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F. Wilson: Secret Histories

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  • Название:
    Secret Histories
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Tor Teen; First Edition edition
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2008
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    0765318547
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Secret Histories: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Ever come across a situation that simply wasn’t right—where someone was getting the dirty end of the stick and you wished you could make things right but didn’t know how? Fourteen-year-old Jack knows how. Or rather he’s learning how. He’s discovering that he has a knack for fixing things. Not bikes or toys or appliances—situations….  It all starts when Jack and his best friends, Weezy and Eddie, discover a rotting corpse—the victim of ritual murder—in the fabled New Jersey Pine Barrens. Beside the body is an ancient artifact carved with strange designs. What is its secret? What is the secret of the corpse? What other mysteries hide in the dark, timeless Pine Barrens? And who doesn’t want them revealed?  Jack’s town, the surrounding Barrens, his friends, even Jack himself…they all have…Secret Histories.

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F. PAUL WILSON JACK: SECRET HISTORIES
Young Repairman Jack-1
Фото

They discovered the body on a rainy afternoon.


1

“Aren’t we there yet?”Eddie said, puffing behind him.


Jack glanced over his shoulder to where Eddie Connel labored through the sandy

soil on his bike. His face was red and beaded with perspiration;


sweat soaked through his red Police T-shirt, darkening Sting’s face. Chunky


Eddie wasn’t built for speed. He wore his sandy hair shorter than most, which tended to make him look even heavier than he was. Eddie’s idea of exercise was


a day on the couch playing PolePositionon his new Atari 5200. Jack


envied that machine. He was stuck with a 2600.


“Only Weezy knows,” Jack said.


He wasn’t sweating like Eddie, but he felt clammy al over. With good reason. The


August heat was stifling here in the Pine Barrens, and the humidity


made it worse. Whatever breeze existed out there couldn’t penetrate the


close-packed, spindly trees.


They were fol owing Eddie’s older sister, Weezy—real y Louise, but no one ever


cal ed her that. She liked to remind people that she’d been “Weezy”


long before TheJeffersonsever showed up on the tube.


She was pedaling her banana-seat Schwinn along one of the firebreak trails that


crisscrossed the mil ion-plus acres of mostly uninhabited woodland


known as the Jersey Pine Barrens. A potential y dangerous place if you didn’t


know what you were doing or where you were going. Every year hunters wandered in, looking for deer, and were never seen again. Locals would wink


and say the Jersey Devil snagged another one. But Jack knew the JD was just a folktale. Wel , he was pretty sure. Truth was, the missing hunters were


usual y amateurs who came il equipped and got lost, wandering around in circles until they died of thirst and starvation.


At least that was what people said. Though that didn’t explain why so few of the


bodies were ever found.


But the Barrens didn’t scare Jack and Eddie and Weezy. At least not during the


day. They’d grown up on the edge of the pinelands and knew this


section of it like the backs of their hands. Couldn’t know al of it, of course. The


Barrens hid places no human eye had ever seen.


Yet as familiar as he was with the area, Jack stil got a creepy sensation when


riding into the trees and seeing the forty-foot scrub pines get thicker and thicker, crowding the edges of the path, and then leaning over with their


crooked, scraggly branches seeming to reach for him. He could almost believe they were shuffling off the path ahead of him and then moving back in to close it


off behind.


“See that sign?” Eddie said, pointing to a tree they passed. “Maybe we should


listen.”


Jack glanced at the orange letters blaring from glossy black tin:


NO FISHING


NO HUNTING


NO TRAPPING


NO TRESPASSING


No big deal. The signs dotted just about every other tree on Old Man Foster’s


land, so common they became part of the scenery.


“Wel ,” he said, “we’re not doing the first three.”


“But we’re doing the fourth.”


“Criminals is what we are!” Jack raised a fist. “Criminals!”


“Easy with that.” Eddie looked around. “Old Man Foster might hear you.” Jack cal ed to the girl riding twenty feet ahead of them. “Hey, Weez! When do


we get there?”


She usual y kept her shoulder-length dark hair down but she’d tied it back in a


ponytail for the trip. She wore a black-and-white—mostly black


—Bauhaus T-shirt and black jeans. Jack and Eddie wore jeans too, but theirs


were faded blue and cut off above the knees. Weezy’s were ful length. Jack couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen her bare legs. Probably white as snow. “Not much farther now,” she cal ed without looking around.


“Sounds like Papa Smurf,” Eddie grumbled. “This is stupidacious.” Jack turned back to Eddie. “Want to trade bikes?”


Jack rode his BMX. He’d let some air out of the tires for better grip in the sand


and they were doing pretty wel .


“Nah.” Eddie patted the handlebars of his slim-tired English street bike. “I’m al


right.”


“Whoa!” Jack heard Weezy say.


He looked around and saw she’d stopped. He had to jam on his brakes to keep


from running into her. Eddie flew past both of them and stopped ahead of his sister.


“Is this it, Smurfette?” he said.


Weezy shook her head. “Almost.”


She had eyes almost as dark as her hair, and a round face, normal y milk pale,


made paler by the dark eyeliner she wore. But she was flushed now with heat and excitement. The color looked good on her. Made her look almost …


healthy, a look Weezy did not pursue.


Jack liked Weezy. She was only four months older, but his January birthday had


landed him a year behind her in school. Come next month they’d both


be in Southern Burlington County Regional High, just a couple of miles away. But


she’d be a soph and he a lowly frosh. Maybe they’d be able to spend


more time together. And then again, maybe not. Did sophs hang with freshmen?


Were they al owed?


She wasn’t pretty by most standards. Skinny, almost boyish, although her hips


seemed to be flaring a little now. Back in grammar school a lot of the kids had cal ed her “Wednesday Addams” because of her round face and perpetual y


dark clothes. If she ever decided to wear her hair in pigtails, the


resemblance would be scary.


But whatever her looks, Jack thought she was the most interesting girl—no,


make that most interesting personhe’d ever met. She read things no one else read, and viewed the world in a light different from anyone else. She pointed to their right. “What on Earth’s going on there?”

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