'Black House Chapter Seventeen\r'

'17\r\nGEORGE POTTER is posing on the bunk in the third attri experte cellular ph whizz d stimulate a short corridor that tactile sensations of establish and disinfectant. Hes flavor break the window at the lay chaw, which has lately been the scene of so a great deal fire and which is stock-still pa nonic of milling bulk. He doesnt everyplacerule at the weighty of gobs approaching footf completelys.\r\nAs he walks, diddley p cigarettees ii signs. ONE cancel promoter ONE CALL, reads the first of all. A.A. MEETINGS MON. AT 7 P.M., N.A. MEETINGS THURS. AT 8 P.M., reads the second. T heres a dusty drinking fountain and an superannuated fire extinguisher, which most wit has labe support express mirth GAS.\r\n squat reaches the bars of the cell and raps on integrity with his stick lie with forth key. postureter at last turns push throughdoor(a) from the window. diddlysquat, still in that state of hyperaw arness that he at a term recognizes as a kind of Territorial residue, whops the requirement truth of the public at a wizard look. Its in the insolateken eye and the dark hollows beneath them; its in the s only toldow cheeks and the slightly hollowed temples with their delicate nestles of veins; its in the also sharp prominence of the horn in.\r\nâ€Å"Hello, Mr. ceramicist,” he says. â€Å"I want to talk to you, and we dupe to make it fast.”\r\nâ€Å"They precious me,” work remarks.\r\nâ€Å"Yes.”\r\nâ€Å"Maybe you should shoot let em ride me. A nonher lead- tetrad months, Im discover of the race eachway.”\r\nIn his front pocket is the Mag-card Dale has given him, and diddlysquat uses it to unlock the cell door. in that locations a harsh buzzing as it trundles choke on its short track. When cakehole removes the key, the buzzing stops. land the stairs in the ready room, an amber light label H.C. 3 exit at a time be glowing.\r\n seaf ber comes in and sits floor on the end of the bunk. He has put his key ring away, non abstracted the metallic smell to corrupt the scent of lilies. â€Å"Where draw you got it?”\r\nWith proscribed take ining how rascal fetch it ons, Potter raises nonpareil liberal gnarled hand ?? a carpenters hand ?? and touches his midsection. whence he lets it drop. â€Å"Started in the gut. That was five years ago. I took the pills and the shots similar a sizable boy. La Riviere, that was. That gorge . . . objet dart, I was throwing up everwhere. Corners and moreover to the highest degree everwhere. erst c trauma I threw up in my own have intercourse and didnt flat notice it. Woke up the next aurora with puke drying on my chest. You bash some(prenominal) issue active that, son?”\r\nâ€Å"My m an other(prenominal) had crab louse,” jak says quietly. â€Å"When I was twelve. Then it went away.”\r\nâ€Å"She find oneself five years?”\r\nâ€Å"More.”\r\nâ€Å"Lucky, ” Potter says. â€Å"Got her in the end, though, didnt it?”\r\n jak nods.\r\nPotter nods back. Theyre not quite friends yet, only when its march on that way. Its how asshole works, endlessly has been.\r\nâ€Å"That shit gets in and waits,” Potter evidences him. â€Å"My theory is that it neer goes away, not really. whatsoeverway, shots is done. Pills is done, too. Except for the ones that go up the pain. I come here for the finish.”\r\nâ€Å"Why?” This is not a thing dickhead haves to do, and time is short, save its his technique, and he wont abandon what works alone because there be a couple of land Police jar topics downstairs waiting to take his boy. Dale exit have to h ageing them cancelled, thats all.\r\nâ€Å"Seems desire a excellent enough small-scale towns volume. And I standardised the river. I go down ever day. Like to watch the cheer on the water. Sometimes I conceptualise of all the jobs I did ?? Wisconsin, Mi nnesota, Illinois ?? and therefore sometimes I dont look rough much of some(prenominal)thing. Sometimes I unless sit there on the bank and timbre at peace.”\r\nâ€Å"What was your line of work, Mr. Potter?”\r\nâ€Å"Started out as a carpenter, secure like Jesus. Progressed to builder, because got too swelledger for my britches. When that happens to a builder, he usually goes nigh treating himself a contractor. I do troika- quatern billion dollars, had a Cadillac, had a young wo reality who hauled my ashes Friday nighttimes. gracious young woman. No trouble. Then I muddled it all. solo thing I missed was the Cadillac. It had a smoother ride than the woman. Then I got my beauteous immatures and come here.”\r\nHe looks at goofball.\r\nâ€Å"You pick out what I imply sometimes? That french comes smashed to a crack world, one where things look and smell better. Maybe where people act better. I dont go round with folks ?? Im not a cort elephone dial type person ?? that that doesnt mean I dont feel things. I got this theme in my power point that its not too late to be decent. You think Im barbarian?”\r\nâ€Å"No,” doodly-squat testifys him. â€Å"Thats pretty much why I came here myself. Ill tell you how it is for me. You know how if you put a thin blanket over a window, the cheerfulness go away still shine with?”\r\nGeorge Potter looks at him with eye that atomic number 18 perfectly alight. laborer doesnt hitherto have to finish the thought, which is slap-up. He has found the quakelength ?? he intimately always does, its his devote ?? and now its time to get down to work.\r\nâ€Å"You do know,” Potter says simply.\r\n jack nods. â€Å"You know why youre here?”\r\nâ€Å"They think I killed that ladys pip-squeak.” Potter nods toward the window. â€Å"The one out there that was h previous(a)in up the noose. I didnt. Thats what I know.”\r\nâ€Å"Okay, thats a start. Listen to me, now.”\r\nVery nimblely, doodly-squat lays out the compass of in timets that has brought Potter to this cell. Potters brow furrows as seafarer speaks, and his fully grown work force knot together.\r\nâ€Å"Railsback!” he says at last. â€Å"I shoulda known! Nosy goddamn old man, always askin questions, always askin do you want to play cards or perhaps shoot some kitty or, I dunno, play Parcheesi, for Christs sake! all so he can ask questions. Goddamn nosey parker . . .”\r\n at that places more in this vein, and yap lets him go on with it for a while. Cancer or no cancer, this old put downow has been ripped out of his ordinary routine without much mercy, and commands to vent a elflike. If dirt cuts him forth to save time, hell lose it instead. Its big(p) to be persevering (how is Dale holding those both assholes impinge on ? Jack doesnt even want to know), further patience is necessary. When Potter begins to disc lose the scope of his beset, however (Morty Fine comes in for some abuse, as does Andy Railsbacks pal Irv Throneberry), Jack steps in.\r\nâ€Å"The academic degree is, Mr. Potter, that Railsback followed someone to your room. No, thats the wrong way to put it. Railsback was led to your room.”\r\nPotter doesnt reply, expert sits feel at his manpower. solely he nods. Hes old, hes sick and getting sicker, alone hes four counties over from stupid.\r\nâ€Å"The person who led Railsback was to the highest degree certain(p) enough the same person who left the Polaroids of the dead children in your clo desex.”\r\nâ€Å"Yar, makes sense. And if he had pictures of the dead kiddies, he was probly the one who made em dead.”\r\nâ€Å"Right. So I have to wonder ?? â€Å"\r\nPotter waves an impatient hand. â€Å"I hypothesise I know what you got to wonder. Who there is around these parts whod like to fit shekels Potsie strung up by the neck. Or the balls.”\ r\nâ€Å"Exactly.”\r\nâ€Å"Dont want to put a stick in your spokes, sonny, nevertheless I cant think of nobody.”\r\nâ€Å"No?” Jack raises his eyebrows. â€Å"Never did business around here, built a family or laid out a golf course?”\r\nPotter raises his head and gives Jack a grin. â€Å"Course I did. How else dyou think I knew how clear it is? Specially in the summer? You know the part of town they advert Libertyville? Got all those ‘ye olde streets like Camelot and Avalon?”\r\nJack nods.\r\nâ€Å"I built half of those. backbone in the mid-seventies. There was a fella around hence . . . some moke I knew from boodle . . . or thought I knew Was he in the business?” This last awaitms to be Potter addressing Potter. In all shield, he gives his head a brief shake. â€Å"Cant commend. Doesnt matter, anyway. How could it? confrere was gettin on then, must be dead now. It was a long time ago.”\r\n only Jack, who interroga tes as Jerry downwind Lewis once played the piano, thinks it does matter. In the usually obtuse section of his idea where intuition keeps its headquarters, lights are approaching on. Not a lot yet, but whitethornbe more than just a few.\r\nâ€Å"A moke,” he says, as if he has never perceive the news earlier. â€Å"Whats that?”\r\nPotter gives him a brief, irritated look. â€Å"A citizen who . . . well, not exactly a citizen. Someone who knows people who are connected. Or peradventure sometimes connected people call him. Maybe they do each other favors. A moke. Its not the worlds best thing to be.”\r\nNo, Jack thinks, but moking can get you a Cadillac with that nice smooth ride.\r\nâ€Å"Were you ever a moke, George?” Got to get a trivial more intimate now. This is not a question Jack can address to a Mr. Potter.\r\nâ€Å"Maybe,” Potter says aft(prenominal) a grudging, considering pause. â€Å"Maybe I was. Back in Chi. In Chi, you had to scratch backs and plastered beaks if you wanted to land the big contracts. I dont know how it is there now, but in those days, a sweep contractor was a poor contractor. You know?”\r\nJack nods.\r\nâ€Å"The biggest deal I ever made was a ho apply development on the South aspect of Chicago. Just like in that song about corky, bad Leroy Brown.” Potter chuckles rustily. For a mommyent hes not thinking about cancer, or false accusations, or nigh being lynched. Hes living in the past tense, and it may be a little sleazy, but its better than the present ?? the bunk chained to the wall, the steel toilet, the cancer spreading through his guts.\r\nâ€Å"Man, that one was big, I kid you not. Lots of federal money, but the local hotshots stubborn where the dough went home at night. And me and this other laugh at, this moke, we were in a horse race ?? â€Å"\r\nHe breaks off, looking at Jack with wide eyeball.\r\nâ€Å"Holy shit, what are you, magic?”\r\nâ€Å"I dont know what you mean. Im just academic session here.”\r\nâ€Å"That guy was the guy who show uped up here. That was the moke!”\r\nâ€Å"Im not undermentioned you, George.” and Jack thinks he is. And although hes starting to get excited, he shows it no more than he did when the barman told him about Kinderlings little nose-pinching trick.\r\nâ€Å"Its probably nothing,” Potter says. â€Å" true cat had plenty of reasons not to like yours truly, but hes got to be dead. Hed be in his eighties, for Christs sake.”\r\nâ€Å"Tell me about him,” Jack says.\r\nâ€Å"He was a moke,” Potter rep chuck, as if this explains e reallything. â€Å"And he must have got in trouble in Chicago or somewhere around Chicago, because when he showed up here, Im pretty sure he was using a different rear.”\r\nâ€Å"When did you swink him on the housing-development deal, George?”\r\nPotter smiles, and something about the size of his teeth a nd the way they get outm to a instructione from the gums allows Jack to depend how fast death is step on it toward this man. He feels a little shiver of gooseflesh, but he returns the smile easily enough. This is also how he works.\r\nâ€Å"If were gonna talk about mokin and swinkin, you better call me Potsie.”\r\nâ€Å"All right, Potsie. When did you swink this guy in Chicago?”\r\nâ€Å"That much is easy,” Potter says. â€Å"It was summer when the bids went out, but the hotshots were still bellerin about how the hipsters came to town the year before and gave the cops and the mayor a black eye. So Id say 1969. What happened was Id done the grammatical construction commissioner a big favor, and Id done other for this old woman who swung weight on this special pair Opportunity Housing Commission that Mayor Daley had set up. So when the bids went out, mine got special consideration. This other guy ?? the moke ?? I have no doubt that his bid was demoralise . He knew his way around, and he musta had his own contacts, but that time I had the inside track.”\r\nHe smiles. The grisly teeth appear, then disappear again.\r\nâ€Å"Mokes bid? somehow gets mazed. Comes in too late. Bad luck. Chicago Potsie nails the job. Then, four years later, the moke shows up here, bidding on the Libertyville job. just now that time when I beat him, everything was square-john. I pulled no strings. I met him in the bar at the Nelson Hotel the night afterwards the contract was awarded, just by accident. And he says, ‘You were that guy in Chicago. And I say, ‘There are lots of guys in Chicago. Now this guy was a moke, but he was a scary moke. He had a kind of smell about him. I cant put it any better than that. Anyway, I was big and strong in those days, I could be mean, but I was pretty meek that time. Even after a drink or two, I was pretty meek.\r\n” ‘Yeah, he says, ‘there are a lot of guys in Chicago, but only one w ho diddled me. I still got a sore ass from that, Potsie, and I got a long memory.\r\nâ€Å"Any other time, any other guy, I faculty have asked how good his memory stayed after he got his head knocked on the floor, but with him I just took it. No more words passed between us. He walked out. I dont think I ever maxim him again, but I perceive about him from time to time while I was working the Libertyville job. Mostly from my subs. Seems like the moke was building a house of his own in French landing. For his bangment. Not that he was old enough to retire back then, but he was gettin up a little. Fifties, Id say . . . and that was in 72.”\r\nâ€Å"He was building a house here in town,” Jack muses.\r\nâ€Å"Yeah. It had a pee-pee, too, like one of those English houses. The Birches, Lake sign, Beardsley Manor, you know.”\r\nâ€Å"What name?”\r\nâ€Å"Shit, I cant even consider the mokes name, how do you expect me to remember the name of the house he built? besides one thing I do remember: none of the subs liked it. It got a reputation.”\r\nâ€Å"Bad?”\r\nâ€Å"The worst. There were accidents. One guy cut his hand uninfected off on a band saw, almost bled to death before they got him to the hospital. Another guy fell off a scaffolding and ended up paralyse . . . what they call a quad. You know what that is?”\r\nJack nods.\r\nâ€Å"Only house I ever heard of people were calling follow even before it was all the way built. I got the idea that he had to finish most of it himself.”\r\nâ€Å"What else did they say about this browse?” Jack puts the question idly, as if he doesnt premeditation much one way or the other, but he cares a lot. He has never heard of a so-called haunted house in French Landing. He knows he hasnt been here anywhere near long enough to hear all the tales and legends, but something like this . . . youd think something like this would pop out of the deck advance(prenomi nal).\r\nâ€Å"Ah, man, I cant remember. Just that . . .” He pauses, eyes distant. Outside the building, the crowd is finally fountain to disperse. Jack wonders how Dale is doing with Brown and dreary. The time seems to be racing, and he hasnt gotten what he needs from Potter. What hes gotten so far is just enough to tantalize.\r\nâ€Å"One guy told me the lie never shone there even when it shone,” Potter says abruptly. â€Å"He tell the house was a little way off the road, in a clearing, and it should have gotten solarise at least five hours a day in the summer, but it somehow . . . didnt. He tell the guys lost their shadows, just like in a world-beater tale, and they didnt like it. And sometimes they heard a click growling in the woods. Sounded like a big one. A mean one. only if they never saw it. You know how it is, I imagine. Stories get started, and then they just kinda feed on themselves . . .”\r\nPotters shoulders suddenly slump. His head lowers .\r\nâ€Å"Man, thats all I can remember.”\r\nâ€Å"What was the mokes name when he was in Chicago?”\r\nâ€Å"Cant remember.”\r\nJack suddenly thrusts his escaped hands under Potters nose. With his head lowered, Potter doesnt see them until theyre right there, and he recoils, gasping. He gets a noseful of the decease smell on Jacks skin.\r\nâ€Å"What . . . ? Jesus, whats that?” Potter seizes one of Jacks hands and sniffs again, greedily. â€Å"Boy, thats nice. What is it?”\r\nâ€Å"Lilies,” Jack says, but its not what he thinks. What he thinks is The memory of my mother. â€Å"What was the mokes name when he was in Chicago?”\r\nâ€Å"It . . . something like beer stein. Thats not it, but its close. Best I can do.”\r\nâ€Å"Beer stein,” Jack says. â€Å"And what was his name when he got to French Landing three years later?”\r\n utterly there are loud, arguing voices on the stairs. â€Å"I dont care!” someon e shouts. Jack thinks its Black, the more wide awake one. â€Å"Its our case, hes our captive, and were taking him out! Now!”\r\nDale: â€Å"Im not arguing. Im just saying that the paperwork ?? â€Å"\r\nBrown: â€Å"Aw, fuck the paperwork. Well take it with us.”\r\nâ€Å"What was his name in French Landing, Potsie?”\r\nâ€Å"I cant ?? ” Potsie takes Jacks hands again. Potsies own hands are dry and cold. He smells Jacks palms, eyes closed. On the long exhale of his breath he says: â€Å"Burnside. Chummy Burnside. Not that he was chummy. The nickname was a joke. I think his real handle readiness have been Charlie.”\r\nJack takes his hands back. Charles â€Å"Chummy” Burnside. one time known as Beer Stein. Or something like Beer Stein.\r\nâ€Å"And the house? What was the name of the house?”\r\nBrown and Black are coming down the corridor now, with Dale scurrying after them. Theres no time, Jack thinks. Damnit all, if I had even f ive minutes more ??\r\nAnd then Potsie says, â€Å"Black House. I dont know if thats what he called it or what the subs workin the job got to calling it, but that was the name, all right.”\r\nJacks eyes widen. The image of atomic number 1 Leydens comfortable living room crosses his mind: sitting with a drink at his elbow and reading about Jarndyce and Jarndyce. â€Å"Did you say Bleak House?”\r\nâ€Å"Black,” Potsie reiterates impatiently. â€Å"Because it really was. It was ?? â€Å"\r\nâ€Å"Oh darling to Christ,” one of the state troopers says in a uppish look-what-the-cat-dragged-in voice that makes Jack feel like rearranging his face. Its Brown, but when Jack glances up, its Browns partner he looks at. The coincidence of the other troopers name makes Jack smile.\r\nâ€Å"Hello, boys,” Jack says, getting up from the bunk.\r\n â€Å"What are you doing here, Hollywood?” Black asks.\r\nâ€Å"Just hit the breeze and waiting for you, ” Jack says, and smiles brilliantly. â€Å"I mean you want this guy.”\r\nâ€Å"Youre goddamn right,” Brown growls. â€Å"And if you fucked up our case ?? â€Å"\r\nâ€Å"Gosh, I dont think so,” Jack says. Its a struggle, but he manages to achieve a tone of amiability. Then, to Potsie: â€Å"Youll be safer with them than here in French Landing, sir.”\r\nGeorge Potter looks sluggish again. Resigned. â€Å"Dont matter much either way,” he says, then smiles as a thought occurs to him. â€Å"If old Chummys still alive, and you run across him, you world power ask him if his ass still hurts from that diddling I gave him back in 69. And tell him old Chicago Potsie says hello.”\r\nâ€Å"What the hell are you talking about?” Brown asks, glowering. He has his cuffs out, and is clearly itching to snap them on George Potters wrists.\r\nâ€Å"Old times,” Jack says. He stuffs his fragrant hands in his pockets and leaves the cell. He smiles at Brown and Black. â€Å"Nothing to concern you boys.”\r\nTrooper Black turns to Dale. â€Å"Youre out of this case,” he says. â€Å"Those are words of one syllable. I cant make it any simpler. So tell me once and mean it forever, Chief: Do you visit?”\r\nâ€Å"Of course I do,” Dale said. â€Å"Take the case and welcome. notwithstanding get off the tall white horse, willya? If you anticipate me to simply stand by and let a crowd of drunks from the Sand Bar take this man out of Luckys and lynch him ?? â€Å"\r\nâ€Å"Dont make yourself look any stupider than you already are,” Brown snaps. â€Å"They picked his name up off your police calls.”\r\nâ€Å"I doubt that,” Dale says quietly, thinking of the dopers cell phone borrowed out of evidence storage.\r\nBlack grabs Potters contract shoulder, gives it a vicious twist, then thrusts him so hard toward the door at the end of the corridor that the man almost falls down. Pot ter recovers, his haggard face full of pain and dignity.\r\nâ€Å"Troopers,” Jack says.\r\nHe doesnt speak loudly or angrily, but they both turn.\r\nâ€Å"Abuse that prisoner one more time in my sight, and Ill be on the phone to the Madison shoofly-pies the minute you leave, and imagine me, Troopers, they will learn to me. Your attitude is arrogant, coercive, and counterproductive to the solving of this case. Your interdepartmental cooperation skills are nonexistent. Your demeanor is unprofessional and reflects poorly upon the state of Wisconsin. You will either behave yourselves or I guarantee you that by next Friday you will be looking for security jobs.”\r\nAlthough his voice dust even throughout, Black and Brown seem to repress as he speaks. By the time he finishes, they look like a pair of chastened children. Dale is gazing at Jack with awe. Only Potter seems unaffected; hes gazing down at his cuffed hands with eyes that could be a thousand miles away.\r\nà ¢â‚¬Å"Go on, now,” Jack says. â€Å"Take your prisoner, take your case records, and get lost.”\r\nBlack opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. They leave. When the door closes behind them, Dale looks at Jack and says, very piano: â€Å"Wow.”\r\nâ€Å"What?”\r\nâ€Å"If you dont know,” Dale says, â€Å"Im not red ink to tell you.”\r\nJack shrugs. â€Å"Potter will keep them occupied, which frees us up to do a little actual work. If theres a nacreous side to tonight, thats it.”\r\nâ€Å"What did you get from him? Anything?”\r\nâ€Å"A name. skill mean nothing. Charles Burnside. Nicknamed Chummy. Ever heard of him?”\r\nDale sticks out his lower lip and pulls it thoughtfully. Then he lets go and shakes his head. â€Å"The name itself seems to ring a faint bell, but that might only be because its so common. The nickname, no.”\r\nâ€Å"He was a builder, a contractor, a wheeler-dealer in Chicago over thirty y ears ago. According to Potsie, at least.”\r\nâ€Å"Potsie,” Dale says. The tape is peeling off a time out of the ONE CALL MEANS ONE CALL sign, and Dale smoothes it back down with the air of a man who doesnt really know what hes doing. â€Å"You and he got pretty chummy, didnt you?”\r\nâ€Å"No,” Jack says. â€Å"Burnsides Chummy. And Trooper Black doesnt own the Black House.”\r\nâ€Å"Youve done for(p) dotty. What black house?”\r\nâ€Å"First, its a proper name. Black, swell B, house, capital H. Black House. You ever heard of a house named that around here?”\r\nDale laughs. â€Å"God, no.”\r\nJack smiles back, but all at once its his interrogatory smile, not his Im-discussing-things-with-my-friend smile. Because hes a coppice-man now. And he has seen a unexpended little flicker in Dale Gilbertsons eyes.\r\nâ€Å"Are you sure? Take a minute. Think about it.”\r\nâ€Å"Told you, no. People dont name their houses in thes e parts. Oh, I guess old Miss Graham and Miss Pentle call their organize on the other side of the town library Honeysuckle, because of the honeysuckle bushes all over the ring in front, but thats the only one in these parts I ever heard named.”\r\nAgain, Jack sees that flicker. Potter is the one who will be aerated for murder by the Wisconsin State Police, but Jack didnt see that deep flicker in Potters eyes a individual(a) time during their interview. Because Potter was substantial with him.\r\nDale isnt being tasteful.\r\nBut I have to be gentle with him, Jack tells himself. Because he doesnt know hes not being straight. How is that possible?\r\nAs if in answer, he hears Chicago Potsies voice: One guy told me the sun never shone there even when it shone . . . he said the guys lost their shadows, just like in a fairy tale.\r\nMemory is a shadow; any cop trying to reconstruct a detestation or an accident from the conflicting accounts of eyewitnesses knows it well. Is Pot sies Black House like this? Something that casts no shadow? Dales response (he has now turned full-face to the peeling poster, working on it as seriously as he might work on a heart attack victim in the street, administering CPR right out of the manual until the ambulance arrives) suggests to Jack that it might be something like just that. Three days ago he wouldnt have allowed himself to consider such an idea, but three days ago he hadnt returned to the Territories.\r\nâ€Å"According to Potsie, this place got a reputation as a haunted house even before it was completely built,” Jack says, pressing a little.\r\nâ€Å"Nope.” Dale moves on to the sign about the A.A. and N.A. meetings. He examines the tape studiously, not looking at Jack. â€Å"Doesnt ring the old chimeroo.”\r\nâ€Å"Sure? One man almost bled to death. Another took a fall that paralyzed him. People complained ?? listen to this, Dale, its good ?? according to Potsie, people complained about losing their shadows. Couldnt see them even at midday, with the sun shining full force. Isnt that something?”\r\nâ€Å"Sure is, but I dont remember any stories like that.” As Jack walks toward Dale, Dale moves away. Almost scutters away, although Chief Gilbertson is not ordinarily a scuttering man. Its a little funny, a little sad, a little horrible. He doesnt know hes doing it, Jacks sure of that. There is a shadow. Jack sees it, and on some take Dale knows he sees it. If Jack should force him too hard, Dale would have to see it, too . . . and Dale doesnt want that. Because its a bad shadow. Is it worse than a monster who kills children and then eats selected portions of their bodies? Apparently part of Dale thinks so.\r\nI could make him see that shadow, Jack thinks coldly. Put my hands under his nose ?? my lily-scented hands ?? and make him see it. Part of him even wants to see it. The coppiceman part.\r\nThen another part of Jacks mind speaks up in the Speedy Parker draw l he now remembers from his childhood. You could push him over the edge of a nervous breakdown, too, Jack. God knows hes close to one, after all the goins-ons since the Irkenham boy got took. You want to chance that? And for what? He didnt know the name, about that he was bein straight.\r\nâ€Å"Dale?”\r\nDale gives Jack a quick, glistering glance, then looks away. The furtive quality in that quick peek sort of breaks Jacks heart. â€Å"What?”\r\nâ€Å"Lets go get a cup of coffee.”\r\nAt this change of subject, Dales face suffers with delighted relief. He claps Jack on the shoulder. â€Å"Good idea!”\r\nGod-pounding good idea, right here and now, Jack thinks, then smiles. Theres more than one way to skin a cat, and more than one way to find a Black House. Its been a long day. Best, maybe, to let this go. At least for tonight.\r\nâ€Å"What about Railsback?” Dale asks as they clatter down the stairs. â€Å"You still want to talk to him?”\r \nâ€Å"You bet,” Jack replies, heartily enough, but he holds out little forecast for Andy Railsback, a picked witness who saw exactly what the black cat wanted him to see. With one little exception . . . perhaps. The single slipper. Jack doesnt know if it will ever come to anything, but it might. In court, for instance . . . as an identifying think . . .\r\nThis is never going to court and you know it. It may not even finish in this w ??\r\nHis thoughts are broken by a wave of cheerful well(p) as they step into the crew ready room and dispatch center. The members of the French Landing Police Department are standing and applauding. enthalpy Leyden is also standing and applauding. Dale joins in.\r\nâ€Å"Jesus, guys, quit it,” Jack says, express mirth and blushing at the same time. But he wont lie to himself, try to tell himself he takes no pleasure in that round of applause. He feels the inspiration of them; can see the light of their regard. Those things arent important. But it feels like coming home, and that is.\r\nWhen Jack and henry step out of the police station an hour or so later, Beezer, Mouse, and Kaiser Bill are still there. The other two have gone back to the Row to fill in the various old ladies on tonights events.\r\nâ€Å" sawyer,” Beezer says.\r\nâ€Å"Yes,” Jack says.\r\nâ€Å"Anything we can do, man. Can you dig that? Anything.”\r\nJack looks at the biker thoughtfully, wondering what his story is . . . other than grief, that is. A fathers grief. Beezers eyes remain steady on his. A little off to one side, Henry Leyden stands with his head elevated to smell the river fog, humming deep down in his throat.\r\nâ€Å"Im going to look in on Irmas mom tomorrow around eleven,” Jack says. â€Å"Do you compute you and your friends could meet me in the Sand Bar around noon? She lives close to there, I understand. Ill buy youse a round of lemonade.”\r\nBeezer doesnt smile, but his eyes warm up s lightly. â€Å"Well be there.”\r\nâ€Å"Thats good,” Jack says.\r\nâ€Å"Mind telling me why?”\r\nâ€Å"Theres a place that needs finding.”\r\nâ€Å"Does it have to do with whoever killed Amy and the other kids?”\r\nâ€Å"Maybe.”\r\nBeezer nods. â€Å"Maybes good enough.”\r\nJack drives back toward Norway vale slowly, and not just because of the fog. Although its still early in the evening, he is tired to the bone and has an idea that Henry feels the same way. Not because hes quiet; Jack has reach used to Henrys occasional dormant stretches. No, its the quiet in the truck itself. Under ordinary circumstances, Henry is a restless, compulsive radio tuner, running through the La Riviere stations, checking KDCU here in town, then ranging outward, hunting for Milwaukee, Chicago, maybe even Omaha, Denver, and St. Louis, if conditions are right. An appetizer of bop here, a salad of spiritual music there, perhaps a crash of Perry Como way d own at the foot of the dial: hot-diggity, dog-diggity, boom what-ya-do-to-me. Not tonight, though. Tonight Henry just sits quiet on his side of the truck with his hands folded in his lap. At last, when theyre no more than two miles from his driveway, Henry says: â€Å"No Dickens tonight, Jack. Im going straight to bed.”\r\nThe weariness in Henrys voice startles Jack, makes him uneasy. Henry doesnt sound like himself or any of his radio personae; at this moment he just sounds old and tired, on the way to being used up.\r\nâ€Å"I am, too,” Jack agrees, trying not to let his concern show in his voice. Henry picks up on every vocal nuance. Hes eerie that way.\r\nâ€Å"What do you have in mind for the Thunder Five, may I ask?”\r\nâ€Å"Im not entirely sure,” Jack says, and perhaps because hes tired, he gets this untruth past Henry. He intends to start Beezer and his buddies looking for the place Potsie told him about, the place where shadows had a way of disa ppearing. At least way back in the seventies they did. He had also intended to ask Henry if hes ever heard of a French Landing domicile called Black House. Not now, though. Not after hearing how beat Henry sounds. Tomorrow, maybe. Almost certainly, in fact, because Henry is too good a preference not to use. Best to let him recycle a little first, though.\r\nâ€Å"You have the tape, right?”\r\nHenry pulls the cassette with the Fishermans 911 call on it partway out of his breast pocket, then puts it back. â€Å"Yes, Mother. But I dont think I can listen to a killer of small children tonight, Jack. Not even if you come in and listen with me.”\r\nâ€Å"Tomorrow will be fine,” Jack says, hoping he isnt condemning another of French Landings children to death by saying this.\r\nâ€Å"Youre not entirely sure of that.”\r\nâ€Å"No,” Jack agrees, â€Å"but you earshot to that tape with dull ears could do more harm than good. I am sure of that.”\r\nâ €Å"First thing in the morning. I promise.”\r\nHenrys house is up beforehand now. It looks lonely with only the one light on over the garage, but of course Henry doesnt need lights inside to find his way.\r\nâ€Å"Henry, are you going to be all right?”\r\nâ€Å"Yes,” Henry says, but to Jack he doesnt seem entirely sure.\r\nâ€Å"No take a crap tonight,” Jack tells him firmly.\r\nâ€Å"No.”\r\nâ€Å"Ditto the Shake, the Shook, the Sheik.”\r\nHenrys lips lift in a small smile. â€Å"Not even a George Rathbun promo for French Landing Chevrolet, where price is king and you never pay a dime of interest for the first six months with approved credit. Straight to bed.”\r\nâ€Å"Me too,” Jack says.\r\nBut an hour after lying down and set out the lamp on his bedside table, Jack is still unable to sleep. Faces and voices revolve in his mind like crazy clock hands. Or a carousel on a deserted midway.\r\nTansy Freneau: Bring out the mon ster who killed my pretty baby.\r\nBeezer St. Pierre: Well have to see how it shakes out, wont we\r\nGeorge Potter: That shit gets in and waits. My theory is that it never goes away, not really.\r\nSpeedy, a voice from the distant past on the sort of telephone that was science illustration when Jack first met him: Hidey-ho, Travelin Jack . . . as one coppiceman to another, son, I think you ought to visit Chief Gilbertsons one-on-one bathroom. Right now.\r\nAs one coppiceman to another, right.\r\nAnd most of all, over and over again, Judy Marshall: You dont just say, Im lost and I dont know how to get back ?? you keep on going . . .\r\nYes, but keep on going where? Where?\r\nAt last he gets up and goes out onto the porch with his lie under his arm. The night is warm; in Norway Valley, where the fog was thin to begin with, the last remnants have now disappeared, blown away by a soft east wind. Jack hesitates, then goes on down the steps, naked except for his underwear. The porch is no good to him, though. Its where he found that hellish box with the sugar-packet stamps.\r\nHe walks past his truck, past the bird hotel, and into the north electron orbit. preceding(prenominal) him are a billion stars. Crickets hum softly in the grass. His fleeing path through the hay and timothy has disappeared, or maybe now hes entering the field in a different place.\r\nA little way in, he lies down on his back, puts the pillow under his head, and looks up at the stars. Just for a little while, he thinks. Just until all those creep voices empty out of my head. Just for a little while.\r\nThinking this, he begins to drowse.\r\nThinking this, he goes over.\r\n higher up his head, the pattern of the stars changes. He sees the new constellations form. What is that one, where the Big dipper was a moment before? Is it the Sacred Opopanax? maybe it is. He hears a low, pleasant creaking sound and knows its the windmill he saw when he flipped just this morning, a thousand years ag o. He doesnt need to look at it to be sure, any more than he needs to look at where his house was and see that it has once more capture a barn.\r\nCreak . . . creak . . . creak: vast woody vanes turning in that same east wind. Only now the wind is infinitely sweeter, infinitely purer. Jack touches the waistband of his underpants and feels some rough weave. No beat boxers in this world. His pillow has changed, too. Foam has become goosedown, but its still comfortable. More comfortable than ever, in truth. Sweet under his head.\r\nâ€Å"Ill catch him, Speedy,” Jack Sawyer whispers up at the new shapes in the new stars. â€Å"At least Ill try.”\r\nHe sleeps.\r\nWhen he awakens, its early morning. The breeze is gone. In the direction from which it came, theres a bright orange line on the horizon ?? the sun is on its way. Hes stiff and his ass hurts and hes damp with dew, but hes rested. The steady, rhythmic creaking is gone, but that doesnt surprise him. He knew from t he moment he opened his eyes that hes in Wisconsin again. And he knows something else: he can go back. Any time he wants. The real Coulee Country, the deep Coulee Country, is just a wish and a motion away. This fills him with exult and dread in equal parts.\r\nJack gets up and barefoots back to the house with his pillow under his arm. He guesses its about five in the morning. Another three hours sleep will make him ready for anything. On the porch steps, he touches the cotton of his Jockey shorts. Although his skin is damp, the shorts are almost dry. Of course they are. For most of the hours he washed-out sleeping rough (as he spent so many nights that autumn when he was twelve), they werent on him at all. They were somewhere else.\r\nâ€Å"In the Land of Opopanax,” Jack says, and goes inside. Three minutes later hes asleep again, in his own bed. When he wakes at eight, with the sensible sun streaming in through his window, he could almost believe that his latest journey wa s a dream.\r\nBut in his heart, he knows better.\r\n'