The shackle popped up.
Jack stared in joyous wonder.
That’s it? That’s it?
He did it again—just as easily.
It took all his will to keep from pealing a loud Mwah-ha-ha-ha!
Operation Toliver was a go.
WEDNESDAY
1
Jack stopped on the shoulder of Route 206 and squinted at the glowing dial of his watch: just shy of quarter to two in the morning.
He’d left his bike on the side of the house before going to bed. That way it had been right there and ready to roll when he’d climbed out his bedroom window. He’d gone as far as he could on off-road paths. Now he was going to have to ride most of the rest of the way—maybe a mile—on Route 206.
Here he faced the greatest risk of exposure. The good news was that 206 ran pretty much arrow-straight along this stretch. He’d be able to spot approaching headlights a long way off, giving him plenty of time to find cover along the roadside. Even better was the fact that hardly anybody in these parts was out at this hour.
He felt his gut crawl as he looked up and down the road. Was he out of his mind? This was one crazy stunt he was pulling. So many things could go wrong. The worst would be getting caught inside the school—he could be arrested for breaking and entering.
Then he remembered the tears on Weezy’s face as she told him she was never going back to school. All because of Carson Toliver.
Some things you could let slide, and some things you couldn’t.
Sometimes, when it mattered enough, when a friend was involved, you had to go out on a limb. Weezy was that kind of friend. He had a feeling she’d do the same for him. And even if she wouldn’t, so what? He needed to do it for her.
He just hoped this particular limb didn’t break.
Jack avoided a road-killed raccoon as he crossed to the west side of the highway near the Lonely Pine Hotel. An apt name: It consisted of a short strip of seven rooms and an office, all in the shadow of one huge, lonely pine. Everything was dark except for the small neon sign at the road’s edge. Only one car in the lot—Jack recognized Miriam’s beat-up station wagon parked outside a door marked 3.
He wondered again at her story of growing an arm after Walt touched her. Maybe Walt had touched her at the tent show. And maybe she had grown an arm during the following year. That didn’t mean one caused the other. He heard his father’s repeated warnings about the commonest logical fallacy: Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Just because one thing followed another didn’t mean the first caused the second.
And besides, if Walt could truly heal with a touch, he’d be world famous. Certainly wouldn’t be hanging out in Johnson, New Jersey.
He hopped on his bike and began pedaling.
2
He needed to jump off the road only twice along the way, so he arrived at the high school in good time. He pulled off the road a hundred yards or so shy of the entrance, and approached through the trees.
The buildings were dark and abandoned looking, the parking lot empty. He made a circuit of the building anyway, just to be sure no janitors were still about. He knew they did most of their work after school, but doubted any would be working at this hour. Still, he’d never done anything like this before and didn’t want to run into any ugly surprises.
Nope. All clear.
The starlight was enough to guide him to the boys’ room window. He glanced up at the dusty glow of the Milky Way arcing overhead. He pulled his bike behind the juniper hedge that ran along the wall. He’d known about the hedge, and its thorns were one of the reasons he’d worn his nylon track warm-up. Another was because its fabric was smooth and slippery. He wanted every bit of help to slide through that window. Yesterday afternoon he hadn’t had the time to check how far it opened. If he couldn’t slip through, all his plans and this entire trip would be for nothing.
He leaned the bike against the wall and shrugged out of his backpack. He removed a plastic baggie containing the penlight, shims, and spider. Clenching it in his teeth he stepped up on the seat. After swaying precariously for a second or two, he steadied himself and removed the screwdriver from his back pocket. He worked the flat tip between the window casing and the bottom of the frame.
The window wouldn’t budge.
His heart sank. Had one of the janitors spotted the open latches and relocked the window? He hadn’t considered that possibility.
He tried again, levering harder, and this time the window moved.
“Yes!”
He worked the screwdriver tip farther in, put more weight behind it, and soon the edge of the frame had moved out far enough to allow him to work his fingertips behind it. He yanked back and it swung open with a squeak that echoed through the enveloping silence like an elephant honk.
He stood silent, listening. All quiet, and yet …
… a feeling that he wasn’t alone.
He looked around, expecting to see someone standing behind him in the starlight. But no. No one there.
Still … a vague feeling of being watched.
Shrugging off the unease—really, who’d be out here at this hour?—he pulled the window open to the limit and began to wriggle through. For a gut-wrenching second his warm-up caught on the frame and he thought he might be stuck. His head filled with visions of hanging half in and half out all night, then being discovered and becoming the focus of a laughing, jeering crowd of kids until some fireman extricated him like a stray kitten from a tree.
He’d have to move into Weezy’s room and neither of them would ever show their faces here again.
But he managed to get free—maybe the warm-up hadn’t been the best idea—and lowered himself into the bathroom stall.
Wasting no time, he made his way into the hall and hurried toward the senior locker area. When he arrived at 791, he turned on the penlight and held it in his mouth as he reached for the shims.
His fingers trembled as he tested one after another against the shackle of Toliver’s lock until he found a snug fit. Then he did just what he’d done with his own lock: thumbs on the flanges, push down, rotate right—
The shackle popped open.
So easy, it was almost criminal.
Then again, breaking into someone’s locker was, in a way, sort of a criminal act.
Did that make him a criminal?
Whatever. Not as criminal as attacking Weezy.
He shoved the lock into his pocket and opened the door. He pulled the spider from the baggie and wedged it lightly behind a few books on the top shelf, then taped the elastic string firmly to the inside of the door, leaving very little slack.
He closed and relocked it, then stepped back to examine his handiwork. He played the penlight up and down the locker but could find no sign that it had been tampered with. Satisfied, he headed back to the boys’ room.
Sliding out feetfirst was easier than crawling in headfirst. He pushed the window shut, pulled his bike free, and hit the road.
His heart pounded with elation. He’d done it. Or at least he’d finished the setup without being caught.
Now all he could do was be on hand tomorrow morning to see if Operation Toliver turned out to be a boom or a bust.
3
The first thing Jack did upon getting off the bus and entering school was to make a beeline for the last stall in the boys’ room where he closed the latches on the window. No sense in risking the chance that someone might notice them open and wonder why.
After that he positioned himself as far as possible from Toliver’s locker while still maintaining a line of sight. He pretended to be reading, leaning against a wall as if doing a last-minute cram for a test, but all the while keeping careful watch from the corner of his eye.
He didn’t feel as tired as he’d expected this morning. Not a hundred percent by any stretch, but the adrenaline of anticipation was driving off any effects of sleep deprivation. It also seemed to have driven off his appetite. Mom had been on his case about having only toast for breakfast, bu
t he hadn’t felt like eating anything more.
He’d heard another “Where’s Easy Weezy?” when he’d got on the bus, which made him glad Weezy had stayed home. Again, Eddie had been too lost in his headphones to notice.
About five minutes before first period, Toliver strolled by, performing his mayor-of-SBR routine. As soon as Jack spotted him, his gut tightened. He closed his book and began drifting his way. Eddie appeared at his side as if from nowhere.
“Why’re you heading this way?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Kleiner’s our first and he’s back—”
“Just taking the long way,” Jack said.
This earned a funny look. Taking a single step more than absolutely necessary was simply not part of Eddie’s lifestyle. To do so willingly was for Klingons or seriously deranged people.
“I’m going the not-long way.”
At that point they were maybe ten feet from Toliver as he spun the dial on his combo lock. This was hit-the-locker-before-first-period time and the area was crowded.
“Okay, okay,” Jack said, putting on an exasperated tone, “I’ll come with you. Just let me tie my sneak.”
He leaned his back against the wall and raised his foot, untying and then retying the laces on one of his Converse All-Stars, but all the while watching Toliver …
… popping the shackle and removing the lock …
… opening the door …
… stretching the elastic string …
Though Jack had been expecting it, even he jumped when the big black spider came flying through the air, straight at Toliver’s face. Toliver dropped the book he’d been carrying and loosed a loud yelp as he jumped back. He bumped into a passing girl, knocking her in turn against the girl beside her. Both girls went down amid flying books and papers.
“I don’t believe it!” Eddie cried. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Jack said, straightening and looking around. He focused on the two girls, kneeling on the floor and gathering their scattered things. “What happened to them?”
He hurried over, not so much to help—they didn’t need any—as to get closer to Toliver who was staring at the dangling spider, still bouncing on its elastic.
“Son of a bitch!”
Gotcha!
Jack wanted to pump a fist but restrained himself. Stay off his radar—stay off everybody’s radar.
Toliver grabbed the spider and ripped it free of the masking tape, then threw it down the hall. Red-faced, teeth bared, he turned and scanned the crowd of passersby who had stopped to watch. He looked ready to explode but, with visible effort, caught himself. Instead of raging, he swallowed and laughed. Jack didn’t know what his real laugh sounded like but was pretty sure that wasn’t it.
“Okay, okay. You got me. Very funny. Who was it? You look over my shoulder and steal my combination? Good one.”
No one said anything and Jack was very careful not to make eye contact, afraid the dark elation bubbling within would seep through and give him away. Instead he concentrated on helping the two girls pick up the last of their spilled belongings.
As Toliver turned back to his locker and started to pull out a couple of books, he looked down and froze. Jack craned his neck to see.
A dirty, pink scrunchy sock had fallen out. After staring at it a second or two, Toliver snatched it up and shoved it into his pocket. He looked around, as if to see if anyone had noticed. His expression seemed embarrassed but tinged with something else Jack couldn’t identify.
The embarrassment Jack could understand. Physically Toliver hadn’t been touched, but his pride was wounded. Someone had dared to play a practical joke on the much-admired and beloved Carson Toliver. This demonstrated a humongous lack of respect.
The guy loved attention, but not the kind he’d received in the past few minutes. Soon it would be all over school that he’d been pranked, and everyone would know that someone at SBR didn’t love Carson Toliver.
And worse, his spaz reaction had been anything but cool.
Think you’re embarrassed now? Jack thought as he watched him relock his locker. Wait. This is just the beginning.
Jack had an escalating series of embarrassments planned.
“That was really stinkacious,” Eddie said as they turned away and headed for class.
“Yeah?” Jack tried to sound as noncommittal as possible. “How so?”
“What sort of dork does something like that to Carson? I mean, he’s the coolest guy around.”
Jack glanced at his clueless friend, thinking, If you only knew, Eddie.
“Maybe it was one of his football buddies,” Jack said. “You know how those guys are always goofing on each other.”
Eddie nodded, looking relieved. “Yeah, that has to be it. Who else would have the nerve to try something like that?”
Jack shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”
4
When lunchtime rolled around, Jack went looking for Toliver to continue his shadow routine, but couldn’t find him at first. Not in the caf, not in the halls, not by his locker. Jack even wandered over to the gym to see if he might be working out. But no Carson Toliver anywhere.
He was about to end his search and head for class when he spotted Toliver striding in through the front entrance. He looked his usual confident self as he strolled toward the senior locker area, nodding and smiling, bouncing a new-looking combination padlock in his palm.
When he reached his locker he removed the current lock and replaced it with the new one, then made a big show of tossing the old one in the nearest trash can.
Toliver walked off with a satisfied, I’ve-got-everything-under-control expression. As he passed a white-haired girl, she shrank against the far wall, as if to stay as far as possible from him.
That odd, albino piney girl, Saree … she seemed afraid of him. Jack remembered what she’d said about Toliver …
He’s all sorts of dark, almost black as night.
Whatever that meant.
Jack was strolling toward locker 791 to check out the new lock when he saw Saree stop before it. He slowed, watching as she reached a hand out toward the door. Her palm approached it in slow motion, hesitated, then pressed against the metal surface.
With a sudden small cry she snatched it away and rubbed it furiously against her other hand. Jack was practically on top of her now and his curiosity got the better of him.
“Did you cut yourself?”
She looked up at him with a surprised expression—surprised because someone had been watching, or surprised that Jack had spoken to her?
“No,” she said. “It’s cold … so cold.”
Jack caught a glimpse of her palm before she hurried off. It looked bright red.
He glanced around—no one watching. He touched the door briefly, just long enough to feel that the metal was room temperature.
He looked at the retreating Saree. What was she talking about? One strange piney, that one.
Before moving on he scoped out the new lock: same model as the old one.
Think a new combination’s going to solve your problem, Toliver?
Think again.
5
“I’m going to rest my eyes awhile,” Mr. Rosen said as he headed for the back room. “You mind the store.”
Jack waved the rag he was using to polish an old oak table. “Take your time. I’ll let you know if things get too busy.”
“I should be so lucky.” He turned and looked at Jack. “Your friend, that Drexler man, he’ll be back?”
Jack laughed. “He’s not my friend.”
That seemed sort of like being friends with Skeletor.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He couldn’t read Mr. Rosen’s expression. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Rosen sighed. “Neither do I. I simply have a feeling he’s not a nice man, that he’s … dangerous.”
Jack stiffened, surprised. “What do you mean? Like a killer? An assassin?”
Mr. Rosen laughed
. “Too many pulp magazines you read already!” His smile faded. He raised a hand and tapped a finger against the side of his head. “I mean dangerous here. Dangerous ideas.”
Jack still didn’t get it. “Hey, all I’m doing for him is mowing the Lodge’s lawn.”
“Yes, well … be careful.”
With that he turned toward the back room. Jack wondered at the vague warning, then shrugged it off as he remembered Mr. Kressy’s assignment.
“Hey, Mister Rosen. Do you have a first principle that guides your life?”
He stared at Jack. “Why for you ask me this?”
“It came up in school. I’m looking for a good one. Can you help me out?”
The old man shook his head, his expression bleak. “I’ve got one, but it won’t help you.”
“Try me.”
“‘Never again.’”
He turned and shuffled off to his nap.
Jack didn’t have a chance to ask for an explanation because in walked an older couple and a boy about Jack’s age. The woman was thin, wore a worn-looking housedress, and was puffing on a cigarette. The man was heavyset with a thick neck and short red hair. The boy looked like neither.
“Got any marbles?” the man said.
Jack pointed to a fishbowl half filled with all shapes and sizes. “Take your pick. Ten cents each.”
The boy’s eyes lit. “How many can I get?”
The man handed him two dollars. “Let’s start with twenty.”
As the boy reached into the bowl, the man wandered toward the back. “Gonna take a look around.”
“Looking for anything in particular?” Jack said.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
The woman smoked and looked out the window while the boy poked around the shelves by the counter.
“You collect marbles?” Jack asked for want of anything better to say as he bagged the chosen marbles.
The boy raised his hands and mimicked firing a rifle. “Target practice. Twenty-twos.”