F. Wilson: Secret Histories

Just as they reached the bikes, the sky opened like a bursting dam. They huddled in the center of a thick copse of young pines.

“Under a tree,” Weezy said. “The worst place to be in a storm.”

Jack knew that, but didn’t see as they had much choice. Even under the trees they were getting soaked.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Weez,” Jack said, “we’re in the middle of the Pine Barrens. If you know of a place without trees, I’m al ears.”

Weezy said nothing more, just crouched on her haunches, her eyes closed and her fingers in her ears. Eddie too. They both jumped with every

thunderclap.

Jack didn’t get that. He loved thunderstorms—their fury, their unpredictability, their deafening light shows fascinated him. Same with his father. Many a

summer night they’d sit together on the front porch and watch a storm approach, peak, and move on. Sometimes Dad would drive him over to Old Town

where they’d park within sight of the Lightning Tree. For some reason no one could figure, the long-dead tree took a hit from every storm that passed

overhead.

The thunder grew louder, the lightning flashed brighter, the rain fel harder. The world funneled down to the copse and little else. Nothing was visible

beyond their clump of trees. Water cascaded through the branches and swirled around their feet. Might as wel have been in the shower—except Jack

wished he could have cranked up the hot water handle.

He felt his Converse Al -Stars fil ing with water.

Swel .

After a couple of forevers, the storm tapered off. When the rain final y stopped they stepped out of the copse and shook themselves off.

Jack took off his T-shirt and wrung the water out of it. Eddie fol owed suit. Weezy didn’t have that luxury. Her Bauhaus shirt was plastered to her; she

pul ed it free of her skin as best she could. Her soaked hair looked almost black, her bangs were plastered to her forehead, and her ponytail had become

a rattail.

“Look at us,” she said. “Three drowned mice.”

“At least we didn’t get hit by lightning,” Eddie said. “Let’s get home. I need to dry off.”

“But I haven’t mapped the mound yet.”

Eddie rol ed his eyes. “You’ve gotta be kidding! You can come back any time—”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

“Come on, Eddie,” Jack said, nudging him with an elbow. “What difference is a few more minutes going to make?”

“Okay, okay. I’l stay with the bikes.”

She pul ed out her notepad and regarded it with dismay. “Soaked!”

But that didn’t stop her. She hurried ahead, hopped on the mound, and began retracing her steps. The sun popped out as Jack fol owed. Now he

welcomed it.

Weezy stopped where Eddie had broken through the crust and pointed to the edges.

“See this? I was so mad at him I didn’t notice before, but it’s real y weird.”

Jack saw what she meant. Eddie had shattered a four-or five-foot length of the crust into about a zil ion irregular pieces, but the edges of the broken

area—the near, the far, and both sides near ground level—were perfectly straight. Could have been cut by an electric saw.

The rain had done a number on the soft sand within the mound, washing it out and fanning it around the break like a cloud. Jack didn’t know what kind

of cloud it resembled, but he was sure Weezy could tel him.

He kicked over a random shard of crust and spotted something shiny and black beneath it. Before he could react, Weezy was on her knees and al over

it.

“What’s this?”

She started scooping away the surrounding wet sand, gradual y revealing a black cube the size of a softbal . Gently, cautiously, she wriggled her fingers

beneath it.

“Why don’t you just pick it up?” Jack said.

“Because it may be attached to something.” Her fingers must have met on its underside because suddenly she lifted it free and held it up. “Heavy!”

She laid it on the ground between them and began to examine it, tilting it a little this way and a little that.

Jack knelt opposite her. “What do you think it is?”

She shook her head, looking as baffled as he felt. “I don’t know. Some kind of stone—onyx, maybe? It’s got no writing on it, but I get this feeling it’s …

old.” She looked up at him. “Know what I mean?”

Jack couldn’t say why, but he knew exactly what she meant.

“Yeah. Very old.”

“And where there’s one there’s probably others.” Her eyes were wide with wonder and excitement. “Help me, Jack?”

He laughed. “Try and stop me.”

He wanted one of those cubes for himself.

So they started digging—not easy in the wet sand. But they kept coming up empty. Frustration was beginning to nibble at Jack when his fingertips

scraped against a hard surface.

“Got something!”

He dug his fingers down on each side of whatever it was and pul ed it up.

And found himself looking into the empty eye sockets of a rotting human head.

He stared in mute, openmouthed, grossed-out shock. Beside him, Weezy screamed.

Jack spotted a sheriff’s patrol car rol ing down Quakerton Road, Johnson’s main drag, just as he, Weezy, and Eddie raced into town. Johnson—often

confused with Johnson Place, fifteen miles northeast of here—wasn’t big enough to rate its own police force, so the Burlington County Sheriff’s

Department patrol ed the streets.

Trouble was, the cruiser was moving away.

Jack threw extra muscle behind the pedals and started waving an arm and yel ing as he chased it. Whoever was behind the wheel must have spotted

him because the cruiser pul ed over and waited.

He skidded to a halt beside the driver’s window and saw Deputy Tim Davis behind the wheel. Jack knew him from when Davis used to date his sister,

Kate, back in their high school days. He looked up at Jack through super-dark aviator sunglasses.

“Hey, Jack. How’s that beautiful sister of yours?”

Jack had pedaled so hard on his way back from the mound that it took him a second or two to catch enough breath to reply.

“Greatwefoundadeadbodyinthepines!”

He laughed. “Did you say ‘dead body’? What? As opposed to a live one?”

“I’m not kidding, Tim.” He might be “Deputy” to everybody else, but he’d been “Tim” to eight-year-old Jack back when he’d gone out with Kate and so

he’d always be “Tim” in Jack’s mind.

“It’s true!” Weezy puffed as she pul ed up beside him. “I saw it too!”

Tim’s smile vanished as he stared at Jack. “This had better not be one of your practical jokes.”

Jack gave him a wounded look. “Who, me?”

He’d pul ed a couple of pranks on Tim and Kate when they were dating—innocent little tricks like resetting Tim’s watch and his car clock ahead so

they’d get home an hour early. Truth was, even though he’d liked Tim, he hadn’t wanted Kate dating anyone.

“Look at us.” Jack pointed to his face, then Weezy’s. “Do we look like we’re joking?”

People were discovering bodies al the time in the mystery-thril er-adventure stories Jack devoured. He’d always thought he’d be pretty cool if ever in

that situation.

Uh-uh.

He could stil feel the dry, rotted flesh against his fingers, see those empty eye sockets, the grinning teeth, the matted hair. Ugh. It made him queasy to

think about it. He tried to push it from his mind but it kept slithering back.

He wasn’t sure but he thought he might have screamed right along with Weezy. If so, he hoped she hadn’t heard him. That would be majorly