain your short attention spans. There. Now … listen.”

With a flourish he hit a button and instantly the living room fil ed with an

orchestra playing a familiar tune Jack had heard a mil ion times on commercials and TV shows. But loud. And so clear. No hiss, no static, no pops … just pure

music.

And then the cannons started blasting. Jack jumped and almost dropped his

Pepsi can. He looked at Steve who was looking back al wide-eyed and

amazed. The explosions were so real and so loud Jack could feel them vibrating

through the floor into his butt. He started laughing with the pure excess of the sound.

When the cannons stopped, Steve’s father turned off the music and hit a button

that popped a little drawer out of one of the components. Then he turned to them.

“Ever hear anything like that? You’ve just experienced state-of-the-art tweeters

and mid-range speaks plus a sixteen-inch subwoofer.” He held up a

silvery plastic disk. “Al playing this.”

“What’s that?” Steve said.

“It’s cal ed a compact disc, or CD, for short. It’s the latest thing in music.” Steve’s father was known as a gadget freak. As soon as anything new came out,

especial y in electronics, he’d be on it.

Jack had never heard of a CD, but he wanted to hear more. The sound quality,

the bone-rattling bass … the possibilities …

“Do any of these CDs have real music—I mean, rock music?” He looked at Steve.

“Just think what Def Leppard would sound like.”

Steve grinned. “‘Foolin’!’ Yeah. That would be awesome!”

“Sorry, guys. Not much available yet, and it’s mostly classical. But in the future …

who knows?”

“Can you play that again, Dad?”

He popped the disc back in the tray, slid it closed, and did his thing with the

buttons.

“You listen. I’l be right back.”

As soon as his father left the room, Steve hopped up and rushed to the nearby

liquor cabinet. While the cannons boomed and shook the room, he

pul ed an unlabeled bottle from within and poured a long shot into his Pepsi. He

replaced the bottle, closed the door, and was back at Jack’s side just as the music began to wind down.

From upstairs he heard Mrs. Brussard yel ing, “Would you please turn that noise

down?”

“Okay, guys,” Mr. B said as he hurried back into the room. “I’ve got some cal s

to make, so why don’t you two hit the basement and get to work on that computer.”

Steve jumped up. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

As Jack fol owed Steve toward the basement door he glanced back and saw Mr. Brussard standing by his rack of stereo equipment, staring off into

space with a worried expression.

Though the music had been awesome, he wondered if Mr. Brussard had used this new CD player as an excuse to get him over so he could quiz him

about the body.

9

“Are you trying to get caught?” Jack said when they reached the finished basement.

Steve grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, that just makes it more fun.” He offered his Pepsi to Jack. “Sip?”

Jack hesitated, then took the can and swigged.

Awful.

“You do know how to ruin a good Pepsi,” he said, handing it back. “What’s in there this time?”

Steve tended to grab whatever was available from the liquor cabinet. He didn’t seem to care.

“Applejack.”

Jack shook his head. Dad had given him a taste once—”To take the mystery out of it,” he’d said—and he’d hated it. Burned his tongue and nose and

made him cough. Same with Scotch, although that tasted more mediciney. And beer … he didn’t know about other brands, but Dad’s Carling Black Label was bitter. He couldn’t imagine ever liking beer.

Give him Pepsi any day.

“Let’s get to work.”

They had al the pieces to the Heathkit H-89 laid out on a card table. The company had been bought and had stopped making the kits, but Steve’s

father had picked up this 1979 model for a bargain price. Jack couldn’t wait to get it assembled and up and running. It looked so much cooler than Dad’s

Apple because it was al one piece: keyboard, monitor, and floppy drive al in the same casing.

According to the instructions they were almost halfway there. They’d have been further along if Steve had been more help. But he’d developed this thing

for liquor.

He hadn’t always been like this. In fact he’d never been like this before he went away to that Pennsylvania soccer camp last month. He was a great

soccer player, and because of that he tended to get teamed up with older players. Jack had a feeling some of those older players had introduced Steve to

hard liquor and it had flipped some sort of switch in his head.

“Why don’t you put off your cocktail or whatever until we’ve got the CPU instal ed.”

The Heathkit came with a Z-80 processor, whatever that was, which was the heart and brain of the computer. If they didn’t instal it correctly, nothing

would work.

“Okay, okay.”

He took a long swig before placing the can on the far corner of the table, then he moved up beside Jack to study the diagram. Jack was a little worried

about him.

“Stil don’t know why you want to ruin the taste of a Pepsi.”

“Wel , the booze tastes too bad to drink straight.”

“Then why—?”

“Because maybe I like the way it makes me feel, okay?” he said with an edge in his voice.

Obviously Steve didn’t like talking about it. Maybe he knew he had a problem. Jack tried warning him off another way.

“Sooner or later your dad’s going to notice his bottles getting empty, and since they can’t be emptying themselves …”

Steve gave a dismissive wave. “My dad’s too busy at the Lodge to notice.”

Jack couldn’t hide his surprise. “The Lodge? Your father’s a member of the Lodge?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Like forever. Why?”

“Nothing.”

But Jack’s mind whirled. Just a little while ago when Steve had asked if his father had known the dead man, Mr. Brussard had said he’d “heard of him.”

But if they were both members of the Lodge, wouldn’t he have more than heard of him?

1

Professor Nakamura lived on the other side of Route 206 in the wel -to-do area of Johnson—the most recently developed section, where they had real

sidewalks and curbs and where homes tended to be bigger and more lavish than regular folks’. Since it occupied the westernmost end of town, as far as