And with them, an idea.
“Who?s doing your lawn?”
“At the moment, no one.” Mr. Drexler gave him an appraising look. “It occurs to me that I have on occasion witnessed you riding your bike around town trailing a lawn mower behind you.
From that may I infer that you cut lawns?”
“Um … you may. Want me to do yours?”
“The local Lodge?s landscaper—former landscaper, I should say—has been released for
incompetence. More accurately: inattention. I believe in hiring locally, so … are you capable?”
Jack did a quick mental calculation. Lots of grass around the Lodge. Easily three times the average lawn, maybe four. What to charge … ?
“Absolutely … but it?s a lot of property …”
“We?ll pay you fifty dollars a week until frost halts growth. Is that sufficient?”
Sufficient? Was he kidding? Jack charged five bucks for the average forty-five-minute mow. He didn?t know what to say.
Mr. Drexler sighed. “Very well, sixty dollars, but that is my final offer.”
Jack found his voice. “Deal.”
“Excellent.”
Mr. Drexler?s cold blue eyes fixed on him, and for an instant Jack felt like a field mouse being eyed by a hawk. But the feeling vanished almost as soon as it came.
Rich! He was going to be
“I hope you understand,” the man added, “that includes weeding the flower beds and such.”
“Weeding? Sure.”
For sixty bucks, of course he?d weed.
“Good. Now that we?ve come to terms on that—you drive a hard bargain, my boy—good day.”
He closed the door and Jack walked away thinking about how flush he was going to be and how this was a foot in the Lodge?s door. He was sure, given enough time, he could work his way inside.
He moved on and attached a flyer to every pole and tree along every street in Old Town. A lot of them already sported posters for the Taber & Son Circus. As he tacked up Cody?s picture next to one of those he thought of the canvas boss from last night and what he?d said.
Had there been a connection between the circus and the boy who had gone missing in
Michigan? If so, there definitely could be one with Cody?s disappearance.
But what could he do? He was a fourteen-year-old kid. He could do only so much. Tacking up the flyers was something, but didn?t seem enough.
Had to be something else. If so, he?d find it.
2
Every so often—like today—Jack got a chance to pick a lock.
After the posters were up, he
rode down to USED to see if Mr. Rosen needed him.
“I?m glad you?re here,” the thin old man said as Jack came through the front door. “We?ve got a little work to do.”
Jack had begun working here last spring. USED sold pretty much anything and everything, as long as it was used. Well, not appliances or anything like that, but all sorts of furniture, books, magazines, toys, dishes, glassware, clothes, what ever. Jack cleaned and dusted, rearranged, and manned the cash register whenever Mr. Rosen took one of his naps in the back room.
A mahogany cabinet stood on gently curving legs near the front counter. Jack hadn?t known mahogany from pine when he started, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to identify all the different furniture woods.
“A fellow brought it in yesterday, just as I was closing,” Mr. Rosen said. “He wasn?t asking an arm and a leg, so I bought it. A nice piece.”
“Nice finish.”
Jack spotted a few nicks and scratches, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to fix those.
The old man pointed to a spot by the left wall.
“I cleared a space for it over there. Help me move it already.”
Together they slid it across the floor. Just as they were shimmying it into place against the wall, the street outside lit up, followed by a rumble of thunder.
“Swell,” Jack said. “Another storm.”
At least his bike was sheltered under the store?s front overhang.
Mr. Rosen stepped to the front window and stared out.
“Like cats and dogs it rains. Where will it all go?”
“The lake?”
He turned and looked at Jack. “And after that?”
Jack shrugged.
“I have another job for you,” he told Jack as he returned to the cabinet and tugged on its door handles. “It?s locked and they lost the key. I?ll need you to open it for me.”
Jack put on an evil grin and rubbed his hands together.
“Goody!”
“You like this lock picking a little too much, I think.”
“Like it?” Jack said as he headed toward the rear where they kept the kit. “I
And he did. A fair number of the old pieces came locked with no key. Mr. Rosen used to pick the locks, but his hands had become too shaky for the fine manipulations necessary. So this past summer he?d taught Jack the technique. Every lock Jack conquered was a thrill.
“A Willie Sutton I?ve made.”
Jack returned with the kit. “Who?s Willie Sutton?”
“A famous bank robber. When he was asked why he robbed banks, he supposedly said,
„Because that?s where the money is.?”
Jack laughed. He kind of liked that.
The day grew dark outside as he inserted a tension bar into the cabinet?s keyhole and began caressing the lock?s internal pins with a slim, curved-tip rake. The lock hadn?t been opened in a long time and the pins resisted movement—happy right where they were. He was just coaxing them to move when three things occurred almost simultaneously:
A sun-bright flash, followed instantly by a deafening crackle-roar, and then darkness as the lights went out.
Mr. Rosen groaned. “Another power failure already!”
“Swell,” Jack said, feeling around on the floor—he?d jumped and dropped the rake.
He found it and was about to go looking for a flashlight when he realized he didn?t need light.
Once the tiny tools were in the keyhole, the job was all feel.
He went back to work, teasing the pins into motion. When they were all in place, he twisted the tension bar and was rewarded with a solid
“Got her!”
He grabbed the knobs but didn?t pull.
“Good boy,” Mr. Rosen said, approaching with a flashlight. “Wait for me.”
This was a game they?d begun to play and, next to the actual picking of the lock, Jack?s favorite part. Who knew what lay within a long-locked cabinet or drawer? A skull? An ancient, forbidden book like the
