the top of the door, then knotted it into place.
Moved the chair back, slipped out the window, then returned to the kitchen.
Mom was setting plates on the table. “Cal your father. We’re almost ready.”
“Okay. Just gotta stop in my room first.”
With that, Tom stepped back into the kitchen and again positioned himself where he could see Jack’s door.
As Jack passed him he couldn’t resist: “Wanna share some pistachios later?” “Very funny, Miracle Boy. Your time is coming. Sooner than you think.”
Hoping he’d done everything right, Jack held his breath as he pushed open the door to his room, preparing to be doused if he’d screwed up.
But no … he stayed dry.
Immediately he pul ed out his penknife and positioned himself by the closet door to wait. He didn’t think it would take long.
It didn’t.
Seconds later Tom arrived, wearing a perplexed expression. As he stepped through the door he looked up at the bucket.
“What the—?”
His eyes widened when he saw the eye hooks and the fishing line, but too late. Jack had cut the line and the bucket tipped and emptied on Tom’s face.
He cried out in shock and rage as he was drenched with cold water.
Jack thought it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen.
The commotion brought Mom running.
“What happened? What’s—?” She stopped and stared at her soaked son, then at the puddle on the floor. “What is going on here?” She looked past
Tom at Jack. “Jackie! What were you thinking?”
“I did
She turned to Tom. “Wel , since I doubt very much it was your father, and since Kate isn’t home, that leaves you. When are you going to grow up,
Thomas? You’re in law school, for heaven’s sake!”
“He started it with the doctored pistachios,” he said, wiping his dripping face with a wet sleeve.
“No,” she said.
Tom stuck out a hand. “Peace, brother?”
Jack knew what Tom had in mind: He was going to trap Jack’s fingers in a deathgrip and squeeze with everything he had. This wouldn’t be the first time
—not by a long shot. When Jack was younger Tom would squeeze and try to get him to say, “Tom is God.” Jack never would—even though the crushing
agony almost brought him to tears, he never said it.
Tom was stil bigger and stronger, but Jack had learned a trick.
“Peace, brother,” he said, forcing his hand as deep into Tom’s as it would go.
Tom squeezed but it didn’t hurt, because he was squeezing Jack’s hand, not his fingers. He squeezed harder, the effort showing on his face, but stil no
pain for Jack.
“Mom said, ‘shake hands,’ Tom, not go steady.”
Glaring, Tom released him.
“That’s my boys,” Mom said as she headed back toward the kitchen. “Tom, you mop up your mess.”
“I’m not through with you, numbnuts,” he said in a low voice.
Jack held his gaze, then slipped past him into the hal .
“Better get mopping or you’l miss dinner.”
Tom had gone out to who cared where. Kate and another student she met were fixing up the apartment in Stratford they’d be using during the coming year
at medical school. His folks were off to the movies.
He had the place to himself.
Ah, freedom.
He hurried upstairs to his folks’ bedroom closet and retrieved the lock box from the top shelf. He set it on the double bed and laid out the pick set next
