F. Wilson: Secret Histories

She turned to Tom. “Wel , since I doubt very much it was your father, and since Kate isn’t home, that leaves you. When are you going to grow up,

Thomas? You’re in law school, for heaven’s sake!”

“He started it with the doctored pistachios,” he said, wiping his dripping face with a wet sleeve.

“No,” she said. “You started it when you stole his pistachios. Now, I want the two of you to shake hands and end this. Right now. You heard me: shake.”

Tom stuck out a hand. “Peace, brother?”

Jack knew what Tom had in mind: He was going to trap Jack’s fingers in a deathgrip and squeeze with everything he had. This wouldn’t be the first time

—not by a long shot. When Jack was younger Tom would squeeze and try to get him to say, “Tom is God.” Jack never would—even though the crushing

agony almost brought him to tears, he never said it.

Tom was stil bigger and stronger, but Jack had learned a trick.

“Peace, brother,” he said, forcing his hand as deep into Tom’s as it would go.

Tom squeezed but it didn’t hurt, because he was squeezing Jack’s hand, not his fingers. He squeezed harder, the effort showing on his face, but stil no

pain for Jack.

“Mom said, ‘shake hands,’ Tom, not go steady.”

Glaring, Tom released him.

“That’s my boys,” Mom said as she headed back toward the kitchen. “Tom, you mop up your mess.”

“I’m not through with you, numbnuts,” he said in a low voice.

Jack held his gaze, then slipped past him into the hal .

“Better get mopping or you’l miss dinner.”

Tom had gone out to who cared where. Kate and another student she met were fixing up the apartment in Stratford they’d be using during the coming year

at medical school. His folks were off to the movies.

He had the place to himself.

Ah, freedom.

He hurried upstairs to his folks’ bedroom closet and retrieved the lock box from the top shelf. He set it on the double bed and laid out the pick set next

to it. He hadn’t found a lock like this in USED but he was sure he could open it.

Half an hour later he was pretty sure he couldn’t. At least not at his level of experience. He needed more practice.

Frustration gnawed at him as he folded up the pick kit, returned the box to its original place, and headed back downstairs. The secrets within had

become secondary. The lock … the lock had become his Everest and he was determined to climb it.

After hiding the pick set under the T-shirts in one of his drawers, he wandered through the house. He could read or watch TV, but neither appealed to

him at the moment. He could see if he could get past the smart bombs in Missile Command, but he wasn’t in a video game mood. Weezy and Eddie

were visiting their grandmother in Baltimore.

That left Steve and the Heathkit.

“Steve’s downstairs working on the computer,” Mrs. Brussard said as she let him in.

Jack hoped so, but had his doubts.

“Is Mister Brussard around?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s over at the Lodge. Why?”

“I just wanted to tel him something about the black box I showed him the other night.”

Jack had wanted to see if he would have any reaction when he told him the cube and the pyramid were missing.

“He shouldn’t be too late.”

Jack nodded and headed for the basement. As he passed the den he slowed, looking for the humidor. He spotted it—inside the locked liquor cabinet.

Swel .

Downstairs he found Steve dozing on the couch.

Jack shook his shoulder. “Hey.”

Steve’s lids fluttered open to reveal glassy eyes. “Hey, man.”

Aw, no. He was at it again.

“More pil s?”

He grinned as he pointed to a Pepsi can and rattled the vial of pil s in his shirt pocket. “Double barreled: Valium with a bourbon chaser.”

“But how’d you get hold of the bourbon? I thought your father had it al locked up.”

His grin broadened. “He does. Or at least he thinks he does.” He pointed to a smal key lying on the end table. “But he doesn’t have the only key. I had a

copy made at Spurlin’s this afternoon.”

“Swel . So I guess you’re going to spend the night on the couch.”

Steve burped in reply, closed his eyes again.

Jack resisted the urge to kick him. Instead he stepped over to the end table and stared down at the key to the Brussard liquor cabinet … and to the

humidor.

Should I?

He decided he should. He hadn’t been able to learn what was in his father’s lock box, but maybe he’d be able to pierce the secret of the little red boxes

in the humidor.

He snagged the key and hurried upstairs. If Mrs. B was around he’d just go to the fridge for a Pepsi. If not …

She was nowhere in sight, so Jack hurried to the den and the liquor cabinet. His hand was shaking a little—what would happen if Mr. Brussard returned

now?—so it took him a second try to put the key in the lock. As the door swung open he grabbed the humidor and lifted the lid.

One box remained. He pul ed it out, then returned the humidor to its shelf. He turned the little red box over in his hands, examining it. It reminded him of

a hatbox, only this was barely two inches tal and wide, and had seven sides. It was covered with some sort of fine shiny fabric, like silk.

Jack was about to lift the lid when he heard voices in the front yard. Two men … and they sounded like they were arguing. One of the voices was Mr.

Brussard’s. Coming closer.

A jolt of panic coursed through Jack. He didn’t have time to put the box back in the humidor. Didn’t even have time to relock the cabinet. He pushed the

door closed and ran in a crouch. He’d just rounded the corner into the stairwel when the door opened.

He stood there panting like he’d just sprinted a three-minute mile.

Too close.

He heard Mr. Brussard saying, “You’ve just got to stay calm, Bert. Everything wil be—”

“Calm? How can I stay calm after al that’s happened? I go to the West Coast for a week and come back to find everything gone to hel !”

But he hadn’t been on the West Coast, Jack knew. Why was he lying?

“After two years,” he added, “with my nerves final y calming down, this happens!”

Two years … Anton Boruff had been murdered two years ago … “The important thing is to realize that this wil al blow over.”

“Wil it? I’ve heard that the Council is sending someone to take charge of our Lodge.”

As they moved into the den their voices faded and Jack didn’t have the nerve to try the bathroom trick again. So he tiptoed downstairs and checked

Steve. Stil out.

He looked down at the little box in his sweaty palm. How was he going to get it back in the humidor before Mr. Brussard realized it was gone?

But before he worried about that, he had to see what it held. He lifted the lid gingerly, cautiously, half afraid something would jump out at him. But

instead of some exotic insect or mysterious amulet, he found a smal , round, white object.

A pil .

He picked it up and inspected it but could find no markings to give him a hint of what it contained. But he had a suspicion it might not be good for

anyone’s health. Steve’s father had given three of these to three men, and al were dead the fol owing day.

Questions swirled.

Could it be some kind of poison, something untraceable that only the Lodge knew about?

He should take it to the police and tel them his suspicions, convince them to analyze it. That seemed the most logical and direct course, but would they