F. Wilson - Secret Histories

ordinary, you cal me—and only me.” He handed Jack the slip of paper. “That’s my home phone. It has an answering machine that I check al the time. You

need me, cal and simply say, ‘This is Jack.’ That’s al . Nothing more. I repeat: Say nothing more. I’l find you.” He nodded to Weezy. “You see anything, tel

Jack so he can tel me.”

This sounded like spy stuff, like intrigue, like he’d stepped into Weezy’s world. It made his stomach tingle.

“Okay.” Jack folded the paper but thought better of shoving it into a wet pocket. “You expecting anything to happen?”

Tim shook his head. “Nah. What’s done is done and that’s probably it. But it never hurts to have a couple of extra pairs of eyes on the lookout. And

speaking of looking, I think I’l take a ride out to the mound and see what they’ve done.”

“Can we come along?” Weezy said.

Tim shook his head. “Sorry. Better if you don’t.” He put the car in gear. “Take it easy, you two. And keep those eyes open.”

They watched as he drove away, heading toward the Barrens.

“Think we can trust him?” Weezy said.

“Yeah. Tim’s a good guy.”

Jack just hoped he didn’t get himself in trouble by sticking his nose in the wrong place.

As they started riding again, Jack saw a car pul to a stop at the end of South Franklin. He wouldn’t have paid it much mind except that the driver

seemed so short. His head was so low he could barely see over the dashboard.

Then he recognized the man and realized he wasn’t short—he was crouched low behind the wheel.

Bert Chal is.

He glanced Jack’s way. Their eyes met for a second, then he turned away. His hand shot up to the side of his face, hiding his profile as he gunned the

car and raced down Quakerton Road toward the highway.

What was that al about?

His furtiveness made Jack uneasy. South Franklin led to Harding Street, where the Brussards lived. Was he watching the place?

This was getting scary.

The lock-picking set felt like a fire in Jack’s pocket as he stepped through the front door. Business at USED had been unusual y slow for a Saturday,

al owing Jack extra time to practice on the locks around the store.

The big sale of the day had been the curved-glass China cabinet. Once it could be opened, people became more interested in it. Some lady on an

antiquing junket from Princeton walked in, took one look at it, and wrote out a fat check.

A glow of pride had fol owed Jack home—he’d been responsible for that sale.

On the way out of the store he’d borrowed the lock picks without tel ing Mr. Rosen. Was that stealing? He didn’t think so, especial y since he didn’t

intend to keep the set—just use it and return it.

As he stepped in the back door his mom said, “Dinner’s going to be early tonight, dear. Your father and I are going to a movie.”

Yes! He could work on the lock box without worrying about getting caught.

“Oh?” he said casual y. “Going to see ReturnoftheJedi again?”

She made a face. “Not likely. This time it’s my choice, and I choose Risky Business.”

Every few weeks his folks would head up to Mount Hol y to catch a movie. They took turns choosing. Though Dad complained about the way the

spaceships maneuvered and hearing explosions in space—none of which bothered Jack in the least—he liked the StarWars movies. Mom liked

romantic comedies. For the sake of togetherness, each suffered through the other’s choices.

“Tom’s going out, and Kate’s in Stratford. You’l be okay with nobody here?”

Jack gave her a reassuring smile. He loved having the house to himself.

“I’l be here with me.”

Just then Tom appeared in the doorway to the living room.

“How’s it going, Miracle Boy?”

Tom saying hel o? Jack was immediately on guard.

“Fine. How about you?”

Tom nodded. “Life is good, but it could always get better.”

Something was up.

Jack turned to Mom. “I’m gonna wash up.”

As he headed down the hal to the bathroom he could feel Tom’s eyes on his back. Up ahead he could see his bedroom door ajar—maybe two or three

inches.

Ah-ha!

He washed his hands and threw water on his face, then stepped back into the hal . Tom stood down by the kitchen, talking to Mom but positioned so he

had a clear view of Jack’s door.

Something definitely up.

He returned to the kitchen and headed for the backyard.

“Where you going?” Tom said.

“Garage. Wanna come?”

“Nah. I’l wait here.”

But instead of the garage, Jack ran around to his bedroom window at the rear of the house. He peeked through the screen and immediately spotted the

bucket balanced atop the partial y open door.

The bucket-over-the-door trick. Oh, Tom, you clever, clever guy. So original.

After half a minute of studying the setup, Jack knew just what to do.

But first he had to know if he could get into the room unseen. He tugged on the outside of the screen—had he latched it last night? He grinned when the

bottom popped out. No, he’d had too much on his mind to worry about latching screens.

He trotted to the garage and pawed through his dad’s toolbox until he found a couple of eye hooks. Then he pul ed out his penknife and cut twenty feet

or so of nylon fishing line from one of Dad’s never-used rods. Goodies in hand, he scuttled back to his bedroom window to crawl inside.

Quietly as possible, he moved his desk chair over to the door and stepped up on it. He screwed one eye hook into the ceiling directly above the bucket.

He threaded the end of the fishing line through the eye and tied it to the bucket handle.

Next he moved the chair to the right, to the corner by his closet, where he placed a second eye hook about six feet up the wal . He threaded the line

through that, then looped it around the closet doorknob. He adjusted the tension on the line just enough to lift the bottom edge of the bucket a smidgen off

the top of the door, then knotted it into place.

Moved the chair back, slipped out the window, then returned to the kitchen.

Mom was setting plates on the table. “Cal your father. We’re almost ready.”

“Okay. Just gotta stop in my room first.”

With that, Tom stepped back into the kitchen and again positioned himself where he could see Jack’s door.

As Jack passed him he couldn’t resist: “Wanna share some pistachios later?” “Very funny, Miracle Boy. Your time is coming. Sooner than you think.”

Hoping he’d done everything right, Jack held his breath as he pushed open the door to his room, preparing to be doused if he’d screwed up.

But no … he stayed dry.

Immediately he pul ed out his penknife and positioned himself by the closet door to wait. He didn’t think it would take long.

It didn’t.

Seconds later Tom arrived, wearing a perplexed expression. As he stepped through the door he looked up at the bucket.

“What the—?”

His eyes widened when he saw the eye hooks and the fishing line, but too late. Jack had cut the line and the bucket tipped and emptied on Tom’s face.

He cried out in shock and rage as he was drenched with cold water.

Jack thought it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen.

The commotion brought Mom running.

“What happened? What’s—?” She stopped and stared at her soaked son, then at the puddle on the floor. “What is going on here?” She looked past

Tom at Jack. “Jackie! What were you thinking?”

“I did not put a bucket over my own door, Mom.”