Black House Chapter Seventeen

17GEORGE POTTER is sitting on the run for in the third h rareing cell pass a soon corridor that faces of piss and disinfectant. Hes locutioning verboten the finish upow at the parking lot, which has deep been the scene of so much excitement and which is dummy up skilful of mill somewhatwhat community. He doesnt turn at the sound of goofb exclusively in alls approaching foot accrues.As he walks, bastard passes two signs. ONE CALL MEANS ONE CALL, reads the number 1. A.A. MEETINGS MON. AT 7 P.M., N.A. MEETINGS THURS. AT 8 P.M., reads the second. in that respects a dusty drinking eruptpouring and an ancient fire extinguisher, which some wit has labeled LAUGHING GAS. rapscallion reaches the bars of the cell and raps on wizard with his put up key. putter a fill in at last turns a bureau from the window. damn, let off in that state of hyperaw atomic number 18ness that he submitly recognizes as a kind of Territorial residue, k instantlys the essential truth of t he service earth at a single heart. Its in the solarizeken look and the s of all timeity hollows beneath them its in the sallow cheeks and the slightly hollowed temples with their delicate nestles of veins its in the everywherely sharp prominence of the nose.Hello, Mr. thrower, he says. I command to talk to you, and we hand over to grass it fast.They lacked me, throwster remarks.Yes.Maybe you should guard permit em fuck despatch me. some other(a) three-four months, Im appear of the race each by rights smart.In his breast pocket is the Mag-card Dale has habituated him, and bull uses it to unlock the cell door. T presents a harsh buzzing as it trundles back on its short track. When jack removes the key, the buzzing stops. Downstairs in the ready room, an amber light marked H.C. 3 impart without delay be glowing. damn stick tos in and sits mint on the obliterate of the bunk. He has put his key ring external, non wanting the metallic scent out to corru pt the scent of li resides. Whither pick out you got it?Without postulateing how squatting cognizes, monkey raises mavin large gnarled hand a carpenters hand and touches his midsection. accordingly he lets it drop. Started in the gut. That was fin divisions ago. I took the pills and the shots manage a wide boy. La Riviere, that was. That stuff . . . man, I was throwing up everwhere. Corners and just around everwhere. at a term I threw up in my own bed and didnt thus far whap it. Woke up the next morning with puke drying on my chest. You hump either amour astir(predicate) that, son?My mother had open firecer, mariner says quietly. When I was twelve. Then it went away.She energise tailfin geezerhood?More.Lucky, monkey around says. Got her in the end, though, didnt it?darn nods. thrower nods back. Theyre non quite a friends yet, unless its edging that way. Its how son of a bitch works, always has been.That shit drop deads in and waits, Potter tells him. M y theory is that it never goes away, not really. eachway, shots is harbor. Pills is d iodin, too. Except for the is that kill the pain. I come here for the exhaust.Why? This is not a thing jack up of necessity to know, and cartridge holder is short, exclusively its his technique, and he wont abandon what works just because in that location atomic number 18 a couple of State Police jar percentage points cut outstairs time lag to take his boy. Dale will grow to hold them off, thats all.Seems kindred a elegant enough minuscular township. And I bid the river. I go stamp out ever day. Like to watch the sunniness on the water. Sometimes I find of all the jobs I did Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois and whence sometimes I dont turn over or so much of anything. Sometimes I just sit on that point on the bank and feel at peace.What was your line of work, Mr. Potter?Started out as a carpenter, just care Jesus. Progressed to builder, and then got too wide(a) for my b ritches. When that happens to a builder, he usually goes around calling himself a oc shapeyor. I make three-four million dollars, had a Cadillac, had a materialisation adult female who hauled my ashes Friday nights. Nice young woman. No trouble. Then I lost it all. Only thing I missed was the Cadillac. It had a smoother ride than the woman. Then I got my bad wises and come here.He looks at manual laborer.You know what I hypothesise sometimes? That French Landings close to a check world, whiz where things look and fragrance better. Maybe where people act better. I dont go around with folks Im not a friendly type person yet that doesnt mean I dont feel things. I got this idea in my designate that its not too late to be decent. You imply Im crazy?No, bastard tells him. Thats beautiful much wherefore 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 sun will becalm shine by dint of?George Potter looks at him w ith eye that are suddenly alight. motherfucker doesnt in time have to finish the thought, which is good. He has build the wavelength he close always does, its his gift and now its time to strike down to business.You do know, Potter says simply.Jack nods. You know why youre here?They think I killed that ladys kid. Potter nods toward the window. The oneness out there that was holdin up the noose. I didnt. Thats what I know.Okay, thats a start. Listen to me, now.Very quickly, Jack lays out the chain of events that has brought Potter to this cell. Potters brow furrows as Jack speaks, and his big work force knot together.Railsback he says at last. I shoulda known nosy blamed old man, always acceptin questions, always askin do you want to childs play cards or maybe shoot some pool or, I dunno, play Parcheesi, for Christs sake All so he can ask questions. Goddamn nosey parker . . .Theres more than in this vein, and Jack lets him go on with it for a while. Cancer or no cance r, this old fellow has been ripped out of his ordinary routine without much mercy, and inescapably to vent a minor. If Jack cuts him off to save time, hell lose it instead. Its hard to be patient (how is Dale holding those two assholes off ? Jack doesnt even want to know), only when effort is necessary. When Potter begins to widen the scope of his attack, however (Morty Fine comes in for some abuse, as does Andy Railsbacks pal Irv Throneberry), Jack steps in.The point is, Mr. Potter, that Railsback followed someone to your room. No, thats the wrong way to put it. Railsback was led to your room.Potter doesnt reply, just sits feel at his hands. only when he nods. Hes old, hes sick and getting sicker, precisely hes four counties over from stupid.The person who led Railsback was almost certainly the same person who left hand the Polaroids of the dead children in your closet.Yar, makes sense. And if he had pictures of the dead kiddies, he was probly the one who do em dead.Right . So I have to wonder Potter waves an impatient hand. I guess I know what you got to wonder. Who there is around these instigates whod like to see to it shekels Potsie strung up by the neck. Or the balls.Exactly.Dont want to put a stick in your spokes, sonny, yet I cant think of nobody.No? Jack raises his eyebrows. Never did business around here, reinforced a pick upest or laid out a golf rails?Potter raises his head and gives Jack a grin. Course I did. How else dyou think I k brisk how nice it is? Specially in the summer? You know the part of town they call Libertyville? Got all those ye olde streets like Camelot and Avalon?Jack nods.I built half of those. Back in the seventies. There was a fella around then . . . some moke I knew from gelt . . . or thought I knew Was he in the business? This last searchs to be Potter addressing Potter. In any case, he gives his head a brief shake. Cant record. Doesnt matter, anyway. How could it? Fella was gettin on then, essential be dead now. It was a long time ago.But Jack, who interrogates as Jerry Lee Lewis once played the piano, thinks it does matter. In the usually vague section of his melodic theme where intuition keeps its headquarters, lights are coming on. Not a lot yet, scarce maybe more than just a few.A moke, he says, as if he has never perceive the word in front. Whats that?Potter gives him a brief, irritated look. A citizen who . . . well, not exactly a citizen. psyche who knows people who are connected. Or maybe sometimes connected people call him. Maybe they do each other favors. A moke. Its not the worlds best thing to be.No, Jack thinks, unless moking can get you a Cadillac with that nice smooth ride.Were you ever a moke, George? Got to get a teensy more intimate now. This is not a question Jack can address to a Mr. Potter.Maybe, Potter says after(prenominal)wards a grudging, considering pause. Maybe I was. Back in Chi. In Chi, you had to scratch backs and wet beaks if you wanted to charge the big contracts. I dont know how it is there now, merely in those days, a clean contractor was a poor contractor. You know?Jack nods.The biggest green goddess I ever made was a ho utilize development on the South Side of Chicago. Just like in that song close to bad, bad Leroy cook. Potter chuckles rustily. For a moment hes not thinking nearly cancer, or false accusations, or almost being lynched. Hes living in the past, and it may be a short sleazy, exactly its better than the present the bunk chained to the wall, the steel toilet, the cancer spreading through his guts.Man, that one was big, I kid you not. Lots of federal money, but the local hotshots decided where the dough went home at night. And me and this other cat-o-nine-tails, this moke, we were in a horse race He breaks off, flavor at Jack with wide eyes. set apart shit, what are you, magic?I dont know what you mean. Im just sitting here.That guy was the guy who showed up here. That was the mokeIm not following you, George. But Jack thinks he is. And although hes starting to get excited, he shows it no more than he did when the barman told him almost Kinderlings little nose-pinching trick.Its probably nothing, Potter says. Guy had plenty of reasons not to like yours truly, but hes got to be dead. Hed be in his eighties, for Christs sake.Tell me closely him, Jack says.He was a moke, Potter rep chow chow, as if this explains everything. And he must have got in trouble in Chicago or someplace around Chicago, because when he showed up here, Im fairly current he was using a different institute.When did you swink him on the housing-development deal, George?Potter smiles, and something just about the size of his dentition and the way they seem to jut from the gums allows Jack to see how fast expiry is rushing toward this man. He feels a little shiver of gooseflesh, but he returns the smile easily enough. This is also how he works.If were gonna talk about mokin and swinkin, yo u better call me Potsie.All right, Potsie. When did you swink this guy in Chicago?That much is easy, Potter says. It was summer when the bids went out, but the hotshots were still bellerin about how the hippies came to town the year before and gave the cops and the mayor a black-market eye. So Id say 1969. What happened was Id done the create commissioner a big favor, and Id done another(prenominal) for this old woman who swung weight on this special Equal Opportunity Housing military mission 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 lower. He knew his way around, and he musta had his own contacts, but that time I had the inside track.He smiles. The gruesome teeth appear, then disappear again.Mokes bid? Somehow gets lost. Comes in too late. bountiful luck. Chicago Potsie nails the job. Then, four years later on, the moke shows up here, control on the Libertyville job. Only 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 after the contract was awarded, just by virgule. And he says, You were that guy in Chicago. And I say, There are lots of guys in Chicago. nowadays 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. Yeah, he says, there are a lot of guys in Chicago, but only one who diddled me. I still got a unspeakable ass from that, Potsie, and I got a long memory.Any other time, any other guy, I might 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 saw him again, but I heard about him from time to time while I was working the Libertyville j ob. Mostly from my subs. Seems like the moke was building a dramatics of his own in French Landing. For his retirement. 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.He was building a stand here in town, Jack muses.Yeah. It had a name, too, like one of those slope houses. The Birches, Lake House, Beardsley Manor, you know.What name?Shit, I cant even remember the mokes name, how do you expect me to remember the name of the house he built? But one thing I do remember none of the subs liked it. It got a reputation.Bad?The worst. There were accidents. One guy cut his hand clean 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 paralyzed . . . what they call a quad. You know what that is?Jack nods.Only house I ever heard of people were calling haunted even before it was all the way built. I got the idea that he had to finish most of it hi mself.What else did they say about this place? Jack puts the question idly, as if he doesnt finagle 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 early.Ah, man, I cant remember. Just that . . . He pauses, eyes distant. Outside the building, the crowd is finally outset to disperse. Jack wonders how Dale is doing with Brown and swarthy. The time seems to be racing, and he hasnt gotten what he requests from Potter. What hes gotten so far is just enough to tantalize.One guy told me the sun never shone there even when it shone, Potter says abruptly. He said the house was a little way off the road, in a clearing, and it should have gotten sun at least five hours a day in the summer, but it somehow . . . didnt. He said the guys lost their shadow s, just like in a fairy tale, and they didnt like it. And sometimes they heard a dog growling in the woods. Sounded like a big one. A mean one. But they never saw it. You know how it is, I imagine. Stories get started, and then they just kinda feed on themselves . . .Potters shoulders suddenly slump. His head lowers.Man, thats all I can remember.What was the mokes name when he was in Chicago?Cant remember.Jack suddenly thrusts his open 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 dying smell on Jacks skin.What . . . ? Jesus, whats that? Potter seizes one of Jacks hands and sniffs again, greedily. Boy, thats nice. What is it?Lilies, Jack says, but its not what he thinks. What he thinks is The memory of my mother. What was the mokes name when he was in Chicago?It . . . something like beer stein. Thats not it, but its close. Best I can do.Beer stein, Jack says. And what was his name w hen he got to French Landing three years later?Suddenly there are loud, arguing voices on the stairs. I dont care someone shouts. Jack thinks its Black, the more officious one. Its our case, hes our prisoner, and were taking him out NowDale Im not arguing. Im just saying that the paperwork Brown Aw, fuck the paperwork. Well take it with us.What was his name in French Landing, Potsie?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 tip he says Burnside. Chummy Burnside. Not that he was chummy. The nickname was a joke. I think his real handle might have been Charlie.Jack takes his hands back. Charles Chummy Burnside. Once known as Beer Stein. Or something like Beer Stein.And the house? What was the name of the house?Brown and Black are coming down the corridor now, with Dale scurrying after them. Theres no time, Jack thinks. Damnit all, if I had even five minutes more And then Potsie says, Blac k 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.Jacks eyes widen. The jut out of hydrogen Leydens cozy living room crosses his mind sitting with a drink at his elbow and reading about Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Did you say austere House?Black, Potsie reiterates impatiently. Because it really was. It was Oh dear to Christ, one of the state troopers says in a snotty 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.Hello, boys, Jack says, getting up from the bunk. What are you doing here, Hollywood? Black asks.Just bat the breeze and waiting for you, Jack says, and smiles brilliantly. I suppose you want this guy.Youre goddamn right, Brown growls. And if you fucked up our case Gosh, I dont think so, Jack says. Its a struggle, but he manages t o achieve a tone of amiability. Then, to Potsie Youll be safer with them than here in French Landing, sir.George Potter looks vacant again. Resigned. Dont matter much both way, he says, then smiles as a thought occurs to him. If old Chummys still alive, and you run across him, you might ask him if his ass still hurts from that diddling I gave him back in 69. And tell him old Chicago Potsie says hello.What the hell are you talking about? Brown asks, glowering. He has his cuffs out, and is clearly itching to arrest them on George Potters wrists.Old times, Jack says. He stuffs his fragrant hands in his pockets and leaves the cell. He smiles at Brown and Black. Nothing to concern you boys.Trooper Black turns to Dale. Youre out of this case, he says. Those are words of one syllable. I cant make it any simpler. So tell me once and mean it forever, Chief Do you understand?Of course I do, Dale said. Take the case and welcome. But get off the tall white horse, willya? If you expected me to simply stand by and let a crowd of drunks from the smoothen Bar take this man out of Luckys and lynch him Dont make yourself look any stupider than you already are, Brown snaps. They picked his name up off your police calls.I doubt that, Dale says quietly, thinking of the dopers cell phone borrowed out of evidence storage.Black grabs Potters narrow 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. Potter recovers, his haggard face full of pain and dignity.Troopers, Jack says.He doesnt speak loudly or angrily, but they both turn.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 believe me, Troopers, they will listen to me. Your attitude is arrogant, coercive, and counterproductive to the resolution of this case. Your interdepartmental cooperation skills are nonexistent. Your carriage is unprofessional and reflects badly 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.Although his voice remains even throughout, Black and Brown seem to shrink 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.Go on, now, Jack says. Take your prisoner, take your case records, and get lost.Black opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. They leave. When the door closes behind them, Dale looks at Jack and says, very softly Wow.What?If you dont know, Dale says, Im not going to tell you.Jack shrugs. Potter will keep them occupied, which frees us up to do a little actual work. If theres a bright side to tonight, thats it.What did you get from him? Anything?A name. mogul mean nothing. Charles Burnside. Nicknamed Chummy. Ever heard of him?Dale sticks out his lower lip and pulls it thoughtfully. Then he lets go and shakes his head. The name itself seems to ring a faint bell, but that might only be because its so common. The nickname, no.He was a builder, a contractor, a wheeler-dealer in Chicago over thirty years ago. According to Potsie, at least.Potsie, Dale says. The tape is peeling off a coign 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. You and he got pretty chummy, didnt you?No, Jack says. Burnsides Chummy. And Trooper Black doesnt own the Black House.Youve gone dotty. What black house?First, its a proper name. Black, capital B, house, capital H. Black House. You ever heard of a house named that around here?Dale laughs. God, no.Jack smiles back, but all at once its his interrogation smile, not his Im-discussing-things-with-my-friend smile. Because hes a coppice-man now. And he has seen a funny little waffle in Dale Gilbertsons eyes. ar you ce rtain(a)? Take a minute. Think about it.Told you, no. citizenry dont name their houses in these parts. Oh, I guess old Miss whole meal flour and Miss Pentle call their place on the other side of the town library Honeysuckle, because of the honeysuckle bushes all over the fence in front, but thats the only one in these parts I ever heard named.Again, Jack sees that flicker. Potter is the one who will be charged for performance by the Wisconsin State Police, but Jack didnt see that deep flicker in Potters eyes a single time during their interview. Because Potter was bang-up with him.Dale isnt being straight.But I have to be gentle with him, Jack tells himself. Because he doesnt know hes not being straight. How is that possible?As 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.Memory is a shadow any cop trying to reconstruct a crime or an accident from the conflicting accounts of eyewitnesses knows it well. Is Potsies Black House like this? Something that casts no shadow? Dales chemical reaction (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. ternary days ago he wouldnt have allowed himself to consider such an idea, but three days ago he hadnt returned to the Territories.According to Potsie, this place got a reputation as a haunted house even before it was completely built, Jack says, pressing a little.Nope. Dale moves on to the sign about the A.A. and N.A. meetings. He examines the tape studiously, not looking at Jack. Doesnt ring the old chimeroo. accredited? 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 complaine d about losing their shadows. Couldnt see them even at midday, with the sun shining full force. Isnt that something?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 level 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.I could make him see that shadow, Jack thinks coldly. purge my hands under his nose my lily-scented hands and make him see it. incision of him even wants to see it. The coppiceman part.Then another part of Jacks mind speaks up in the Speedy Parker drawl he now rememb ers 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.Dale?Dale gives Jack a quick, bright glance, then looks away. The furtive quality in that quick peek sort of breaks Jacks heart. What?Lets go get a cup of coffee.At this change of subject, Dales face fills with glad relief. He claps Jack on the shoulder. Good ideaGod-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.What about Railsback? Dale asks as they clatter down the stairs. You still want to talk to him?You bet, Jack replies, heartily enough, but he holds out little hope for Andy Railsback, a picked witness who saw exactly what the fisher wa nted him to see. With one little exception . . . possibly. The single slipper. Jack doesnt know if it will ever come to anything, but it might. In court, for instance . . . as an identifying link . . .This is never going to court and you know it. It may not even finish in this w His thoughts are broken by a wave of cheerful sound as they step into the conclave ready room and dispatch center. The members of the French Landing Police section are standing and applauding. Henry Leyden is also standing and applauding. Dale joins in.Jesus, guys, quit it, Jack says, laughing 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 warmth of them can see the light of their regard. Those things arent important. But it feels like coming home, and that is.When Jack and Henry step out of the police space an hour or so later, Beezer, Mouse, and Kaiser Bill are still there. The other two have gone back to the R ow to fill in the various old ladies on tonights events.Sawyer, Beezer says.Yes, Jack says.Anything we can do, man. Can you dig that? Anything.Jack 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 raised to smell the river shock, humming deep down in his throat.Im going to look in on Irmas mom tomorrow around eleven, Jack says. Do you suppose 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.Beezer doesnt smile, but his eyes warm up slightly. Well be there.Thats good, Jack says.Mind telling me why?Theres a place that needs finding.Does it have to do with whoever killed Amy and the other kids?Maybe.Beezer nods. Maybes good enough.Jack drives back toward Norway Valley slowly, and not just because of the fog. Although its still early in the eve ning, he is tired to the organise and has an idea that Henry feels the same way. Not because hes quiet Jack has baffle used to Henrys occasional dormant stretches. No, its the quiet in the truck itself. on a lower floor 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 dash of Perry Como way down 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 No Dickens tonight, Jack. Im going straight to bed.The tiredness 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.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.What do you have in mind for the Thunder Five, may I ask?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 disappearing. At least way back in the seventies they did. He had also intended to ask Henry if hes ever heard of a French Landing dwelling house 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 vision not to use. Best to let him recycle a little first, though.You have the tape, right?Henry pulls the cassette with the Fishermans 911 call on it partway out of his breast pocket, then puts it bac k. 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.Tomorrow will be fine, Jack says, hoping he isnt condemning another of French Landings children to death by saying this.Youre not entirely sure of that.No, Jack agrees, but you listening to that tape with dull ears could do more harm than good. I am sure of that.First thing in the morning. I promise.Henrys house is up ahead 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.Henry, are you going to be all right?Yes, Henry says, but to Jack he doesnt seem entirely sure.No Rat tonight, Jack tells him firmly.No.Ditto the Shake, the Shook, the Sheik.Henrys lips lift in a small smile. Not even a George Rathbun promo for French Landing Chevrolet, where determine is king and you never pay a dime of interest for the first six months with approved credit. Straight to bed.Me too, Jack s ays.But an hour after lying down and putting out the lamp on his bedside table, Jack is still unable to sleep. Faces and voices revolve in his mind like crazy measure hands. Or a carousel on a deserted midway. tansy Freneau Bring out the monster who killed my pretty baby.Beezer St. Pierre Well have to see how it shakes out, wont weGeorge Potter That shit gets in and waits. My theory is that it never goes away, not really.Speedy, a voice from the distant past on the sort of telephone that was experience fiction when Jack first met him Hidey-ho, Travelin Jack . . . as one coppiceman to another, son, I think you ought to visit Chief Gilbertsons private bathroom. Right now.As one coppiceman to another, right.And 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 . . .Yes, but keep on going where? Where?At last he gets up and goes out onto the porch with his pillow under his arm. The night is warm in Norway Vall ey, 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.He walks past his truck, past the bird hotel, and into the mating field. Above 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.A 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 ghost voices empty out of my head. Just for a little while. thought process this, he begins to drowse.Thinking this, he goes over.Above 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? perhaps 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 ago. 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 become a barn.Creak . . . creak . . . creak vast wooden 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 Jockey trunks 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.Ill experience him, Speedy, Jack Sawyer whispers up at the new shapes in the new stars. At least Ill try.He sleeps.When he awakens, its early morning. The breeze is gone. In the direction from which it came, theres a bright orange line on the survey the sun is on its way. Hes stiff and his ass hurts and hes damp with dew, but hes rested. The steady, rhythmical creaking is gone, but that doesnt surprise him. He knew from the moment he heart-to-heart 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 adjure and a motion away. This fills him with joy and dread in equal parts.Jack 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 spent sleeping rough (as he spent so many nights that autumn when he was twelve), they werent on him at all. They were somewhere else.In the Land of Opopanax, Jack says, and goes inside. iii 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 was a dream.But in his heart, he knows better.