Jack had been surprised when the old man asked him to stay on into the fall. He’d wondered why at first. Customer traffic had been pretty good during the summer, but dropped off steeply after Labor Day. Weekends still saw people coming through, but during the week, almost nothing. After a while he realized that Mr. Rosen, a pretty frail-looking guy, got tired in the afternoon and liked to hit the cot in the back room for forty winks. Well, more like eighty.
Turned out to be a good deal for Jack. After he’d done his dusting and polishing and straightening up, he’d man the counter near the front and do his homework, something Mr. Rosen encouraged. Through it all he collected $3.50 an hour—just above the minimum wage
Today was different, though. After finishing his busywork, he went to the cabinet at the rear of the store and pulled the lock-picking kit from the top drawer. Mr. Rosen had taught him how to use it so he could open cabinets and such that came with locked doors and drawers but no keys. Along with the tension bars and rakes, the kit included an assortment of padlock shims. These were little half cylinders of thin metal with a point on one end and two flanges on the other. He pocketed the kit. He’d return it when he was finished with Toliver.
He’d just settled himself at the counter, readying to practice on an old combination lock Mr. Rosen had for sale, when the door chimed. He looked up and saw Walt Erskine stepping in. He shoved the shims and the padlock under the counter.
Weird Walt, as he was known, had a gray-streaked beard and long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. His eyes were semi-glazed from the applejack he sipped all day. He wore his uniform of jeans, T-shirt, olive-drab fatigue jacket, and black leather gloves. Word was he even ate dinner with those gloves. Jack had seen him without them only once—just last month on the weirdest night of his life.
Walt looked around. “Got anything new?”
Jack deadpanned him. “No.”
“Oh,” Walt said with a grin and a wink as he wandered toward the rear of the store. “I get it. Right on.”
As Walt disappeared down an aisle, the door chimed again and Mr. Drexler walked in. Like Walt, he had his own uniform: a white three-piece suit with a white tie and white shirt. He carried a black hide-covered cane.
“Hey, Mister Drexler,” Jack said.
He had black hair combed straight back from a widow’s peak. His cold blue eyes regarded Jack with mild irritation.
“‘Hey’? What sort of greeting is that?”
Jack resisted an eye roll. He and Mr. Drexler had smoothed things out after Jack’s misadventures last month, but that hadn’t made the man any less of a stickler for formalities.
“It’s sort of like ‘hello.’”
“Well, then, instead of like hello, let’s try for the real thing next time, shall we?”
“Sure. Can I help you with anything?” he said, wishing he could add, Like helping you out the door?
“I stopped by to tell you not to wait until the weekend to cut the Lodge’s lawn. I want everything top shape by Friday night.”
Mr. Drexler worked for the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order that owned the Lodge in Old Town—his card said he was an “actuator”—and last month he’d hired Jack to cut the lawn and keep the grounds tidy. He paid well, but the job took hours.
“I’ll have to check with Mister Rosen to see if I can have the day off.”
“See that you do.”
“What’s going on? Special meeting?”
“That’s none of your—”
The door chimed yet again as a young woman stepped in carrying a baby wrapped in a blanket. She looked like she was in her early twenties—maybe just barely twenty—with long chestnut hair, pale skin, and gray eyes.
“Hello,” she said, smiling at Jack. “I was told I could find Walter Erskine here.”
Walt suddenly appeared from the back. “Whoa! Who told you that?”
She smiled at him. “An old woman in black. Oddly enough, she was wearing a scarf in this heat.”
That could only be Mrs. Clevenger. She always wore black and always had a scarf around her neck. Some people said that was because she was the reincarnation of Peggy Clevenger, the witch of the Pines, who was beheaded way back when. People said Peggy wandered the Pines, looking for her head, but others said she’d found it and wore the scarf to hide the old cut.
Jack didn’t buy any of that, but Mrs. Clevenger did seem to know an awful lot about the Pine Barrens and was often seen entering and leaving at odd hours, always accompanied by her three-legged dog.
The young woman was staring at Walt. “You’re him, aren’t you.”
Walt hesitated, looking like he would have denied it if no one around knew better. Finally he nodded. “Yes, I guess I am. Do I know you?”
Her gray eyes shone with welling tears. “My name is Miriam. We met, once, but I’m sure you don’t remember.”
“When was that?”
“Ten years ago this past June, when I was eleven. You were with a tent show that came through my hometown.”
Walt paled and glanced around. “I don’t know if that was me. Coulda been somebody else.”
She beamed at him. “Oh, it was you. Your hair was shorter, so was your beard, and it had no gray then, but I’d know you anywhere. I’ll never forget the man who healed me.”
“Healed?” Walt looked sick, like he wanted to be anywhere but here with this woman. “I … I don’t know what…”
She raised her free arm, the left. “See this? I didn’t have one—just a little flipper-type thing in its place. You touched me back then, and it started to change and grow. It took a whole year, but now look: It’s perfect.”
Jack stared at that raised arm, and yes, it looked perfect—as perfect as the silence in USED. Even Mr. Drexler seemed to be holding his breath.
Last month Jack had seen Walt touch someone with an ungloved hand. He still wasn’t sure what had happened then.
Finally Walt swallowed and said, “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“Mistake?” Mr. Drexler said. “She’s deranged. Grow an arm? That’s a medical miracle. You’d be famous the world over, young lady!”
She shook her head slowly. “My hometown is small, high in the West Virginia hills. My folks thought it might be the work of the devil, so they hid me from the neighbors. And when I had my new arm, they sent me to live with kin on the other side of the state.”
“Why did you come looking for me?” Walt said.
She smiled again. “To thank you. And to ask you…” Her smile faded as she unwrapped the blanket from her sleeping baby to reveal the left shoulder. “… if you would do the same for my little girl.”
Jack couldn’t help gasping: The baby had no arm, just a fleshy little flap, maybe two inches long and an inch wide. Like a tiny flipper.
Walt looked panicked as he began sidling toward the door, giving Miriam as wide a berth as possible.
“No … I can’t … don’t ask me … you can’t ask me.”
In a single quick move he jerked the door open and darted through.
Miriam dashed after him, calling, “Mister Erskine! Please, my baby. You’ve got to help her! I’ll pay you! Mister Erskine, please!”
Jack watched, stunned. What a crazy—
And then he realized that Walt hadn’t denied that he could do it. He’d said, You can’t ask me.
Just then Mr. Rosen shuffled in from the back, rubbing his eyes.
“Such tumel. Who’s making the racket?”
Jack stepped to the window and saw Miriam and Walt facing each other by the front fender of a beat-up old Ford station wagon. He noticed Mr. Drexler’s Bentley parked a dozen feet away.
Miriam was offering Walt an envelope. Money? Jack couldn’t read her lips but remembered her offer to pay him.
Walt pushed it back, shaking his head as he said something.
Jack edged toward the door as Miriam pulled a slip of white paper from the envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of Walt’s fatigue jacket. He pulled it ou
t, looked at it, then threw it away.
As Walt waved his hands and walked off, Jack pulled open the door in time to hear Miriam call after him.
“I’ll be there till Sunday, Mister Erskine! Please reconsider, I beg you! If you change your mind you can come anytime. I’ll be waiting.”
She began to cry then, and her sobs tore at Jack’s heart. He watched her place her baby in the car seat in her old station wagon, then get in and drive away.
Jack jumped as Mr. Drexler spoke over his shoulder.
“Most entertaining.” He straightened and smiled. “I must make a note to come here more often.” He turned and nodded to Mr. Rosen. “Good day to you, sir. You have the most entertaining clientele.” Then to Jack: “Remember: the lawn and beds taken care of before Friday night.”
Jack looked at Mr. Rosen. “Can you spare me Friday?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Somehow I’ll manage.”
“Friday, then,” Mr. Drexler said and stepped out the door.
A big man hopped out of the Bentley and held the rear door for him. He seemed to be a combination of driver and bodyguard, although why Mr. Drexler would need either, Jack couldn’t imagine. Mr. Drexler called him Eggers.
He saw a piece of paper flutter in the wake of the car as it roared off—the slip Miriam had tried to give Walt. Jack ducked out and chased it. He checked it out when he caught it.
Lonely Pine Motel room 3
He stuffed it in his pocket and hurried back inside.
What an afternoon. Jack couldn’t get Miriam and her poor baby out of his head. He remembered his father telling him that Walt had worked as some sort of faith healer in a show in the south, but had been kicked out for drinking too much. He’d heard about faith healers who could make the blind see and the deaf hear and the lame walk, all things that could be faked.
But he’d never heard of a faith healer curing an amputee … or causing someone born with a bad arm or leg to grow a good one.
Had Walt done that? Could he really heal with a touch? Maybe. After all, there’d been that strange incident last month. And if he could, why would he refuse? Jack had a flash of insight: Was that why he wore gloves day in and day out?
The ding! of the cash register roused Jack as Mr. Rosen popped it.
“A store full of people and they bought nothing?”
“I guess they weren’t in a buying mood,” Jack told him.
Anything but.
6
“Oh, Jack,” Mrs. Connell said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Jack had decided on a direct approach to contacting Weezy. Rather than calling first, he rode his bike over and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Connell had practically hugged him.
“How’s Weezy doing?” he said, playing dumb like he had this morning. “She still sick?”
Mrs. Connell chewed her lip for a second, then said, “She’s not sick. She just won’t go to school.”
Jack feigned surprise—Eddie had told him in confidence—then put on a smile.
“And it works? Maybe I should try that.”
“It’s not funny, Jack. She’s very upset about something. I’m sure it has to do with school. Do you know what happened?”
He shrugged. “She’s a year ahead of me. I hardly see her at all during the day.”
No lie there.
“I know,” she said, nodding. “Eddie has no idea either. Look, I know you came over to see Eddie, but do you think you could talk to Weezy? You two are friends. Maybe she’ll tell you what’s wrong.”
He didn’t correct her about coming over to see Eddie.
“I’ll give it a try.”
He took the stairs up to her door and knocked.
“Hey, Weez, it’s me.”
“Jack? Come in.” As he opened the door and stepped through, she added, “Close it behind you.”
The room was dim, lit only by a tiny bedside lamp. Dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans, looking paler than usual, Weezy sat cross-legged on her unmade bed.
“What’s it like at school?” she said.
Jack shrugged. “Same old same old.”
“Still talking about ‘Easy Weezy’?” She spoke the words as if they tasted bad.
Jack wanted to tell her it was already yesterday’s news, but couldn’t lie to her … couldn’t have her step on the bus tomorrow thinking she wouldn’t hear those words.
“A couple of people asked about you…”
“Asked about ‘Easy Weezy’?”
He had to tell her. “Yeah.”
Frowning and shaking her head, she folded her arms and leaned back against the headboard.
“Damn them,” she said through her teeth. “Damn them all.”
“It’s going to get old real quick, Weez. This is 1983, not … not colonial times. You’re not going to have to wear a big red ‘A’ on your shirt.”
“But why me? Why do I have to be known as a slut? Me of all people? I don’t even date!”
“We both know why.”
Weezy stared at him. “Yeah, we do. I wish there was some way to get back at him.”
Jack felt his mouth opening, felt the words forming on his tongue. He so wanted to tell her his plan, but he pulled back. No … no one could know. This was between him and Carson Toliver, and Toliver especially could not know.
“You ever think you might be making it worse—I mean, prolonging it by not going to school?”
“I don’t care, because I’m never going back.”
“Weeeeez…”
“I’m serious. I’m not going back to a place where they all hate me or look down on me.”
The words shocked him. That wasn’t anywhere near true—at least in real life. But maybe to Weezy it was. She couldn’t see how she’d blown everything out of proportion. He sensed she was beyond reason. Was this the sort of thing she’d been seeing the psychiatrist about?
“Weez, that isn’t true. You—”
“It is.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks. “That’s why I’m never going back. And they can’t make me. No one can make me. They can drag me to the bus stop but I won’t get on. And if they force me on, I’ll get off at the very next stop. And if they drive me to school, I won’t get out of the car. And if they drag me out of the car and into the school, I’ll walk out the first exit I see.”
“But aren’t there laws—?”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I just want to be left alone.”
“Does that mean you want me to leave?”
“I’m tired. I need to sleep.”
That stung, and would have hurt more if he hadn’t known she wasn’t really herself now.
Desperate, he fabricated a surefire way to get her moving.
“I saw a couple of pine lights earlier. Want to chase?”
Jack thought he saw a spark of interest in her eyes—yes!—but it died so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Like I said, Jack. I’m really tired.”
She turned out the light.
His heart sank. This was awful. She wasn’t Weezy anymore.
He sighed. “Okay, Weez. Get some sleep. I’ll stop by tomorrow.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Hey, Weez, you gotta know you’ve got at least one person at school who doesn’t think you’re Easy Weezy.”
“You mean you?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t think so because you know the truth. But what if you didn’t? What would you think then?”
“Depends on what you told me. If you said it wasn’t true, that would settle it.”
A sob came out of the darkness.
“You’d better go.”
“Sure?”
“Please.”
As he stepped out into the hall he heard her say, “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“’Sokay.”
He shut the door.
Sorry … The word nearly broke his heart, but it also removed any misgivings he might have had about the risks of his plan.
Weezy was sorry?
Before he was through, someone else was going to be much sorrier.
7
Jack’s chest felt heavy as he walked the block and a half home. He turned his thoughts from Weezy to planning his first move against Toliver. The key, he figured, was to make it look like innocent mischief. Nothing harmful. Its impact would come from the simple and inescapable realization that someone had targeted Mr. Wonderful for a prank.
By the time Jack reached his house he had an idea or two. Inside he found his mother puttering about the kitchen.
“Where’s all the Halloween stuff?” he said.
His mother looked up. “You must be psychic. I was just going to ask you to bring it up from the basement.”
“Okay. But where in the basement?”
The storage area was so crammed he needed a Sherpa guide to find anything.
“Right rear corner, middle shelf.”
Sure enough, the box was exactly where she’d said—right next to the Thanksgiving decorations. She liked to dress up the house for each holiday, and Halloween was only a week away.
Jack pulled out the box and pawed through it until he came across the big fuzzy black spider she liked to hang by the front door. It had huge white, googly eyes with black pupils that rolled around when it moved, and was attached to an elastic string. It looked kind of goofy and cute, almost snuggly.
Jack pulled off the eyes and set it on the floor. Suddenly it was anything but snuggly. It looked like a humongous tarantula.
Perfect.
After bringing the box upstairs, he slipped out the back door to the garage. An old backpack hung on a hook. He slipped the spider inside and added a penlight, a roll of masking tape, and a screwdriver from his father’s tool shelves.
Then he removed the padlock shims from the lock-picking kit. He had four of them, each slightly larger or smaller than the others. He’d never done this before, but he’d studied the booklet that came with the kit—Lock Picking Made Easy—and it looked, well, easy.
He removed his bicycle padlock from the chain and snapped the shackle closed. Then he tried different shims until he found the one whose half cylinder best fit the shackle. When it was snug against the metal, he worked it down into the shackle hole. Then, with his thumbs against the flanges, he rotated the shim to the right.