The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

The Mystery Box

Previously: "The New Job" 

Sean pulls the knot tight and stands up again. He looks around the storage space with his hands on his hips.

"So," he says cheerfully, "we got like fifteen minutes till quitting time. Not enough time to do anything except goof off. Come on." With a wink he leads you over to far corner of the storage space, and to a big cabinet filled with a lot of dusty packages and envelopes.

"This is the dead collection," he says. "Stuff that got misdirected or returned or just came in or came back unclaimed. They clean it out every few months or so, but Jack makes sure that this one always stays." He digs through a box and pulls out a dark bottle. "A little end-of-your-first-day nip?" He waggles his eyebrows, and you grin back.

He takes one big gulp, makes a face, and hands it over to you. It's Scotch—hard and sharp and smoky, and it makes your eyes water, and sets you to coughing. "Been too long on beer, huh?" Sean laughs, but there's no meanness in it. "That's enough," he says, taking the bottle back and replacing it. "One good belt before we knock off, enough to make us feel good but not enough to really do anything." He smacks his tongue around in his mouth. "Don't abuse it," he says, and his expression sobers and hardens. "We had some guys who got stinking drunk on the stuff over the summer and got fired. Luckily, they didn't spill about where they got it."

"That sucks."

His expression hardens even more, and his eyes flash. "They were assholes," he says in a low voice.

The liquor has set your insides on fire, and it does feel good, and with a happy eye you lazily survey the contents of the "dead cabinet." Just a lot of boxes and manila envelopes, pretty dusty.

But one of them on the lowest shelf has been opened. "What's that one?" you point.

"Huh?" Sean frowns. "That's funny. If it was opened, someone must've taken a look and decided it wasn't for him. Jack should have sealed it up and sent it back to the sender." He kneels and examines the flaps, then looks up at you in surprise. "It's addressed to your dad."

You kneel next to him. Sure enough, it's addressed to Salopek care of "Harris Prescott," but the top has been torn completely open. There's nothing inside that you can see except a loose sheet of paper and a lot of packing peanuts. While Sean runs his fingers through the peanuts you take out the paper and unfold it. It's a packing sheet, listing a bunch of items, all very plain and uninteresting, except for one word that leaps out at you: "Masks."

"Hey, who's back there?" a sharp voice calls from the other end of the room. You and Sean both wheel; you crumple up the paper and stuff it into your back pocket.

"Hey Jack," Sean calls back. "Is it quitting time yet?"

"If it's five-thirty, it is for you, yeah. Son of a bitch." It's dim in the warehouse, but you can make out the shadowy figure of the distribution center overseer.

"Okay then, we're outta here." Sean picks up the mystery package and lofts it onto his shoulder. He slaps you lightly on the back. "You should head back to the front office, check in, see if there's anything you need to do. I'll run this over by your dad's office, see if there was some kind of mix up."

You briefly toy with offering to take it yourself, but you really don't want to see your dad. You leave Sean and the building supervisor talking at the front counter about the mystery box.

* * * * *

Unlucky you, your dad is in the front office waiting. Your heart thumps hard, out of fear he'll smell the alcohol on your breath, but he just gruffly asks about how your first day went, then sends you home. Not until you plop down in your truck do you feel the paper in your pocket and remember to pull it out.

It doesn't seem any more interesting on closer inspection, listing two books; one manila folder; three bags, each containing "metallic strips (3)"; five masks; and a roll of undeveloped film. Naturally, you frown over the word "masks," though it obviously shouldn't have anything to do with your discovery at Arnholm's. But why would anyone be sending masks of any type to your dad at his work?

You look at the top of the packing list, and the mystery deepens. The return address is some town in New York, but it's not addressed to your dad at all, but to someone named Shabbleman in the town of Cuthbert. A twitch passes through your upper back: You have relatives named Shabbleman who live in Cuthbert, a backwater hillbilly town a few hours drive from Saratoga Falls.

"Dad?" you ask him later that evening. "Did Sean Mitchell drop off a package at your office near the end of work, after you saw me?"

"No. What's the story?" You tell him briefly about finding the box in the distribution center. "He must've missed me while I was talking to you. By the way, have you started looking through that work binder yet?"

You were going to show him the packing list, but the sentence dies on your lips. There's probably a company policy against walking off with documents. You tell him you were studying the binder up in your room, and that's what reminded you about the package, then trot back upstairs before he can tell you to return to the books.

* * * * *

The mystery (what there is of it) is solved the next day when Sean tells you that he left the box with Jack to handle. Then, like your dad, he asks if you studied the binder. "There's some pretty dangerous stuff around here, and you have to know how to avoid it, since you're not cleared to handle it." You nod your head dutifully, but he gets a playfully skeptical look. "Come on, let's give you a quiz." He leads you into a back room in a small building and opens up a cabinet that's stacked high and deep with bottles. "What's the stuff you shouldn't touch?"

"All of it?"

He laughs. "Good policy. But c'mon, more specific." He alternately nods and shakes his head as you pick your way through. "Yeah, those two are the worst things to get into," he says, pointing to two big brown bottles with big red stickers on them. This stuff—" He reaches up to take a bottle, but it slips from his hand and shatters on the floor. You step back, but he is even quicker. "Watch out!" he yells, and grabs you from behind ...

* * * * *

You wake with a groan to find your nostrils filled with a terrible stench. A rather ashen-faced Sean peers down at you. "Well, no real harm done," he says. "Hope you enjoyed your nap."

"What happened?"

"Stupid me, I knocked something off the shelf. You got a snootful. I got it covered up with sawdust and it'll be okay, but you were out for a few minutes."

You feel yourself paling. "Should I head over to the infirmary?'

"Not a bad idea," he says. "And I'll have to report myself." He swears softly to himself.

* * * * *

The medical office checks you out and says you're okay, but it's the start of a run of bad luck at work. The next day you're knocked to the ground by a heavy box, and on Wednesday you bang your head hard on some machinery. Sean chides you for your clumsiness, but says he won't report it: "Just learn to be more careful," he tells you.

But he doesn't hold your clumsiness against you, and when Friday comes, he cheerfully asks if you've got plans for the night. And when you admit you don't, he asks if you want to tag along with him, even though he hasn't got plans either.

You? Hang out with a wrestler/football player? Probably with other wrestler/football players? You'd probably get lost in the crowd. And some of those guys you definitely don't like: Dominic Kleason and Roy Nelson, particularly, made your life really unpleasant your freshman and sophomore years.

Still, this would be a chance to break out of some boundaries, and Sean seems like a good guy.

Next: "Went With the Wind" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 2)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)"