F. Wilson - Secret Histories

“It’s real y bizarre.”

Even better.

“Tel -me-tel -me-tel -me!”

“Okay. Wel … Jenny told me that it seems whoever kil ed the man cut off his forearms at the elbows and crudely sewed them into his armpits.”

“What?”

Kate nodded. “Truth, I swear.”

Jack tried to envision it but had trouble. “Oh man, that’s so weird. Was he …?”

“Alive when they did it?” Kate smiled as she gave him a gentle slap on the back of his head. “Mister Morbid … I knew you’d ask.”

“Wel ?”

“Was he alive when they cut off his forearms? No.”

That was a relief—in a way.

“But what does the arm thing mean?” He snapped his fingers as an idea hit. “Maybe it has something to do with stealing.”

“Traditional y thieves lose their right hand—and it’s not sewn into their armpit. I asked Jenny about it and she says the medical examiner’s going to

make some cal s, but he’s never heard of anything like it.”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with the diamond scam.” Jack lowered his voice into an imitation of Weezy’s ooh-spooky tone: “Maybe it’s an ancient,

secret cult, living unseen in the Pinelands for thousands of years, kil ing and mutilating unwary victims who cross their path! Mwah-ha-ha-ha!”

She laughed and ruffled his brown hair. “Stop it. You read too many of the wrong books and watch too many crummy movies.”

The crummy part was sure true. He’d seen Jaws3-D last month and what a waste of money—crummy 3-D and crummier story.

Kate pointed to the pistachios. “May I have one?”

He cupped his palm around the pile and pushed it toward her. “You can have them al .”

And he meant it. Anything Kate wanted she could have, no questions asked.

She took just one, picking it up between a dainty thumb and forefinger. “This’l do.” She popped it into her mouth and stepped to the door. “You want this

closed?”

He nodded. “Definitely.”

“You’re not going to have nightmares tonight about being chased by short-armed men, are you?”

He laughed. “As if.”

On the other hand, that might be kind of cool—as long as it was only a dream.

As soon as the door closed he went to work shel ing another half dozen pistachios. When he was done he dropped the whole pile into the tepin bowl

and swirled the mixture around and over them. Satisfied they were al nicely coated, he picked them out one by one and lined them up on his windowsil to

dry.

When he was finished, without thinking, he licked his two wet fingertips and instantly his tongue and lips were on fire. Fire! Like he’d licked the sun.

He jumped up and dashed across the hal to the bathroom for water, but remembered Mr. Canel i’s words just in time: Wateronlymakeworse.

His mouth was kil ing him, making his eyes tear. What had the old guy said to use instead? Ifyouburnyoumouth,takemilk.Ormaybebutter.

Jack dashed for the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator. On the door he spotted an open stick of Land O’Lakes butter. He gouged a piece off the end

and shoved it into his mouth, running it al over the burning area. Slowly, the heat eased—didn’t leave entirely but at least became bearable.

He hurried back to his room and stared at the drying pistachios. He’d touched just a drop—less than a drop—to his tongue and look what happened. If

Tom ate that whole pile …

Jack didn’t want to think about how that would feel. Might be too much payback, even for Tom.

But on the other hand, Jack wasn’t handing them to his brother. Tom would have to steal them to taste them.

The decision would be Tom’s, the outcome entirely up to him.

8

Steve couldn’t open the cube either.

They’d been sitting at the Brussards’ kitchen table where Jack had demonstrated

the technique at least a dozen times.

He wondered if Steve had already been drinking. His fingers seemed kind of clumsy.

“Hey, Dad!” Steve cal ed. “Come check this out!”

Mr. Brussard strol ed in from the living room where Jack could hear some sort of

classical music playing.

“What’s—?” He froze in the doorway like he’d been hit with a paralyzer ray. His

eyes were locked on the cube. “Where did you get that?”

Remembering Weezy’s warning, Jack told a vague story of the two of them

digging it up in the Barrens a while back.

He concluded with, “I’m not even sure I could find my way back there.” Not true, of course, but his promise to Weezy overrode Mr. Brussard’s nosiness. “Get this, Dad. It’s impossible to open—at least for me.”

Mr. Brussard frowned. “What makes you think it opens?”

“Jack showed me how but I can’t do it.”

Mr. Brussard stared at Jack. “You can open it?”

Jack wondered why he looked so surprised. “Yeah. Kind of weird that I’m the

only one.”

“Yes … yes, it is.”

Jack picked it up. “You ever seen anything like it before?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s very strange looking, isn’t it.”

Jack wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling Steve’s father wasn’t being total y honest. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Open it for me,” Mr. Brussard said. “Let me see you do it.”

Jack showed where he placed his thumbnails, then popped it open. Mr.

Brussard’s eyes popped too.

“But it’s empty!”

Obviously. But he was acting as if he’d expected to see something. Jack told him about the pyramid. No point in keeping that a secret. Mr. Rosen

and Professor Nakamura already knew about it, along with a bunch of

people at U of P, no doubt. So why not?

When Jack finished, Mr. Brussard looked like he had an upset stomach. “It’s at U

of P? For dating?”

“Yeah. Can’t wait for the results.”

“Neither can I,” he said in a flat tone. “Be sure to tel me.”

“Hey, Dad,” Steve said, clicking the cube back together and handing it to him.

“See if you can open it.”

Jack showed him, placing the man’s thumbnails in the seam as he’d done for

everyone else who’d tried.

“Now … pul them apart.”

Mr. B did just that—

And the box popped open.

“You did it!” Steve cried.

Mr. B didn’t seem surprised, but Jack certainly was. He didn’t know if he felt

relieved or disappointed that he was no longer the only one. He’d belonged to an exclusive club, with a membership of one. Now …

“Cool!” Steve said, snapping it back together again. “Let me give it another

shot.” Just then the doorbel rang. When Mr. B opened it, Jack saw a worried looking

man who seemed vaguely familiar. They shook hands in a funny sort of way, then Jack heard the newcomer say, “Gordon, we’ve got to talk. Sumter—” Mr. Brussard shushed him. “Wait here.” He returned to he kitchen and said,

“Okay, boys. Got some business to discuss. Why don’t you two get back to work on the computer?”

“Okay,” Steve said. “We’re almost done.”

His father pointed to the cube. “You can leave that here.”

Jack remembered Weezy’s warning: Don’tletitoutofyoursight. But he didn’t

have to say anything. Steve did it for him.

“Uh-uh,” he said, stil fiddling with it. “I’m gonna get this yet.”

Jack took another look at the nervous man and suddenly knew why he was

familiar: Every few years he plastered his face al over the county during the freeholder elections. The freeholders ran the county, and Winston Haskins was

one of them.

The funny handshake, Steve’s remark about how his father was so involved in