body?”
“No, and maybe I’m glad I didn’t. I mean, what with it being a ritual murder and
al .”
Steve slammed his palm on the table.
forefinger. “What sort of ritual?”
Me and my big mouth, Jack thought.
He’d forgotten that no one was supposed to know about that. At least not yet. “I don’t know. They’re … they’re keeping that secret.”
“Have they identified him yet?”
With a start Jack wondered how Mr. Brussard knew it was a
realized he’d been thinking of the corpse as a “him” as wel .
“Maybe it’s Marcie Kurek,” Steve said.
Marcie again. Wel , no surprise. For a while last year her disappearance had
been al anyone talked about.
Jack figured he could tel them the identity since it would be in tomorrow’s
papers. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
“A jeweler from Mount Hol y.”
“Anton Boruff,” Mr. B said in a low voice.
Steve’s eyes were wide. “Dad, you
His father said, “Heard of him. It was in al the papers a few years ago. Vanished
without a trace. Some people thought he’d left his wife and run off with another woman, but …” He shrugged.
Jack couldn’t mention the diamonds, and anyway he was tired of talking about
the body. Looking for a way off it, he remembered Steve’s cal s.
“Steve said you had something you wanted to show me, Mister Brussard.” The man looked confused for a couple of seconds. “What? Oh, right. But it’s not
something to see. More like hear. We’l have to go into the living room.” They rose and fol owed him until he turned and pointed to the middle of the
family den floor.
“Al right, boys, sit yourselves down right there—that’s what we cal the sweet
spot.” Jack had no idea what was going on, but complied. Sipping from their Pepsis, he
and Steve situated themselves cross-legged on the shag carpet
while Mr. Brussard fiddled with a bunch of electronic components racked on a
shelf at the far end of the room.
“Now I know you’ve heard parts, or maybe even al of this before, but you’ve
never heard it like this.”
He seemed to be trying to sound cheerful when he real y wasn’t. If that was the
case, he was doing a lousy job.
“Heard what?” Steve said.
“Tchaikovsky’s
Steve groaned. “Aw, man! Classical music?”
Jack was no fan himself. The only thing he liked less was opera. Listening to
some of those fat ladies’ wailing voices was like fingernails on a
blackboard.
“Wait. Just wait. It’s a long piece, but I’m going to get you to the good part. This
was digital y recorded and they used
Jack didn’t know what “digital y recorded” meant, but real cannons … that might
be cool.
Mr. B fiddled with some buttons. “Let me advance it to the sixteen-minute mark
so as not to strain your short attention spans. There. Now … listen.”
With a flourish he hit a button and instantly the living room fil ed with an
