F. Wilson - Secret Histories

They resumed their journey toward Steve’s house—maybe tonight they’d make some real progress on the Heathkit—and were just crossing Quakerton

Road when Steve pointed off to their left.

“You see that?”

Jack fol owed his point but saw nothing.

“What?”

“A guy walking toward the lake. Looked like my dad.”

Real y …?

Jack looked again. Streetlights were few and far between in Johnson so it might be a while before whoever it was passed under another.

“Does he go out for walks much?”

“Hardly ever.”

“Probably not him then. But just for the heck of it, why don’t we fol ow and see?”

Because if it was Mr. Brussard, Jack wanted to know what he was up to.

His stomach tingled as they hung a left and hurried along. Tracking an unsuspecting man … kind of cool.

Then a strol ing figure passed under a light ahead.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Steve said. “Let’s catch up.”

Jack spotted a light in Steve’s eyes. He seemed to real y like his dad.

Jack felt a growing sense of disappointment. Mr. B wasn’t doing anything other than walking. Looked like he was heading for Old Town, most likely to

the Lodge.

They were getting closer as he came to the Old Town bridge, but instead of crossing over he veered right.

Interesting.

Quaker Lake was real y a pond, but “lake” sounded better with Quaker. It had a sort of dumbbel shape with the bridge crossing the narrow point. Mr.

Brussard stood on the bank of the south section, staring across at the Lodge on the far side.

As they approached Jack saw him reach into a pants pocket, pul something out, and throw it into the lake.

Whoa! What was that al about?

Jack mental y marked the location of the splash. He might want to come back sometime.

After another moment or two of staring—watching the ripples fade?—Mr. B turned and looked around and spotted them. He looked surprised and

concerned, but his tone was pleasant.

“Hey! What are you two doing here?”

“We were on our way home and saw you,” Steve said.

Before Mr. B could answer, a stocky man with longish black hair strol ed up. They shook hands and Mr. B introduced him as Assemblyman Vasquez.

Vasquez … Mr. B had mentioned him last night. Jack had the impression this was a prearranged meeting because neither seemed surprised to see

the other.

“Mr. Vasquez and I have things to discuss back at the house. What are you boys up to?”

“We’re gonna work on the computer,” Steve said.

“I think I’l take a rain check on that,” Jack blurted. “I’ve got a couple of lawns to do early tomorrow.”

True, but not why he was begging off.

“Later,” he said, and trotted away.

But instead of heading home he began running through the shadows. Sure as night fol ows day they’d be walking back along Quakerton Road. To avoid

it he cut through backyards, setting more than one family dog to barking. Jack wanted to reach the Brussard house first.

Now I am acting like a boy detective, he thought as he crouched in the shadows of the Brussards’ yard. How lame is this?

But so what? He had nothing better to do. TV offered only summer reruns anyway.

The man he’d seen with Mr. Brussard last night had dropped dead, and now this Vasquez guy they’d mentioned shows up. He sensed something going

on, but couldn’t say what.

No way he could talk to his folks about it—they’d think he was crazy.

Hey,Dad,there’sthisthingcalledaklazenthat’skillingmembersoftheLodge andMisterBrussardthinkshecanprotectpeopleagainstitbuthe’s

notdoingtoowell.

Right. That would fly—right out the window. They’d be rubberizing his bedroom.

He knew he should mind his own business, but he couldn’t. He told himself he wasn’t out to solve a crime or anything—wasn’t trying to be the Hardy

Boys—he simply wanted to know.

He had a good view of the front of the house from here. He’d watched the three of them enter, and now he saw the two men step into the den. After a

moment or two of hesitation—what if he got caught?—he steeled himself and crept forward to peek through the open window.

Mr. B and Vasquez stood facing each other. Steve’s father cradled an open humidor in one arm and was placing a little red box in Vasquez’s hand.

He heard Mr. B saying, “Wel , here it is, Julio. I tried to help Sumter and Haskins, but I don’t think they believed the klazen was such a real threat. Don’t

you make the same mistake.”

Some of what fol owed was garbled as they turned away from the window—then he heard him say, “… tomorrow at dawn, face your back to the sun,

and use it.”

Use what? Was the “it” in one of those little red boxes? Jack was dying to know.

The rest was garbled as wel . Next thing he knew, Mr. Brussard was leading the assemblyman out of the room. Jack darted back into the shadows and

watched the front door. He saw that strange handshake fol owed by good-luck wishes, and then they parted.

When Vasquez was gone, Jack crept back to the window and stared at the humidor.

What was in it? More little red boxes? And what was in them?

Not knowing was making him crazy.

When Jack got home he found his folks sitting side by side on the couch watching HillStreetBlues. After a little smal talk, he pretended to head to the

kitchen for a snack, but instead he sneaked upstairs to their bedroom. He went straight to his father’s closet, stood on tiptoe, and grabbed the box. As he

pul ed it down he heard things clink and thunk within.

Marksmanship medals and what else? Maybe some bul ets or other souvenirs from Korea. He reached for the latch, but stopped.

This didn’t feel right.

Since when was he so nosy, he wondered, feeling the cool metal against his palms. He’d gone from eavesdropping on Mr. Brussard to poking through

his father’s private belongings.

No … the reason this didn’t feel right was because it wasn’t right.

But something inside was pushing him, egging him on to pop the lid and take a look. Just one look—how much could it hurt? He pressed the lid release

and—

Nothing happened.

He pressed again but the lid wouldn’t budge. He fingered the tiny keyhole: locked.

Just his luck.

But the key had to be somewhere. He went to Dad’s dresser and searched the top. No luck. He pul ed open the top drawer, the sock drawer, where

Dad kept a shal ow bowl for odds and ends. Jack found spare change and rubber bands and paper clips, but no key.

And then an idea hit—he knew exactly what to do.

Replacing the box on the shelf, he closed the closet door and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He went straight to the cutlery drawer and pul ed out

one of the black-handled steak knives. It had a slim blade and a sharp point.

Perfect.

He slipped it into his pocket and sneaked upstairs again. Kneeling by the closet with the box cradled in his lap, he worked the knife point into the

keyhole, twisting it this way and that. He did it gently to avoid scratching the metal, but no matter how he angled or wiggled or twisted the blade, the lock

refused to turn. He fought the temptation to give a quick, hard twist—that might bend the blade or, even worse, break the lock. How would he explain that?

Disappointed, he stared at the knife, then at the lock. They made it look so easy on TV.

Wel , no use in sitting here like he was waiting to get caught.

Quickly he replaced the box, angling it just the way he’d found it, then made his way back downstairs as quietly as possible.