F. Wilson - Secret Histories

Two boxes—Mr. Brussard’s and his father’s—and no idea of what they held. Maybe he’d never know.

Bummer.

He didn’t feel like watching HillStreetBlues —for a cop show it was mostly talk—so he headed for his bedroom. He stil had that issue of TheSpider to

finish. He passed Kate’s room—empty. Same with Tom’s. Both were out. He didn’t know where they’d gone, but he knew it had to be far from Johnson.

Nothing happening here. Ever.

He stopped when he came to his room and noticed the closed door. He always closed it when he was in it, but left it open when he was out. Could have

blown shut, but it was a heavy old hunk of wood and he hadn’t noticed much of a breeze tonight, if any.

Only one possibility: Tom.

Anddon’tthinkyou’rehomefree,numbnuts.Ineverforget.Reprisalisonthe way.It’llhitwhenMiracleBoyleastexpectsit.

Wel , Jack hadn’t been expecting anything tonight. Was this it? Had Tom left a booby trap of some sort before going out?

Jack inspected the doorknob. Nothing on it. He turned it and eased the door open an inch or so. He checked the space above the inside of the door

just in case Tom had set that corny old bucket-of-water-over-the-door trick. He couldn’t see Tom coming up with anything original.

But no—no bucket poised above. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and stood on the threshold, examining his room from a distance.

Finding nothing obvious, he stepped in and looked around.

At first everything seemed fine, but then a strange sensation began to creep over him, a feeling that something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on

exactly why or how, but he was sure someone had been in here, poking through his stuff.

Things weren’t quite as he’d left them. At first glance TheSpider magazine looked right, but then he noticed how its back cover was partial y bent under

it. He’d never leave it like that—not after Mr. Rosen’s warning. He picked it up and smoothed it out. A least it hadn’t left a crease.

He took another look around. He was sure it hadn’t been his mom. Because if she’d messed with TheSpider she’d have left it in a nice neat pile with

his comic books. She was a neatnik. When she came into his room—or any room, for that matter—she couldn’t help straightening and neatening things

up. Nothing here had been straightened. Touched, yes, but not straightened.

That left Tom.

Careful y, Jack opened his closet door. No problem. He pul ed the string to light the bulb in the ceiling. He was wearing his Vans today, and his black

Converse Al -Stars lay where he’d kicked them off Monday. Or did they? He couldn’t be sure. He picked them up and looked inside to see if Tom had left

him a little surprise. They were stil damp from Monday’s rain, and didn’t smel al that great, but he found nothing hidden inside. The clothes on the

hangers looked pretty much the same, but the top shelf …

Someone definitely had been messing around up there.

He stepped out and dragged his desk chair over for a better look. His comic book col ection was arranged in the usual way, but he could swear he’d left

his Hulks stacked against the left wal . They angled out now. He checked for his jar of leftover pepper juice. Yep. Stil sealed and as red as he’d left it. If

Tom had been up here he’d have taken it for sure and tried to figure out a way to use it on Jack.

But if it hadn’t been Tom, then who?

No. Had to be Tom.

He jumped down and pul ed the chair back. But why hadn’t he taken anything, or left anything?

Maybe whatever he was up to was stil in the planning stage.

As Jack pushed his chair into the desk’s knee hole he noticed how the screen in the window to the right wasn’t seated square in the frame. Never

noticed that before.

Why not?

Because I’m paranoid now, that’s why.

Maybe that was what Tom was up to. What did they cal it? Gaslighting. Right. Do weird little things to someone to make them think they’re crazy, like in

that movie.

But that wasn’t Tom’s style. A bucket of water over the door was more his speed.

Wel then, what was the story with the screen?

Jack stepped over to it and saw that the old-fashioned hook-and-eye latch had popped free. He grabbed the hook, pul ed the screen al the way in, then

latched it.

He looked out into the darkened yard. Their property lay on the north flank of Johnson and backed up to a neighboring cornfield. He couldn’t see the

moon itself, but its light played off the stalks.

Had somebody come in through the window? That somebody could be out there now, watching him. In fact he almost felt as if someone was.

He shook off a chil . Nah. Nothing like that. He was just reading too many weird books and magazines. Why on Earth would any stranger want to sneak into his room? Not as if he kept a fortune in his desk.

Desk—his money from USED and mowing.

He pul ed open his middle drawer and found his neat stack of bil s. Whew!

Get a grip, Jack.

A little later he flopped back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Somebody—a somebody named Tom—had been in his closet tonight. And the

only reason for that would be that he was planning something.

Since the best defense was a good offense, Jack figured it might be smart to do some planning of his own. But not something completely different. He

didn’t want to waste a second idea on Tom. Besides, he had al that pepper juice left.

He lay there thinking, scheming, and after a while he felt a smile stretching his lips: the exact same trick, only this time with a new wrinkle.

He went to the kitchen and searched through Mom’s junk drawer—where she kept everything she had no other place for—and found an old eyedropper

he’d seen some time ago. He grabbed that and the pistachios and headed back to his room.

He set up at his desk with the pepper juice and the eyedropper. This time he wouldn’t shel the nuts. Instead, he’d dose them while they were stil inside.

He picked out fifteen good-size nuts with wide-open shel s. Using the dropper, he added a generous amount of juice into each opening. When he was

finished, he placed the nuts on the windowsil to dry—and couldn’t resist taking a quick look outside to make sure no one was there.

Back in the kitchen he replaced the bag of pistachios in the cabinet. Then he wrapped a paper towel around the eyedropper, crushed it under his heel,

and threw the pieces into the trash. No way he wanted anyone—not even Tom—to use that on their eyes.

He returned to his room and dropped back on his bed, thinking about Tom sneaking through his room, just as he’d been in Dad’s. He didn’t like the

idea, just as Dad wouldn’t.

Maybe he should just forget about that box. He couldn’t get it open anyway.

Then he remembered something he’d seen at USED and suddenly the world seemed a little brighter.

“Hi, Mister Rosen!” he cal ed as he strol ed into USED. “It’s me, Jack.” “I can hear you,” the old man said as he ambled from the rear. “In China they

can hear you.” He glanced at the clock. “And it’s just after nine. What are you doing here three hours early?”

Jack held up the issue of TheSpider he’d finished last night. “I wanted to bring

this back.” He gently and reverently laid it on the counter. “See? The