F. Wilson - Secret Histories

and law students they know. In no time it’s al over the place.”

Mom shook her head. “What kind of a country has this become where you can’t speak your mind?”

“The real world,” Tom said. “The way it’s always been. You push, you should expect a push back. The secret is to make sure you’re on the side with the

most muscle.”

“How about being on the side that’s right?” Kate said.

Tom grinned, showing a piece of spinach stuck to one of his front teeth.

“Wake up, Kate. Might makes right.”

As Jack watched Kate shake her head sadly and go back to eating, he decided it was time for a little public pistachio shel ing.

After dinner, Jack fol owed his father upstairs to his folks’ bedroom. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

“Of course—as long as it’s not about that box.”

“It’s not. It’s about Mister Brussard.”

His dad looked at him. “What about him?”

Jack told him about the meetings, the little red boxes, the warnings about the

klazen, the lies, and the three deaths.

Dad was staring at him. “You shouldn’t be snooping on people. This is what happens with half-heard conversations. It’s cal ed taking things out of

context.”

“But they’re dead, Dad. Three visits, three red boxes, three dead people.”

He couldn’t know if Mr. Sumter had been given a box, but he assumed so.

“And you suspect Gordie Brussard of kil ing them?”

“Don’t you think it looks that way?”

A smile played around his dad’s lips. “Since when did you become one of the Hardy Boys?”

Angry, Jack clenched his jaw. He’d known someone would think that. He’d even thought it himself. But this wasn’t a novel. This was real y happening,

right here in Johnson, New Jersey.

“Cal me a Hardy Boy, cal me Nancy Drew, but there’s something going on.”

Dad sighed. “Remember that discussion we had about jumping to conclusions? Remember the trouble posthoc,ergopropterhoc can get you in?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

Dad had explained that the Latin phrase meant afterthis,thereforebecauseof this, and how it led to wrong conclusions and superstition. His favorite example was, ItrainedafterIdancedaroundafire,thereforedancingarounda firecausesrain.

“Wel , this is most likely a good example of that kind of thinking. Step back and look at it: What would Brussard’s motive be?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Right. And I can’t think of one either. Those three dead men are his Lodge brothers. They’re a very tight group.”

“But he said the klazen would find the ones ‘responsible.’”

“Responsible for what?”

Jack shrugged. “Murdering that man I found? I mean, that’s when people started dying.”

“There you go again, Jack. That’s a post-hoc conclusion: The deaths began after you found the body, therefore finding the body is causing the deaths.

Do you believe that?”

“Wel , it could be. The man was a Lodger that nobody even knew was dead until I found him, and then three Lodge members die in the week after his

body is identified. You think that’s just coincidence?”

Dad was silent a moment, then, “Odds are it is, but I have to admit it’s one hel of a coincidence.”

Yes! Dad was beginning to see the light.

“But,” Dad went on, “it’s also one hel of a leap to accuse Gordon Brussard of doing the kil ing. I’d almost prefer to blame this mysterious klazen.”

That shocked Jack. His dad was the least superstitious person on Earth.

“But no one’s ever heard of it. It doesn’t exist.”

“It doesn’t have to, Jack. Al it needs is for some people to believe it exists. Like voodoo. People who believe in voodoo and learn that it’s being used

against them wil often sicken, and some have even died. Because they believe someone with magic is trying to kil them. Septimus Lodgers believe al

sort of crazy crap—”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. They keep it to themselves. But when I was being courted they made veiled references to al the secret knowledge I would be privy to once

I joined. So maybe if they believe a kil er klazen is after them, they work themselves up into a heart attack. Don’t forget, they al died of cardiac arrest in

public places. Nothing came and tore their throats out.”

Jack wasn’t giving up. “But what’s in those little red boxes? What if it’s some sort of amulet with a spring-loaded poison needle?”

Dad laughed. “That’s it! No more. Any more pulp fiction talk like that and I’l send those old magazines straight back to Mister Rosen.”

Wel , okay, Jack thought as he took the stairs down, maybe an amulet with a poison needle was taking it too far, but something was going on. Had to

be.

After checking to make sure Tom was stil around, Jack retrieved his doctored pistachios from his room. Back in the kitchen, he made a show of pouring

a few dozen nuts onto the counter from the untreated bag. Keeping the spicy ones separate, he shel ed five of those first.

From the corner of his eye he saw Tom walk past the doorway, slowing as he looked into the kitchen.

Perfect.

He shel ed two of the regular nuts and ate them.

Kate finished loading the dishwasher and leaned against the counter.

“Mind if I snag a couple?” she said, pointing to the pile.

“Not those,” Jack whispered without moving his lips.

Her eyes widened. “You mean …?”

Nodding, he quickly shel ed a couple of regular nuts and slid them toward her. As Tom passed again, Jack pretended to take them from the pile and

hand them to her.

“Here you go,” he said in a louder voice.

Kate popped them into her mouth and smiled. “I was going to go read, but maybe I’l hang around awhile.”

She opened the paper and began to flip through it.

“Oh, look,” she said. “Here’s a picture of that assemblyman just minutes before he died. What a shame.”

Jack resisted snatching the paper from her. Instead he hurried around the counter and stared over her shoulder.

The grainy photo showed a grinning Assemblyman Vasquez holding a large pair of scissors poised to cut a wide ribbon outside a shopping mal . Yeah,

he was the guy in Steve’s house last night.

“Wel , I’l be,” Kate said. She tapped a figure in the smal crowd behind Vasquez. “Look who’s there: Bert Chal is, our trusty insurance man.”

Jack stifled a gasp as he recognized him. Hadn’t Mr. B said he was in L.A. at some convention? A strange comment came back to him:

Idon’tknowaboutyou,butBertChallisworriesme.

Worried him how?

Had he been there to warn Vasquez … or was he the problem?

Just then Jack spotted Tom peeking around the edge of the doorframe. He lowered his voice again.

“I think the show’s about to start.”

As Jack resumed his seat on the far side of the counter, Kate wandered back to the sink and pretended to be busy.

With Tom watching, Jack shel ed five more hot ones, al of which he added to the pile. That done, he made a show of opening one untreated nut and

popping it in his mouth. Then a second. Then he quickly shel ed the rest of the doctored nuts and added them to the pile.

Tom, apparently unable to hold out any longer, glided into the kitchen and slid the nuts off the counter into his palm.

“Gotcha!”

“Hey!” Jack cried. “Better not. Those are hot.”

“Not this time. I saw you and Kate eating them.”

“I’m warning you,” Jack said.

Kate chimed in. “Better think twice, Tom.”