F. Wilson: Secret Histories

Jack felt a rush of … what? A strange, tingling fire flared in his chest as he realized he’d done it. He’d tricked Mr. Brussard into incriminating himself. He

wanted to whoop and yel and do the Snoopy dance around the room.

But he couldn’t. Now was not the time. Not with Steve and his mother staring in shock and fear and disbelief at the man they cal ed father and husband.

Maybe there’d never be a good time for the Snoopy dance.

Free-form guilt dul ed the edge of his elation. He looked around and found Mr. Brussard glaring at him.

“You cal ed them, didn’t you.”

Jack couldn’t look at Steve, but he stared Mr. Brussard in the eye.

“I was worried about Steve.”

And that was the truth.

“Trouble just fol ows you around, doesn’t it.”

Jack turned at the sound of the voice and saw Tim leaning out the window of his

patrol car.

“What do you mean?”

Tim smiled. “You know exactly what I mean. My buddy Driscol says you were

right in the thick of things last night. Even found the pil .”

“Yeah, wel , just hanging with Steve.”

Tim nodded toward the Brussard house down the street. “Returning to the scene

of the crime?”

The whole town was buzzing with the news of the Brussard arrest and the Chal is confession. Jack had wandered over, wondering if he should stop in

and see how Steve was handling it. He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty about exposing a murderer, but he couldn’t help it.

He’d chickened out on the visit, at least on his first pass, afraid Steve would take one look at him and somehow know Jack had got his dad arrested.

As he’d passed he noticed that the garbage can near the end of the driveway was ful of empty liquor bottles. Mrs. Brussard was cleaning house—a first

step toward helping Steve, but Jack had a feeling he’d need more.

“Brussard posted bail,” Tim said.

“He’s out? How?”

“Not much on him beyond what Chal is said. But we’re analyzing that pil , and if it turns out to be some funky poison, we’l have a whole different bal

game.”

Now Jack was doubly glad he hadn’t stopped in. The way Steve’s dad had looked at him last night made it clear he suspected something.

Tim went on. “Chal is, on the other hand, didn’t want bail. Said he felt safer behind bars.”

Safe from the klazen? Or his Lodge brother?

“He give any reason for the way they—?”

“Cut him up?” Tim shook his head. “Not much. Told us Boruff was kil ed in a ‘sacred rite’ used for those who betray Lodge brothers, then clammed up.

Said it was a Lodge matter and nobody else’s business.”

Cutting off the arms at the elbows and sewing them into the armpits … what kind of sacred rite was that?

“Seen any more state troopers running around?” Tim said.

Jack used the title of another book on his summer reading list. “Al quiet on the western front.”

Tim nodded. “It is sort of the western front, isn’t it—the western front of the Pine Barrens.”

Mention of the Barrens reminded Jack of something.

“You went to the mound yesterday. How’s it look?”

Tim shook his head. “I saw it when we dug up the body. Gotta tel you, you wouldn’t recognize the place now. Al torn up.” Another head shake. “Shame.

One of the pointy heads we had doing the crime scene work-up said he was sure the mound was pre-Columbian.”

Jack had heard the term before. “Before Columbus? Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow. He said definitely pre-Columbian, maybe even prehistoric.”

“Oh, man. Weezy wil want to go back.”

Jack did too, but knew Weezy would want to even more.

“Nothing left to see. Trust me.” Tim poked his arm. “But even so, you two stay away from there for now … until things settle down. I asked one of the

medevac pilots I know to snap a photo or two on one of his many runs to AC.”

“Why?”

Tim looked away, through the windshield. “Not sure. Something about that place …”

A burst of static from his two-way interrupted with a report of an accident near Shamong.

“Gotta go. Remember what I said: Stay out of the Pines for now.”

As Jack watched Tim go, he figured he could manage that for another day or two, but there’d be no stopping Weezy once she heard “prehistoric.”

Good thing she was in Baltimore for the weekend and wouldn’t be back til tonight. Because he wasn’t sure he could keep the news from her.

Jack sat in the dark on a thick limb of the tree across the street from Steve’s house, watching.

It had turned out to be a quiet Sunday, quieter than usual after the rain started around midday. Kate was stil at her apartment in Stratford. Tom was

packing to move back to his place in Jersey City. Sure signs that summer was drawing to a close. Not much shaking at USED either, so Jack did his

cleanups and polishing, and practiced his lock picking when he had a chance.

After dinner, he’d watched a KnightRider rerun, fol owed by the ABCSunday NightMovie, then hit the sack. But sleep eluded him. He kept thinking

about Steve, and how his friend’s family was messed up now because of him.

No, he kept tel ing himself. Steve’s father had been the one to mess up that family.

Final y he’d pul ed on a shirt and jeans and slipped out his window.

He wasn’t sure what had drawn him here. Guilt? Or maybe worry that Mr. Brussard might slip off into the night?

The rain had stopped earlier but the tree bark and leaves were stil wet; a thick mist hung in the air, glowing in the widely scattered streetlights. The

house lay dark and quiet. No sign of anyone moving about. Jack final y asked himself what he was accomplishing here. And when he couldn’t come up

with a good answer, he decided it was time to go.

But just as he was readying to swing down from the limb, he saw a thin dark streak flowing through the mist along Harding Street. He couldn’t cal it

black, couldn’t cal it solid. More like something colorless or invisible, displacing the mist. Tapered at both ends, maybe ten feet long and no more than

two feet wide, it moved lazily, undulating on the breeze—

And then Jack realized with a start that there was no breeze.

Despite the warmth of the night, chil gooseflesh rippled over his skin. He shrank back against the tree trunk and watched as the streak angled toward

the Brussard house. For some reason he wanted to shout out a warning, but his vocal cords were clenched tight. And a warning against what? Smoke? A

hole in the mist?

Whatever it was, it nosed against the left side of Steve’s house and then splashed out along the siding like water from a faucet hitting a sink. As it

spread it thinned and broke up into tiny dark wisps that swirled and faded to nothing.

Weird, Jack thought. Real y weird. But it was gone now. Time to get back.

He swung down from the branch and began walking home. As he passed the house he glanced back and saw the streak seeping out the opposite

side. He stopped, his Vans glued to the pavement, watching as it reformed into the elongated shape he’d first seen. It began to drift again …

Toward him.

And then a light came on in the house and he heard a woman scream.

Part of him wanted to run up to Steve’s door and see if he could help, but he had a feeling whatever had happened in there was beyond his help or

anybody else’s.