F. Wilson - Secret Histories

he’d inserted one of the slim little instruments that looked like a dentist’s probe into the opening and gently pul ed and pushed it forward and backward

inside—Mr. Rosen cal ed this “raking”—to move the pins and make them line up with the edge of the cylinder. Once they were al in line, the tension

wrench would be able to turn the cylinder and open the lock.

The tension wrench seemed to be the key—too much pressure on it and the pins

wouldn’t move; too little and they wouldn’t stay lined up.

It wasn’t hard work, but Jack could feel the sweat col ecting in his armpits. Mr. Rosen sighed and said, “We maybe should try a bigger lock. I thought this

might be better because it has fewer pins, but they’re smal and

sometimes harder to—”

“Hey!” Jack cried as the tension bar suddenly rotated.

A strange, indescribable elation surged through him as he heard the latch slide

back with a click. He grabbed the knob and pul ed open the door.

“I did it!”

Mr. Rosen clapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you, my boy. Once you get

that first success under your belt, the next wil be easier, and the one after that even easier.”

Jack stared down at the pick and tension wrench in his hands. He’d simply

unlocked a china cabinet, but he felt as if he’d opened the door to a world of infinite possibilities.

He glanced up and found Mr. Rosen staring at him.

“What?”

The old man shook his head. “I hope I haven’t created a problem.” Jack had a pretty good idea what he meant. He lowered his voice into Super

Friends mode.

“I promise to never use my newfound power for evil.”

Mr. Rosen’s stare widened. “‘Newfound power’?”

Jack laughed. “I remember reading something like that in a comic book once.” “This isn’t a comic book. This is life. Do I have your word you wil not use what

you’ve learned here today for anything il egal?”

Jack held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re a Boy Scout?” Mr. Rosen said with a frown. “I had no idea.” “Only kidding.” Jack laughed. “About the Boy Scout part, I mean. But I won’t do

anything il egal. I promise.”

And he meant it … at the time.

For the next hour or so, Jack worked on various locks around the store. Mr.

Rosen had keys to al of those, so it wouldn’t matter if Jack couldn’t pick them. As he worked he heard classical music waft from the front. Somehow Mr. Rosen

had found an FM station out of Phil y that played only classical. Jack

wished he had one of those new Walkmans so he could listen to his own music,

but his dad had refused to buy him one.

Turned out Mr. Rosen hadn’t been quite right: Each new lock did not become

easier than the last. But as each fel victim to Jack’s array of picks and

tension wrenches, he felt a growing sense of knowing what he was doing. He

learned to refine his raking technique and how to use the finer picks to nudge the more stubborn pins into line.

He felt a rush every time one clicked open.

He was sitting on an old ladderback chair near the front of the store, working on

a padlock, when an announcer interrupted Mr. Rosen’s music to say

something about someone’s “sudden col apse.” He dropped the lock when he

heard him mention the name “Vasquez.”

He leaped to his feet. “What was that?”

Mr. Rosen looked up from his newspaper. “One of the state legislators col apsed

at some ribbon-cutting ceremony today.” He stared at Jack. “You’re al right? Like a ghost you look.”

“I-I think I might have seen him last night.”

Mr. Bainbridge’s words echoed through his head: Theysaydeathscomein

threes.We’vehadSumter,andnowHaskins.Who’sgoingtobethe

third?

Wel , now he knew. He’d been worried that Mr. Brussard would be next, but it

hadn’t turned out that way.

What was happening? The most obvious explanation tied Jack’s innards into

knots.

According to Steve, Mr. Sumter had visited his father Monday night. Tuesday

morning he was dead.

On Tuesday night Mr. Haskins had visited Mr. B. Wednesday morning, Haskins

dropped dead.

Last night, Assemblyman Vasquez … and now he was dead.

Jack knew that at least two of the three men who’d visited Mr. Brussard had left

with a little red box. They’d been told it held something that would

protect them from the so-cal ed klazen.

Jack could come to only one conclusion. The klazen didn’t exist. He didn’t know

why or how, but he had an awful suspicion that whatever was in the boxes Steve’s father had given these men had kil ed them. And that would make Mr. Brussard a cold-blooded murderer.

“Steve’s father?” Weezy said, her voice hushed. “Ohmygod, I can’t believe it.” Jack shrugged. “Neither can I, but can you come up with any other explanation?” “Could be coincidence.”

Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Whoa! The girl who finds

conspiracies everywhere says ‘coincidence’? Three visits, three days, three deaths?”

She shook her head. “But we’re not talking about some mysterious stranger. This

is Steve’s father.”

He’d needed someone to talk to, someone who’d understand, someone who wouldn’t laugh at him. Only one person had fit that bil , though he’d had to

wait until she returned from her weekly trip to Medford with her mother.

They’d biked into the Pines, taking the easy way by finding a semipaved road running through the Wharton State Forest preserve. This was one of the

more civilized parts of the Pine Barrens, with canoeing and fishing areas, and even the restored Batsto Vil age. This time of year it was ful of tourists.

They’d parked their bikes and claimed an isolated park bench just off the roadway.

“You’ve got to tel somebody.”

Jack nodded. “I know. But who? And tel them what? What can I say without everybody thinking I’m crazy?”

“How about that deputy?” Weezy said.

She wore her usual black jeans, black sneakers, and a too-large black T-shirt with ChooseDeath in red letters across the back. As they talked she

used a long stick to draw patterns in the sand at their feet.

“Tim Davis?” He thought about that and decided it wasn’t a good idea. “Nah. He’d just think I was kidding him.”

“Then it’s gotta be your dad. I don’t think your sister or brother—”

“Tom? Puh-lease!”

“Wel , whatever, I don’t think they’ve got the gravitas to make the right people listen.”

“‘Gravitas’?”

She smiled. “My new word. It means substance, seriousness. I’ve been waiting for days to use it.” She patted the back of his hand. “Thanks.”

Jack’s hand tingled where she’d touched it. He felt something stir inside. He liked the feeling and wished she hadn’t taken her hand away.

He laughed to ease his inner turmoil. “You’re amazing.”

She smiled back at him. “And you’re very perceptive.”

They shared brief, soft laughter over that, then Jack sighed.

“I guess that leaves my dad.”

She looked at him. “You can’t talk to your dad?”

“Yeah, I can talk. But he doesn’t take me seriously. I’m fourteen but in his head I can tel he stil thinks I’m six.”

“At least you can talk to him. My dad …” She shook her head. “He doesn’t get me.”

Jack nudged her. “What’s not to get? You’re just a typical teenage girl al done up in fril y dresses and shiny little black shoes.”