F. Wilson - Secret Histories

believe him? Or would they react like Weezy and think of him as a Hardy Boy wannabe?

But what if he was wrong? What if it was something harmless, supposed to ward off the klazen but didn’t. He’d have hurt the reputation of an innocent

man, a man who’d jumped into the lake to save him because he thought he was drowning.

Jack couldn’t help feeling in Mr. B’s debt. After al , what was Chal is’s role in al this?

But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen and heard. If Steve’s father was guilty, Jack had to find a way to let him hang himself.

He looked at Steve, then looked at the pil lying in its box, and had an idea.

But he’d have to set the stage careful y to make this work.

“Listen, Bert, I’ve found a way to protect us from the klazen.”

Jack stood outside the den, listening. He’d been about to walk in but had

stopped just around the corner.

“I don’t need protection from some mythical threat, I need—”

“Vasquez, Haskins, and Sumter might disagree as to how mythical it is. If I could

have got to them in time they’d stil be alive.”

A lie. He’d given them each a pil .

That clinched it for Jack.

He’s guilty, he thought. But I’m the only one who knows.

In the next few minutes he hoped to change that.

“You know what?” Chal is said. “I almost wish I were with them. This is eating

me alive. We shouldn’t have taken matters into our own hands like that. We—”

Mr. Brussard cut him off, saying, “What’s done is done. We’ve got to deal with

now. Let me show you what I’ve got. I—hey. This is supposed to be

locked.”

Uh-oh. Time to make his move. Jack quickly stepped into the den. Mr. Brussard

was squatting by the liquor cabinet; Chal is, a thin, twitchy man, stood nearby.

“Mister Brussard?”

He looked around to stare at him. “Jack! How long have you been standing

there?”

Jack dodged the question by saying, “I think there’s something wrong with

Steve.”

Mr. B straightened and stepped closer, his expression concerned. “What do you

mean?”

“I can’t wake him up.”

In a flash, he was pushing past Jack. He almost knocked over Mrs. B as she

stepped from the stairs into the hal way.

“Gordon, what’s wrong?”

“Steve! Downstairs!”

She blanched. “What—?”

But her husband was already to the basement steps. As he pounded down she

hurried after him. Chal is fol owed, though not as hurriedly.

Jack stayed behind and picked up the phone. He dialed 911 and reported an

unconscious person at the Brussard address. Then he headed

downstairs.

When Jack arrived, Steve’s folks were shaking him, yel ing at him to wake up.

His eyes fluttered open and gave them a dazed look.

“Wha? Wha?”

His father spotted the Pepsi can next to the couch and sniffed it. His face turned

red.

“You’re drunk!” he cried and grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt. “You’ve been

pilfering from my—!”

Something rattled in Steve’s breast pocket. Mr. Brussard pul ed out the pil vial

and stared at it.

“It’s your Valium!” he said, turning to his wife. “He’s—!”

And then he froze. Jack fol owed his gaze to the little red box on the cushion

next to Steve.

“What’s—?”

He snatched it up and yanked off the top. His red face turned ashen when he

looked inside.

“Oh, no!” He turned to Steve and shook him. “Did you take this?” Steve gave him another glassy stare. “No. It’s right there.”

“I mean the pil , damn it! Did you take the pil that was in here?” Steve shrugged and slurred, “Dunno … maybe … coulda.”

Mr. Brussard tossed the box aside and started lifting Steve under the arms. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital!”

Just then someone knocked on the wal of the stairwel and cal ed down. “Hel o? Is there a problem here?” A sheriff’s deputy came down the stairs. Not

Tim, but Jack had seen him at the car lot when the first aid was trying to revive Mr. Sumter.

He’d been counting on a deputy’s arrival—the cops always responded to a 911. “I heard the first-aid cal and came over to see if I could help.” “First-aid cal ?” Mr. Brussard looked around. “Who—? Never mind. My son took

pil s and liquor! He needs to get his stomach pumped!”

“The ambulance is on its way.” The deputy leaned closer to Steve. “He’s stil

conscious. Maybe he won’t need that.”

“He wil ! He’l die!”

The deputy wasn’t looking where Jack wanted him to, so he picked up the little

red box and pretended to examine it. When the deputy saw it he

reached toward Jack.

“May I?”

As Jack handed it over, Mr. Brussard said, “Never mind that! We’ve got to get

him to the hospital!”

But the deputy wasn’t listening. He was staring at the box, turning it over in his

hands.

“I’ve seen one of these before. Mister Sumter had it on him when he died. And

I’ve heard the same box was found on Vasquez and Haskins.” He looked up at Mr. Brussard. “What was in this?”

“Nothing. Look, we need to—”

“Nothing?” Chal is said. “Nothing? I just heard you ask your boy if he took the

pil that was inside.” His jaw dropped. “And when he said yes you went crazy. You just said he’l die.” He pointed to Mr. Brussard. “It’s you! You poisoned

them! Sumter, Vasquez, and Haskins—you kil ed them!”

Mr. Brussard looked stunned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true! It’s al clear! You poisoned them with whatever pil was in that box! And

I was next! ‘I’ve found a way to protect us from the klazen.’ Isn’t that what you said? But what I need is protection from you!”

Mrs. B looked horrified. “Gordon, what is this man talking about?” The deputy frowned at Chal is. “Why would he want to kil you?” “Because five can keep a secret only when four are dead, isn’t that right,

Gordon.”

“I’m not fol owing,” the deputy said.

“We kil ed Anton Boruff—the body found in the Pines!”

“Bert!” Mr. Brussard shouted.

“There. I’ve said it. It’s haunted me for two years. Now maybe I’l be able to

sleep at night!” He turned to the deputy and his words spewed at machine

gun speed. “He swindled us—fake diamonds. We confronted him. Things got rough. He fel , hit his head. It wasn’t supposed to happen. We didn’t mean

to—”

“‘We’?” the deputy said. “Who do you mean?”

“Me, Sumter, Vasquez, Haskins, and Gordon here.”

Just then a heavy guy with a first-aid emblem on his shirt thundered down the stairs.

“We tried the bel but no one answered. I heard voices—” He looked at the swaying Steve. “Is this the unconscious person you reported?”

“I didn’t report anyone,” Mr. Brussard said, “but as long as you’re here, he needs immediate hospitalization.”

Jack figured this had gone on long enough. He snatched the pil from where he’d left it on the floor behind the couch, and held it up.

“Is this the pil ?”

Mr. Brussard’s eyes widened. “Give it to me,” he said, reaching for it.

But the deputy grabbed his arm.

“I’l take that.”

Jack gave it to him. He looked at it, put it in the little red box, and shoved the box into a pocket. Then he stepped back and rested one hand on his pistol

as he pul ed his two-way from his belt.

“This is Driscol ,” he said. “I’ve got a situation at one twenty-seven Harding in Johnson. Requesting backup.”