stood on tiptoe, and grabbed the box. As he
pul ed it down he heard things clink and thunk within.
Marksmanship medals and what else? Maybe some bul ets or other souvenirs from Korea. He reached for the latch, but stopped.
This didn’t feel right.
Since when was he so nosy, he wondered, feeling the cool metal against his palms. He’d gone from eavesdropping on Mr. Brussard to poking through
his father’s private belongings.
No … the reason this didn’t feel right was because it
But something inside was pushing him, egging him on to pop the lid and take a look. Just one look—how much could it hurt? He pressed the lid release
and—
Nothing happened.
He pressed again but the lid wouldn’t budge. He fingered the tiny keyhole: locked.
Just his luck.
But the key had to be somewhere. He went to Dad’s dresser and searched the top. No luck. He pul ed open the top drawer, the sock drawer, where
Dad kept a shal ow bowl for odds and ends. Jack found spare change and rubber bands and paper clips, but no key.
And then an idea hit—he knew exactly what to do.
Replacing the box on the shelf, he closed the closet door and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He went straight to the cutlery drawer and pul ed out
one of the black-handled steak knives. It had a slim blade and a sharp point.
Perfect.
He slipped it into his pocket and sneaked upstairs again. Kneeling by the closet with the box cradled in his lap, he worked the knife point into the
keyhole, twisting it this way and that. He did it gently to avoid scratching the metal, but no matter how he angled or wiggled or twisted the blade, the lock
refused to turn. He fought the temptation to give a quick, hard twist—that might bend the blade or, even worse, break the lock. How would he explain that?
Disappointed, he stared at the knife, then at the lock. They made it look so easy on TV.
Wel , no use in sitting here like he was waiting to get caught.
Quickly he replaced the box, angling it just the way he’d found it, then made his way back downstairs as quietly as possible.
Two boxes—Mr. Brussard’s and his father’s—and no idea of what they held. Maybe he’d never know.
Bummer.
He didn’t feel like watching
finish. He passed Kate’s room—empty. Same with Tom’s. Both were out. He didn’t know where they’d gone, but he knew it had to be far from Johnson.
Nothing happening here. Ever.
He stopped when he came to his room and noticed the closed door. He always closed it when he was in it, but left it open when he was out. Could have
blown shut, but it was a heavy old hunk of wood and he hadn’t noticed much of a breeze tonight, if any.
Only one possibility: Tom.
Wel , Jack hadn’t been expecting anything tonight. Was this it? Had Tom left a booby trap of some sort before going out?
Jack inspected the doorknob. Nothing on it. He turned it and eased the door open an inch or so. He checked the space above the inside of the door
just in case Tom had set that corny old bucket-of-water-over-the-door trick. He couldn’t see Tom coming up with anything original.
But no—no bucket poised above. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and stood on the threshold, examining his room from a distance.
Finding nothing obvious, he stepped in and looked around.
At first everything seemed fine, but then a strange sensation began to creep over him, a feeling that something was
