shortened to Johnson.
The traffic-light cluster consisted of a Krauszer’s convenience store, a used-car lot, and Joe Burdett’s Esso station—the company had changed its
name to Exxon better than ten years ago, but old Joe had never changed the sign. Back east along Quakerton sat Spurlin’s Hardware, Hunningshake’s
pharmacy, gift, and sweet shoppe, the VFW post, and Mr. Rosen’s place, USED. The sign used to say USED GOODS, but the nor’easter of 1962 ripped
off the right side and Mr. Rosen never replaced it.
The store had two large display windows on either side of the front door. Mr. Rosen had told Jack they’d been peopled with naked mannequins when
he’d bought it back in the 1950s from a wedding shop that had gone out of business. Now they were ful of what some people cal ed junk but Jack had
come to see as treasures from the past. USED was his personal time machine.
A bel atop the screen door tinkled as they entered. One step inside and the odors hit him—old wood, old cushioned furniture, old paper, a little dry rot,
a little rust, and a lot of dust. He loved the smel of this place.
“Mister Rosen?” he cal ed. “Mister Rosen?”
A painful y thin, elderly man with a stooped posture, pale skin, and gray hair wandered into view from the rear.
“Al right, already,” he said with a thick accent that sometimes sounded German and sometimes didn’t. “I’m coming, I’m—” He stopped when he saw
Jack. “Wel , if it isn’t the Finder of Corpses.”
“You’ve heard?”
“Heard? Who hasn’t? Probably al over town before you got home.” He studied Jack. “You okay? You want the day off maybe?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good. They know who it is yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
The old man glanced at the gold-and-glass Jefferson mystery clock on a nearby shelf. “At noon you’re due.”
“I know.” Jack stepped up to the counter and motioned Weezy forward. “But we’ve got something we’d like you to see.”
Mr. Rosen slipped on a pair of glasses as he moved behind the counter. “Something maybe to sel ?”
“No way,” Weezy blurted. “I mean, we’d just like your expert opinion.”
“Expert, shmexpert, I’l tel you what I know.”
Before leaving Weezy’s they’d reassembled the cube with the pyramid inside. Now she unfolded the bath towel she’d wrapped it in for transport, and
placed the cube on the counter.
Mr. Rosen adjusted his glasses for a closer look. “You bring me a box, a black box, and want to know what it is? In my expert opinion, it’s a black box.
Anything inside?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “That’s what we real y want to know about.” She stepped aside. “But it’l open only for Jack.”
Jack didn’t understand why Weezy and Eddie couldn’t do it. He’d shown them, they’d fol owed his directions perfectly, yet it refused to open for anyone
but him.
Which only increased the thing’s creep factor.
He did his thing to make it pop open, and then the three of them stood there at the counter, staring.
Final y Mr. Rosen reached for the pyramid. “May I?”
“Sure,” Jack said as Weezy gave a barely perceptible nod.
Mr. Rosen lifted it, but instead of examining it he set it aside and picked up the unfolded cube. He wiggled it in the air and watched as the six panels
flapped back and forth.
“Fascinating,” he said.
Jack was baffled. “Why?”
“No hinges. The squares appear to be made of thin sheets of some sort of material I’ve never seen. That’s strange enough, but they move back and
forth without any sort of hinge. Just … creases. Odd. Very, very odd.” “Tel me about it,” Jack said.
