Black House

Derr vill be morrr mur-derts.

The accent much thicker now, a burlesque, a joke, Katzenjammer Kids Meet the Wolfman, but somehow even more revealing because of that.

Der liddul chull-drun . . . havv-uz-ted like wheed. Like wheed. Havv-uz-ted like . . .

"Harvested like a monkey on a stick," Henry says. "MUNG-ghee. HAVV-us-ted. Who are you, you son of a bitch?"

Back to the 911 tape.

There are whips in hell and chains in Sheol. But it's almost vips in hell, almost chenz in Shayol.

Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg.

"You're no better'n ¡ª " Henry begins, and then, all at once, another line comes to him.

"Lady Magowan's Nightmare. " That one's good.

A bad nightmare of what? Vips in hell? Chenz in Shayol? Mung-ghees on sticks?

"My God," Henry says softly. "Oh . . . my . . . God. The dance. He was at the dance. "

Now it all begins to fall into place. How stupid they have been! How criminall

y stupid! The boy's bike . . . it had been right there. Right there, for Christ's sake! They were all blind men, make them all umps.

"But he was so old," Henry whispers. "And senile! How were we supposed to guess such a man could be the Fisherman?"

Other questions follow this one. If the Fisherman is a resident at Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in God's name could he have stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French Landing? Does he have a car somewhere?

"Doesn't matter," Henry murmurs. "Not now, anyway. Who is he and where is he? Those are the things that matter. "

The warmth on his face ¡ª his mind's first effort to locate the Fisherman's voice in time and place ¡ª had been the spotlight, of course, Symphonic Stan's spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman, some nice old woman ¡ª

Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?

¡ª had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together ¡ª

I was here first, old woman.

¡ª had interrupted. Flat . . . and hard . . . and with that faint Germanic harshness that said South Side Chicago, probably second or even third generation. Not vass here first, not old vumman, but those telltale v's had been lurking, hadn't they? Ah yes.

"Mung-ghee," Henry says, looking straight ahead. Looking straight at Charles Burnside, had he only known it. "Stigg. Havv-us-ted. Hasta la vista . . . baby. "

Was that what it came down to, in the end? A dotty old maniac who sounded a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Who was the woman? If he can remember her name, he can call Jack . . . or Dale, if Jack's still not answering his phone . . . and put an end to French Landing's bad dream.

Lady Magowan's Nightmare. That one's good.

"Nightmare," Henry says, then adjusting his voice: "Nahht-mare. " Once again the mimicry is good. Certainly too good for the old codger standing outside the studio door. He is now scowling bitterly and gnashing the hedge clippers in front of the glass. How can the blindman in there sound so much like him? It's not right; it's completely improper. The old monster longs to cut the vocal cords right out of Henry Leyden's throat. Soon, he promises himself, he will do that.

And eat them.

Sitting in the swivel chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the gleaming oak in front of him, Henry recalls the brief encounter at the bandstand. Not long into the Strawberry Fest dance, this had been.

Tell me your name and what you'd like to hear.

I am Alice Weathers, and ¡ª . "Moonglow," please. By Benny Goodman.

"Alice Weathers," Henry says. "That was her name, and if she doesn't know your name, my homicidal friend, then I'm a monkey on a stick. "

He starts to get up, and that is when someone ¡ª something ¡ª begins to knock, very softly, on the glass upper half of the door.

Bear Girl has drawn close, almost against her will, and now she, Jack, Doc, and the Beez are gathered around the sofa. Mouse has sunk halfway into it. He looks like a person dying badly in quicksand.

Well, Jack thinks, there's no quicksand, but he's dying badly, all right. Guess there's no question about that.

"Listen up," Mouse tells them. The black goo is forming at the corners of his eyes again. Worse, it's trickling from the corners of his mouth. The stench of decay is stronger than ever as Mouse's inner workings give up the struggle. Jack is frankly amazed that they've lasted as long as they have.

"You talk," Beezer says. "We'll listen. "

Mouse looks at Doc. "When I finish, give me the fireworks. The Cadillac dope. Understand?"

"You want to get out ahead of whatever it is you've got. "

Mouse nods.

"I'm down with that," Doc agrees. "You'll go out with a smile on your face. "

"Doubt that, bro, but I'll give it a try. "

Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. "When it's done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents that're in the garage. Stick me in the tub. I'm betting that by midnight, you'll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. I'd be careful, though. Don't . . . touch what's left. "

Bear Girl bursts into tears.

"Don't cry, darlin'," Mouse says. "I'm gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?"

"Right here, buddy. "

"You have a little service for me. Okay? Read a poem . . . the one by Auden . . . the one that always used to frost your balls . . . "

" ¡®Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose,' " Beezer says. He's crying. "You got it, Mousie. "

"Play some Dead . . . ¡®Ripple,' maybe . . . and make sure you're full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there won't . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can. "

Jack laughs at that. He can't help it. And this time it's his turn to catch the full force of Mouse's crimson eyes.

"Promise me you'll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop. "

"Mouse, I'm not sure I can do that. "

"You gotta. Go out there tonight, you won't have to worry about the devil dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . . " The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouse's beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. "The other things in those woods will eat you like candy. "

"I think that's a chance I'll have to take," Jack says, frowning. "There's a little boy somewhere ¡ª "

"Safe," Mouse whispers.

Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure if he's heard Mouse right. And even if he has, can he trust what he's heard? Mouse has some powerful, evil poison working in him. So far he's been able to withstand it, to communicate in spite of it, but ¡ª

"Safe for a little while," Mouse says. "Not from everything . . . there's things that might still get him, I suppose . . . but for the time being he's safe from Mr. Munching. Is that his name? Munching?"

"Munshun, I think. How do you know it?"

Mouse favors Jack with a smile of surpassing eeriness. It is the smile of a dying sibyl. Once more he manages to touch his forehead, and Jack notes with horror that the man's fingers are now melting into one another and turning black from the nails down. "Got it up here, man. Got it alll up here. Told you that. And listen: it's better the kid should get eaten by some giant bug or rock crab over there . . . where he is . . . than that you should die trying to rescue him. If you do that, the abbalah will wind up with the kid for sure. That's what your . . . your friend says. "

"What friend?" Doc asks suspiciously.

"Never mind," Mouse says. "Hollywood knows. Don'tcha, Holly-wood?"

Jack nods reluctantly. It's Speedy, of course. Or Parkus, if you prefer.

"Wait until tomorrow," Mouse says. "High noon, when the sun's strongest in both worlds. Promise. "

At first Jack can say nothing. He's torn, in something close to agony.

"It'd be almost full dark before you could get back out Highway 35 anyway," Bear Girl says quietly.

"And there's bad shit in those woods, all right," Doc says. "Makes the stuff in that Blair Witch Project look fuckin' tame. I don't think you want to try it in the dark. Not unless you got a death wish, that is. "

"When you're done . . . " Mouse whispers. "When you're done . . . if any of you are left . . . burn the place to the ground. That hole. That tomb. Burn it to the ground, do you hear me? Close the door. "

"Yeah," Beezer says. "Heard and understood, buddy. "

"Last thing," Mouse says. He's speaking directly to Jack now. "You may be able to find it . . . but I think I got something else you need. It's a word. It's powerful to you because of something you . . . you touched. Once a long time ago. I don't understand that part, but . . . "

"It's all right," Jack tells him. "I do. What's the word, Mouse?"

For a moment he doesn't think Mouse will, in the end, be able to tell him. Something is clearly struggling to keep hi

m from saying the word, but in this struggle, Mouse comes out on top. It is, Jack thinks, very likely his life's last W.

"D'yamba," Mouse says. "Now you, Hollywood. You say it. "

"D'yamba," Jack says, and a row of weighty paperbacks slides from one of the makeshift shelves at the foot of the couch. They hang there in the dimming air . . . hang . . . hang . . . and then drop to the floor with a crash.

Bear Girl voices a little scream.

"Don't forget it," Mouse says. "You're gonna need it. "

"How? How am I going to need it?"

Mouse shakes his head wearily. "Don't . . . know. "

Beezer reaches over Jack's shoulder and takes the pitiful little scribble of map. "You're going to meet us tomorrow morning at the Sand Bar," he tells Jack. "Get there by eleven-thirty, and we should be turning into that goddamned lane right around noon. In the meantime, maybe I'll just hold on to this. A little insurance policy to make sure you do things Mouse's way. "

"Okay," Jack says. He doesn't need the map to find Chummy Burn-side's Black House, but Mouse is almost certainly right: it's probably not the sort of place you want to tackle after dark. He hates to leave Ty Marshall in the furance-lands ¡ª it feels wrong in a way that's almost sinful ¡ª but he has to remember that there's more at stake here than one little boy lost.

"Beezer, are you sure you want to go back there?"

"Hell no, I don't want to go back," Beezer says, almost indignantly. "But something killed my daughter ¡ª my daughter! ¡ª and it got here from there! You want to tell me you don't know that's true?"

Jack makes no reply. Of course it's true. And of course he wants Doc and the Beez with him when he turns up the lane to Black House. If they can bear to come, that is.

D'yamba, he thinks. D'yamba. Don't forget.

He turns back to the couch. "Mouse, do you ¡ª "

"No," Doc says. "Guess he won't need the Cadillac dope, after all. "

"Huh?" Jack peers at the big brewer-biker stupidly. He feels stupid.

Stupid and exhausted.

"Nothin' tickin' but his watch," Doc says, and then he begins to sing. After a moment Beezer joins in, then Bear Girl. Jack steps away from the couch with a thought queerly similar to Henry's: How did it get late so early? Just how in hell did that happen?

"In heaven, there is no beer . . . that's why we drink it here . . . and when . . . we're gone . . . from here . . . "

Jack tiptoes across the room. On the far side, there's a lighted Kingsland Premium Golden Pale Ale bar clock. Our old friend ¡ª who is finally looking every year of his age and not quite so lucky ¡ª peers at the time with disbelief, not accepting it until he has compared it to his own watch. Almost eight. He has been here for hours.

Almost dark, and the Fisherman still out there someplace. Not to mention his otherworldly playmates.

D'yamba, he thinks again as he opens the door. And, as he steps out onto the splintery porch and closes the door behind him, he speaks aloud with great sincerity into the darkening day: "Speedy, I'd like to wring your neck. "