Free The Mostly True Story of Jack by Kelly Barnhill Page B

polished oak door was Mr. Perkins, hunched at a desk before a ledger book, sweat dripping from his arched brow. He had already been hard at work for well over an hour, Mr. Avery knew. Mr. Perkins was punctual.
    “
Perkins!
” he roared.
    Mr. Perkins dropped his pencil on the floor. He stood quickly and shoved his right hand deep into his pocket, tightly gripping something inside. “Yes, sir,” Mr. Perkins said, shuffling papers with his left hand and scanning the floor for his pencil.
    “You have an assignment. I want you to get some information on that boy at the Fitzpatricks’. Follow him if you need to. Keep an eye on him. Wear something inconspicuous. And take notes. I want to know what he knows. I hope I am understood,” he added dangerously. No one, ever, wanted to be accused of misunderstanding Mr. Avery.
    “But, sir,” Mr. Perkins began in a quavery voice. “The boy. He isn’t—” Unconsciously, Mr. Perkins pulled a small length of braided rawhide from his pocket and pressed it against his cheek. He held on for dear life.
    “Don’t ask questions,” Mr. Avery snapped. “And don’t let yourself be seen. I will be leaving town in an hour. I shall return in a few days and will expect a full report.”
    He knew his meeting with the governor would be successful. The governor was… an impressionable young man. But first Mr. Avery had research to do. He was closing in on an answer… he could
feel
it. And if his suspicions were correct—or even
marginally
correct—then he would require the use of the Fitzpatrick house. He was certain, with a little legal wrangling, that he could possess the strange house at the edge of town, mysteries and all, by the end of the week. Two weeks, if the Fitzpatricks made things difficult. Best to assume two.
    “No, sir—I mean, yes, sir,” Mr. Perkins said, tripping over the wastepaper basket as he hurried to retrieve his rain jacket and umbrella, two things he carried every day, whether it was forecasted to rain or not. The door moaned sadly as he pushed it open and closed with a brittle slam.
    Mr. Avery watched the hesitant profile of his assistant through the glass until his silhouette was swallowed in the bright mouth of the door, and the old man was alone. On his desk sat two small pictures. The first was from an instant camera and had been glued onto a piece of paper with some arrows and words scratched around the edges.
Original position of subject
, with an arrow pointing to an empty space in front of the Fitzpatrick house.
Subject remains?
with another arrow pointing to a boy-shaped shadow on the ground.
    Mr. Avery sighed. “I need more time,” he whispered. His hands trembled as he reached for the other picture—this one a very small photograph of his wife and son—his only son. His father had told him to have two, that it would be easier that way. Mr. Avery shook his head. He didn’t want
easier
. He just wanted his boy. He closed his eyes, pressed the small frame to his heart.
    He could still feel the icy waves in the wood, coming faster and colder than before.
    And though he wasn’t there to see it, he knew that on the outside of the building, the limestone eyes of the sleeping woman in the stone slowly slivered open.

Chapter Fourteen
The Skateboard and the Thief
    T HAT SAME MORNING , J ACK AWOKE AT FIRST LIGHT . D ESPITE the early hour, he could hear the clank and slurp of Clive and Mabel’s breakfast dishes and the low hum of their conversation.
Don’t they ever sleep?
Jack wondered.
    The Secret History of Hazelwood
lay open on his chest. He glanced over the page that he had read the night before. While some of the book was made from the diaries of Reverend Weihr, most of it was written by Clive. This particular page—the one that had put him to sleep—was about the stealing of souls.
    Can anyone really
steal
a soul?
Jack wondered. It seemed ludicrous, but really, everything in the book was ludicrous.
    “
When a person’s soul is destroyed
,”