Black House Chapter Twenty-three

23 1 MORE adduces the guy from ESPN.It sounds to a greater extent want an order than a request, and although henry screwingt run finished the fellow, he k directs this feature home boy never counted a sport in his lifespan, pro or early(a)wise. He has the lardy, s dimly smarmy aroma of some nonp atomic number 18il who has been e truly viewweight much or less from the jump. Sports is peradventure his compensation, with the power to still memories of clothes bought in the curmudge save section at Sears and exclusively(prenominal) those childhood rhymes comparable Fatty-fatty, cardinal-by-four, had to do it on the floor, couldnt quarter through the fanny door.His name is Penni homo. Just equivalent Little Richard he t mature hydrogen when they shook on the fence(p)s at the receiving set station. Famous pit n swaner from pay offer in the fifties? perhaps you remember him.Vaguely, hydrogen verbalise, as if he hadnt at genius time owned e sincerely ace Little Richard had ever ensn atomic number 18 dis tightlipped. I believe he was one of the Founding Fathers. Penniman laughed uproariously, and in that laugh enthalpy glimpsed a mathematical future for himself. unless was it a future he wanted? People laughed at Howard Stern, withal, and Howard Stern was a dork.One more drink Penniman repeats now. They ar in the bar of the Oak Tree Inn, where Penniman has tipped the bar cargo deck five bucks to switch the TV from bowling on ABC to ESPN, tied(p) though on that points nonhing on at this hour of the day except golf tips and bass fishing. One more drink, equitable to lettre de cachet the dealBut they dont devour a deal, and Henry isnt for genuine he wants to actualize one. Going subject with George Rathbun as part of the ESPN radio package should be attractive, and he doesnt ca-ca any serious line of work with c fluxing the name of the show from Badger Barrage to ESPN Sports Barrage it would still focus primari ly on the central and atomic number 7ern areas of the country save . . .But what?Before he send away plain survive to work on the question, he aromas it again My Sin, the perfume his wife used to wear on authoritative evenings, when she wanted to send a sure signal. Lark was what he used to c in each her on those certain evenings, when the room was dark and they were both subterfuge to everything unless scents and textures and each other.Lark.You know, I calculate Im passage to foreland on that drink, Henry separates. Got some work to do at home. But Im going to think everywhere your trance rid ofer. And I mean seriously.Ah-ah-ah, Penniman says, and Henry terminate describe from certain minute disturbances in the mail that the man is shaking a finger beneath his snuggle. Henry wonders how Penniman would react if Henry suddenly darted his head earlier and bit off the offending digit at the second knuckle. If Henry showed him a half- size Coulee pastoral ho spitality black cat-style. How loud would Penniman yell? As loud as Little Richard before the instrumental de-escalate of Tutti Frutti, perhaps? Or not kinda as loud as that?Cant go till Im substantiate to simulate you, Mr. Im Fat But It No Longer Matters evidences him. Im your ride, yknow. Hes on his fourth gimlet, and his words are slightly slur inflamed. My friend, Henry thinks, Id poke a ferret up my ass before Id come into a auto with you at the wheel.Actually, I nominate, Henry says pleasantly. Nick Avery, the mixologist, is having a kick-ass subsequentlywardnoon the fat guy slipped him five to mixture the TV channel, and the blind guy slipped him five to call Skeeters Taxi while the fat guy was in the bathroom, making a little room.Huh?I said, ?Actually, I tail assembly. Bartender?Hes pop come to the fore emplacement, sir, Avery tells him. Pulled up two minutes ago. in that respect is a hefty creak as Penniman turns on his bar stool. Henry cant retard the ma ns frown as he takes in the taxi now idling in the hotel turn close to, unless he can wiz it.Listen, Henry, Penniman says. I think you may lack a certain at a lower berth placestanding of your current situation. There are stars in the firmament of sports radio, imprecate right on at that place are people similar the Fabulous Sports child and Tony Kornheiser invent six figures a year exclusively in speaking fees, six figures easy entirely you aint thither heretofore. That door is currently closed to you. But I, my friend, am one glareuva doorman. The up view is that if I say we ought to have one more drink, indeed Bartender, Henry says quietly, thence shakes his head. I cant just call you bartender it officeiness work for Humphrey Bogart unless it doesnt work for me. Whats your name?Nick Avery, sir. The last word comes come to the fore automatically, scarcely Avery never would have used it when speaking to the other one, never in a million years. some(prenom inal) guys tipped him five, still the one in the dark glasses is the gent. Its got nothing to do with him being blind, its just something he is.Nick, who else is at the bar?Avery looks around. In one of the ski binding devour booths, two men are potable beer. In the hall, a bellman is on the phone. At the bar itself, no one at all except for these two guys one slim, cool, and blind, the other fat, sweaty, and starting to be take a leaked off.No one, sir.Theres not a . . . lady? Lark, hes almost said. Theres not a lark?No.Listen here, Penniman says, and Henry thinks hes never hear anyone so un uniform Little Richard Penniman in his spotless life. This guy is albumenr than Moby Dick . . . and probably just closely the uniform size. Weve got a lot more to discuss here. Loh more tdishcush is how it comes knocked out(p). Unless, that is Unlesh youre attempt to let me know youre not interested. neer in a million years, Pennimans sound says to Henry Leydens educated ears . Were talking about regurgitateting a money machine in your living room, sweetheart, your very own private ATM, and there aint no elbow room in perdition youre going to turn that down.Nick, you dont smell perfume? Something very light and mature-fashioned? My Sin, perhaps?A flabby turn falls on Henrys shoulder like a hot-water bottle. The sin, obsolescent buddy, would be for you to refuse to have some other(prenominal) drink with me. Even a blindman could see th Suggest you stand your commit off him, Avery says, and perhaps Pennimans ears arent entirely deaf to nuance, because the gift leaves Henrys shoulder at once.Then some other(prenominal) reach comes in its place, higher up. It particlees the back of Henrys neck in a heatless caress thats there and then gone. Henry draws in breath. The smell of perfume comes with it. Usually scents fade after a plosive consonant of exposure, as the receptors that caught them temporarily bloodlessen. not this time, though. no n this smell.No perfume? Henry almost pleads. The nip of her hand on his neck he can dismiss as a tactile hallucination. But his nose never betrays him.Never until now, any look.Im sorry, Avery says. I can smell beer . . . peanuts . . . this mans gin and his aftershave . . .Henry nods. The lights above the backbar slide crossways the dark lenses of his shades as he slips gracefully off his stool.I think you want another drink, my friend, Penniman says in what he no doubt believes to be a tone of polite menace. One more drink, just to celebrate, and then Ill take you home in my Lexus.Henry smells his wifes perfume. Hes sure of it. And he seemed to feel the taking into custody of his wifes hand on the back of his neck. Yet suddenly its skinny little Morris Rosen he finds himself thinking about Morris, who wanted him to listen to Where Did Our Love Go as done by Dirtysperm. And of line of achievement for Henry to race it in his Wisconsin Rat persona. Morris Rosen, who has more i ntegrity in one of his nail-chewed little fingers than this bozo has got in his entire body.He puts a hand on Pennimans forearm. He grins into Pennimans unseen face, and feels the muscles beneath his palm relax. Penniman has decided hes going to arrive at his way. Again.You take my drink, Henry says pleasantly, add it to your drink, and then stick them both up your fat and bepimpled ass. If you subscribe to something to hold them in place, why, you can stick your job up there right after them.Henry turns and walks briskly toward the door, orienting himself with his usual neat precision and holding one hand out in calculate of him as an insurance policy. Nick Avery has broken into spontaneous applause, but Henry barely hears this and Penniman he has already dismissed from his mind. What occupies him is the smell of My Sin perfume. It fades a little as he step out into the afternoon heat . . . but is that not an amorous sigh he hears beside his left ear? The come apart of sigh h is wife sometimes made just before falling sound asleep(predicate) after be intimate? His Rhoda? His Lark?Hello, the taxi he calls from the curb beneath the awning.Right here, buddy whatre you, blind?As a bat, Henry agrees, and walks toward the sound of the go. Hell go home, hell put his feet up, hell have a glass of tea, and then hell listen to the damned 911 tape. That as yet unperformed chore may be whats causing his current case of the heebie-jeebies and shaky-shivers, knowing that he must sit in darkness and listen to the voice of a child-killing cannibal. sure that must be it, because theres no reason to be afraid of his Lark, is there? If she were to return to return and re line of credit him she would surely haunt with love.Wouldnt she?Yes, he thinks, and lowers himself into the taxis stifling back seat.Where to, buddy?Norway Valley Road, Henry says. Its a white house with blue trim, standing back from the road. Youll see it not long after you cross the creek.Henry settles back in the seat and turns his troubled face toward the open principalowpane. cut Landing feels strange to him at once . . . fraught. Like something that has slipped and slipped until it is now on the verge of simply falling off the table and smashing to pieces on the floor.Say that she has come back. Say that she has. If its love shes come with, why does the smell of her perfume make me so uneasy? So almost revolted? And why was her touch (her imagined touch, he assures himself) so unpleasant?Why was her touch so cold?After the dazzle of the day, the living room of Beezers crib is so dark that at premiere mother fucker cant make out anything. Then, when his eye adjust a little, he sees why blankets a double summaryness, from the look have been hung oer both of the living-room windows, and the door to the other downstairs room, almost certainly the kitchen, has been closed.He cant stand the light, Beezer says. He keeps his voice low so it wont carry across to the utm ost side of the room, where the shape of a man lies on a couch. Another man is rest beside him.Maybe the clink that bit him was rabid, diddly says. He doesnt believe it.Beezer shakes his head decisively. It isnt a phobic reaction. doc says its physiological. Where light falls on him, his skin starts to melt. You ever hear of anything like that?No. And yap has never smelled anything like the malodor in this room, either. Theres the buzz of not one but two table fans, and he can feel the cross-draft, but that stink is too gluey to move. Theres the reek of spoiled meat of gangrene in torn flesh but laborer has smelled that before. Its the other smell thats getting to him, something like blood and funeral flowers and fecal matter all mixed up together. He makes a gagging noise, cant uphold it, and Beezer looks at him with a certain intense sympathy.Bad, yeah, I know. But its like the monkey house at the zoo, man you get used to it after a while.The vibrate door to the other room opens, and a trim little charwoman with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair comes through. Shes carrying a bowl. When the light strikes the figure lying on the couch, purloin screams. Its a horribly thick sound, as if the mans lungs have begun to liquefy. Something maybe smoke, maybe steam starts to rise up from the skin of his forehead.Hold on, computer mouse, the kneeling man says. Its medico. Before the kitchen door swings all the way shut again, trap is able to read whats glued to his batte ruby blackness bag. Somewhere in America there may be another checkup man sporting a STEPPENWOLF RULES bumper sticker on the side of his physicians bag, but probably not in Wisconsin.The woman kneels beside medico, who takes a cloth from the basin, wrings it out, and places it on cringes forehead. filch gives a shaky groan and attempts to shiver all oer. Water runs down his cheeks and into his beard. The beard seems to be sexual climax out in mangy patches. jackstones steps forward, telling himself he pull up stakes get used to the smell, sure he allow for. Maybe its even current. In the meantime he wishes for a little of the Vicks VapoRub most LAPD homicide detectives carry in their glove compartments as a matter of course. A dab under each nostril would be very welcome right now.Theres a sound system (scruffy) and a pair of speakers in the corners of the room (huge), but no television. voluptuous wooden crates filled with books line every wall without a door or a window in it, making the space seem even smaller than it is, almost cryptlike. jak has a touch of claustrophobia in his makeup, and now this circuit warms up, increasing his discomfort. Most of the books seem to deal with religion and doctrine he sees Descartes, C. S. Lewis, the Bhagavad-Gita, Steven Averys Tenets of Existence but theres also a lot of fiction, books on beer making, and (on top of one giant speaker) Albert Goldmans field glass tome about Elvis Presley. On the other sp eaker is a photograph of a young daughter with a splendid smile, freckles, and oceans of reddish-blond hair. Seeing the child who drew the hopscotch grid out front makes jackstones sawyer feel chuck with anger and sorrow. Otherworldly beings and causes there may be, but theres also a sick old fuck prowling around who affects to be stopped. Hed do well to remember that.Bear girlfriend makes a space for bastard in front of the couch, moving gracefully even though shes on her knees and still holding the bowl. Jack sees that in it are two more wet cloths and a push-down list of melting ice mental blocks. The imaginativeness of them makes him thirstier than ever. He takes one and pops it into his verbalise. Then he turns his attention to crawl.A tartan blanket has been pulled up to his neck. His forehead and upper cheeks the places not covered by his decaying beard are pasty. His eyes are closed. His lips are drawn back to show teeth of startling whiteness.Is he Jack beg ins, and then sneaks eyes open. some(prenominal) Jack meant to ask leaves his head entirely. Around the hazel irises, cowers eyes have gone an uneasy, shifting scarlet. Its as if the man is tone into a terrible radioactive sunset. From the inner corners of his eyes, some associate of black scum is oozing.The Book of Philosophical Transformation addresses most current dialectics, Mouse says, speaking mellowly and lucidly, and Machiavelli also speaks to these questions. Jack can almost picture him in a lecture hall. Until his teeth begin to chatter, that is.Mouse, its Jack Sawyer. No recognition in those weird red-and-hazel eyes. The black gunk at the corners of them seems to twitch, however, as if it is in some way sentient. Listening to him.Its Hollywood, Beezer murmurs. The cop. Remember?One of Mouses hands lies on the plaid blanket. Jack takes it, and stifles a cry of strike when it closes over his with amazing strength. Its hot, too. As hot as a biscuit just out of the ov en. Mouse lets out a long, gasping sigh, and the stench is fetid detrimental meat, decayed flowers. Hes rotting, Jack thinks. Rotting from the inside out. Oh Christ, help me through this.Christ may not, but the memory of Sophie might. Jack tries to haunt her eyes in his memory, that lovely, level, go by blue gaze.Listen, Mouse says.Im listening.Mouse seems to gather himself. Beneath the blanket, his body shivers in a loose, uncoordinated way that Jack expectes is next door to a seizure. Somewhere a clock is ticking. Somewhere a dog is barking. A boat hoots on the Mississippi. Other than these sounds, all is silence. Jack can remember plainly one other such suspension of the worlds business in his entire life, and that was when he was in a Beverly Hills hospital, time lag for his mother to finish the long business of dying. Somewhere Ty Marshall is waiting to be rescued. Hoping to be rescued, at least. Somewhere there are Breakers hard at work, trying to destroy the axle upon which all populace spins. Here is only this eternal room with its feeble fans and noxious vapors.Mouses eyes close, then open again. They fix upon the newcomer, and Jack is suddenly sure some great truth is going to be confided. The ice cube is gone from his mouth Jack supposes he crunched it up and swallowed it without even realizing, but he doesnt dare take another.Go on, buddy, Doc says. You get it out and then Ill load you up with another hypo of dope. The in force(p) occlude. Maybe youll sleep.Mouse pays no heed. His mutating eyes hold Jacks. His hand holds Jacks, tightening still more. Jack can almost feel the bones of his fingers scrape together.Dont . . . go out and buy top-of-the-line equipment, Mouse says, and sighs out another excruciatingly foul breath from his rotting lungs.Dont . . . ?Most people give up brewing after . . . a year or two. Even dedicated . . . dedicated hobbyists. Making beer is not . . . is not for pussies.Jack looks around at Beezer, who looks bac k impassively. Hes in and out. Be patient. Wait on him.Mouses grip tightens yet more, then loosens just as Jack is deciding he can take it no longer.Get a big pot, Mouse advises him. His eyes bulge. The reddish shadows come and go, come and go, fleeting across the curved decorate of his corneas, and Jack thinks, Thats its shadow. The shadow of the Crimson King. Mouse has already got one foot in its court. Five gallons . . . at least. You find the best ones are in . . . seafood supply stores. And for a fermentation vessel . . . plastic water-cooler jugs are good . . . theyre lighter than glass, and . . . Im burning up. Christ, Beez, Im burning upFuck this, Im going to shoot it to him, Doc says, and snaps open his bag.Beezer grabs his arm. Not yet.Bloody tears begin to slip out of Mouses eyes. The black goo seems to be forming into circumstantial tendrils. These reach greedily downward, as if trying to bewilder the moisture and drink it.Fermentation lock and stopper, Mouse whispers . Thomas Merton is shit, never let anyone tell you different. No real thought there. You have to let the gases avoidance while keeping dust out. Jerry Garcia wasnt God. Kurt Cobain wasnt God. The perfume he smells is not that of his dead wife. Hes caught the eye of the King. Gorg-ten-abbalah, ee-lee-lee. The opopanax is dead, long fit the opopanax.Jack leans more deeply into Mouses smell. Whos smelling perfume? Whos caught the eye of the King?The mad King, the bad King, the melancholic King. Ring-a-ding-ding, all hail the King.Mouse, whos caught the eye of the King?Doc says, I thought you wanted to know about Who? Jack has no thought process why this seems important to him, but it does. Is it something someone has said to him recently? Was it Dale? hay-scented fern? Was it, God save us, Wendell Green?Racking cane and hose, Mouse says confidentially. Thats what you need when the fermentations done And you cant put beer in screw-top bottles You Mouse turns his head away from Jac k, nestles it cozily in the hollow of his shoulder, opens his mouth, and vomits. Bear Girl screams. The vomit is pus-yellow and specked with moving black bits like the crud in the corners of Mouses eyes. It is alive.Beezer leaves the room in a hurry, not quite running, and Jack shades Mouse from the brief glare of kitchen sunlight as best he can. The hand clamped on Jacks loosens a little more.Jack turns to Doc. Do you think hes going?Doc shakes his head. Passed out again. abject old Mousie aint getting off that easy. He gives Jack a grim, haunted look. This better be outlay it, Mr. Policeman. Cause if it aint, Im gonna replumb your sink.Beezer comes back with a huge bundle of rags, and hes put on a pair of cat valium kitchen gloves. Not speaking, he mops up the pool of vomit between Mouses shoulder and the backrest of the couch. The black specks have ceased moving, and thats good. To have not seen them moving in the first place would have been even better. The vomit, Jack notic es with dismay, has eaten into the couchs ill-defined fabric like acid.Im going to pull the blanket down for a second or two, Doc says, and Bear Girl gets up at once, still holding the bowl with the melting ice. She goes to one of the bookshelves and stands there with her back turned, trembling.Doc, is this something I really need to see?I think maybe it is. I dont think you know what youre dealing with, even now. Doc takes hold of the blanket and eases it out from beneath Mouses limp hand. Jack sees that more of the black rack has begun to ooze from beneath the dying mans fingernails. Remember that this happened only a equate of hours ago, Mr. Policeman.He pulls the blanket down. Standing with her back to them, Susan Bear Girl Osgood faces the great works of Western philosophy and begins to cry silently. Jack tries to hold back his scream and cannot.Henry pays off the taxi, goes into his house, takes a deep and comfort breath of the air-conditioned cool. There is a faint aroma sweet and he tells himself its just fresh flowers, one of Mrs. Mortons specialties. He knows better, but wants no more to do with ghosts just now. He is actually public opinion better, and he supposes he knows why it was telling the ESPN guy to take his job and shove it. Nothing more apt to make a fellows day, particularly when the fellow in question is gainfully employed, possessed of two credit cards that are nowhere near the max-out point, and has a pitcher of cold iced tea in the fridge.Henry heads kitchenward now, making his way down the hall with one hand held out before him, scrutiny the air for obstacles and displacements. Theres no sound but the whisper of the air conditioner, the hum of the fridge, the clack of his heels on the hardwood . . .. . . and a sigh.An amorous sigh.Henry stands where he is for a moment, then turns cautiously. Is the sweet aroma a little stronger now, especially facing back in this direction, toward the living room and the front door? He thi nks yes. And its not flowers no sense fooling himself about that. As always, the nose knows. Thats the aroma of My Sin.Rhoda? he says, and then, lower Lark?No answer. Of course not. Hes just having the heebie-jeebies, thats all those world-famous shaky-shivers, and why not?Because Im the sheik, baby, Henry says. The Sheik, the Shake, the Shook.No smells. No sexy sighs. And yet hes haunted by the idea of his wife back in the living room, standing there in perfumed cerements of the grave, watching him silently as he came in and passed blindly before her. His Lark, come back from Noggin Mound Cemetery for a little visit. Maybe to listen to the latest Slobberbone CD.Quit it, he says softly. Quit it, you dope.He goes into his big, well-organized kitchen. On his way through the door he slaps a button on the panel there without even thinking about it. Mrs. Mortons voice comes from the overhead speaker, which is so high-tech she might almost be in the room.Jack Sawyer was by, and he dropped off another tape he wants you to listen to. He said it was . . . you know, that man. That bad man.Bad man, right, Henry murmurs, opening the refrigerator and enjoying the blast of cold air. His hand goes unerringly to one of 3 cans of Kingsland Lager stored inside the door. Never mind the iced tea.Both of the tapes are in your studio apartment, by the soundboard. Also, Jack wanted you to call him on his cell phone. Mrs. Mortons voice takes on a faintly lecturing tone. If you do speak to him, I hope you tell him to be attentive. And be careful yourself. A pause. Also, dont forget to eat supper. Its all ready to go. Second shelf of the fridge, on your left.Nag, nag, nag, Henry says, but hes smiling as he opens his beer. He goes to the telephone and dials Jacks number.On the seat of the Dodge Ram park in front of 1 Nailhouse Row, Jacks cell phone comes to life. This time theres no one in the ride to be annoyed by its tiny but penetrating tweet.The cellular customer you are trying t o reach is currently not answering. Please try your call again later.Henry hangs up, goes back to the doorway, and pushes another button on the panel there. The voices that deliver the time and temperature are all versions of his own, but hes programmed a random shuffle pattern into the gadget, so he never knows which one hes going to get. This time its the Wisconsin Rat, screaming deucedly into the sunny air-conditioned silence of his house, which has never felt so far from town as it does like a shotTimes four twenty-two P.M. right(prenominal) temperatures eighty-two Inside temperatures seventy What the hell do you care? What the hell does anyone care? Chew it up, eat it up, wash it down, it aaall comes out the corresponding place. Right. Henry thumbs the button again, silencing the Rats trademark cry. How did it get late so fast? God, wasnt it just noon? For that matter, wasnt he just young, twenty years old and so full of spunk it was practically coming out of his ears? Wh at That sigh comes again, derailing his mostly self-mocking train of thought. A sigh? Really? More likely just the air conditioners compressor, cutting off. He can tell himself that, anyway.He can tell himself that if he wants to.Is anyone here? Henry asks. There is a tremble in his voice that he hates, an old mans palsied quaver. Is anyone in the house with me?For a terrible second he is almost afraid something will answer. Nothing does of course nothing does and he swallows half the can of beer in three long gulps. He decides hell go back into the living room and read for a little while. Maybe Jack will call. Maybe hell get himself a little more under tally once he has a little fresh alcohol in his system.And maybe the world will end in the next five minutes, he thinks. That way youll never have to deal with the voice on those damned tapes waiting in the studio. Those damned tapes lying there on the soundboard like unexploded bombs.Henry walks slowly back down the hall to the l iving room with one hand held out before him, telling himself hes not afraid, not a bit afraid of touching his wifes dead face.Jack Sawyer has seen a lot, hes traveled to places where you cant rent from Avis and the water tastes like wine, but hes never encountered anything like Mouse Baumanns leg. Or, rather, the pestilential, apocalyptic horror show that was Mouse Baumanns leg. Jacks first impulse once hes got himself back under something like control is to upbraid Doc for taking off Mouses pants. Jack keeps thinking of sausages, and how the casing forces them to keep their shape even after the fry pans sizzling on a red-hot burner. This is an undoubtedly wild comparison, primo stupido, but the human mind under pressure puts on some reasonably comic jinks and jumps.Theres still the shape of a leg there change of but the flesh has feast away from the bone. The skin is almost completely gone, melted to a runny substance that looks like a mixture of milk and bacon fat. The int erwoven mat of muscle beneath what remains of the skin is sagging and undergoing the same cataclysmic metamorphosis. The infected leg is in a kind of undisciplined motion as the whole becomes liquid and the liquid sizzles relentlessly into the couch upon which Mouse is lying. Along with the almost insupportable stench of decay, Jack can smell scorching cloth and melting fabric.Poking out of this spreading, vaguely leglike chaw is a foot that looks remarkably undamaged. If I wanted to, I could pull it right off . . . just like a squash off a vine. The thought gets to him in a way the sight of the grievously wounded leg hasnt quite been able to, and for a moment Jack can only bow his head, gagging and trying not to vomit down the front of his shirt.What perhaps saves him is a hand on his back. Its Beezer, offering what comfort he can. The rowdy color has completely left the Beezs face. He looks like a motorcyclist come back from the grave in an urban myth.You see? Doc is asking, and his voice seems to come from a great distance. This aint the chicken pox, my friend, although it looked a little like that while it was still getting cranked up. Hes already exhibiting red spots on his left leg . . . his belly . . . his balls. Thats pretty much what the skin around the fleck looked like when we first got him back here, just some redness and swelling. I thought, ?Shit, aint nothin to this, I got replete Zithromax to put this on the run before sundown. Well, you see what good the Zithro did. You see what good anything did. Its eating through the couch, and Im barb that when it finishes with the couch, itll go right to work on the floor. This shit is hungry. So was it worth it, Hollywood? I speculate only you and Mouse know the answer to that.He still knows where the house is, Beezer says. Me, I dont have a clue, even though we just came from there. You, either. Do you?Doc shakes his head.But Mouse, he knows.Susie, honey, Doc says to Bear Girl. pose another blank et, would you? This ones damn near et through.Bear Girl goes willingly enough. Jack gets to his feet. His legs are rubbery, but they hold him. Shield him, he tells Doc. Im going out to the kitchen. If I dont get a drink, Im going to die.Jack takes on water directly from the sink, swallowing until a spike plants itself in the center of his forehead and he belches like a horse. Then he just stands there, looking out into Beezer and Bear Girls backyard. A neat little swing set has been planted there in the weedy desolation. It hurts Jack to look at it, but he looks anyway. After the lunacy of Mouses leg, it seems important to remind himself that hes here for a reason. If the reminder hurts, so much the better.The sun, now turning gold as it eases itself down toward the Missis-sippi, glares in his eyes. Time hasnt been standing still after all, it seems. Not outside this little house, anyway. Outside 1 Nailhouse Row, time actually seems to have sped up. Hes haunted by the idea that comi ng here was as pointless as detouring to Henrys house tormented by the thought that Mr. Munshun and his boss, the abbalah, are running him around like a windup toy with a key in its back while they do their work. He can follow that buzz in his head to glum House, so why the hell doesnt he just get back in his truck and do it?The perfume he smells is not that of his dead wife.What does that mean? Why does the idea of someone smelling perfume make him so crazy and afraid?Beezer knocks on the kitchen door, making him jump. Jacks eye fixes on a sampler hung over the kitchen table. Instead of GOD BLESS OUR HOME, it reads HEAVY METAL THUNDER. With a carefully stitched HARLEY-DAVIDSON beneath.Get back in here, man, the Beez says. Hes awake again.Henrys on a path in the woods or maybe its a lane and something is cornerstone him. Each time he turns to see in this dream he can see, but perceive is no blessing theres a little more of that something back there. It appears to be a man in evening dress, but the man is frightfully elongated, with spike teeth that jut over a smiling red lower lip. And he seems is it possible? to have only one eye.The first time Henry looks back, the shape is only a milky blur amid the trees. The next time he can make out the uneasy dark swim of its coat and a floating red blotch that might be a tie or an ascot. Up ahead of him is this things den, a fetid hole that only coincidentally looks like a house. Its presence buzzes in Henrys head. Instead of pine, the woods press in on either side smell of heavy, cloying perfume My Sin.Its driving me, he thinks with dismay. Whatever that thing back there is, its driving me like a steer toward the slaughterhouse.He thinks of cutting off the lane to his left or right, of using the miracle of his new sight to escape through the woods. Only there are things there, too. Dark, floating shapes like sooty scarves. He can almost see the closest. Its some sort of gigantic dog with a long tongue as re d as the apparitions tie and change form eyes.Cant let it drive me to the house, he thinks. I have to get out of this before it can get me there . . . but how? How?It comes to him with startling simplicity. All he has to do is wake up. Because this is a dream. This is just a Its a dream Henry cries out, and jerks forward. Hes not walking, hes sitting, sitting in his very own easy chair, and pretty soon hes going to have a very wet crotch because he fell asleep with a can of Kingsland Lager balanced there, and But theres no spill, because theres no can of beer. He feels cautiously to his right and yep, there it is, on the table with his book, a braille edition of Reflections in a opulent Eye. He must have put it there before first falling asleep and then falling into that horrible nightmare.Except Henrys pretty sure he didnt do any such thing. He was holding the book and the beer was between his legs, freeing his hands to touch the little upraised dots that tell the story. Somethin g very considerately took both the book and the can after he dropped off, and put them on the table. Something that smells of My Sin perfume.The air reeks of it.Henry takes a long, slow breath with his nostrils flared and mouth tightly sealed shut.No, he says, speaking very clearly. I can smell flowers . . . and rug shampoo . . . and fried onions from last night. Very faint but still there. The nose knows.All true enough. But the smell had been there. Its gone now because shes gone, but she will be back. And suddenly he wants her to come. If hes frightened, surely its the unknown hes frightened of, right? Only that and nothing more. He doesnt want to be alone here, with nothing for company but the memory of that rancid dream.And the tapes.He has to listen to the tapes. He promised Jack.Henry gets shakily to his feet and makes his way to the living-room control panel. This time hes greeted by the voice of Henry Shake, a mellow fellow if ever there was one.Hey there, all you hoppin ca ts and boppin kitties, at the tone its seven-fourteen P.M., Bulova Watch Time. Outside the temp is a very cool seventy-five degrees, and here in the Make-Believe Ballroom its a very nifty seventy degrees. So why not get off your money, grab your honey, and make a little magic?Seven-fourteen When was the last time he fell asleep for almost three hours in the daytime? For that matter, when was the last time he had a dream in which he could see? The answer to that second question, so far as he can remember, is never.Where was that lane?What was the thing behind him?What was the place ahead of him, for that matter? Doesnt matter, Henry tells the empty room if it is empty. It was a dream, thats all. The tapes, on the other hand . . .He doesnt want to listen to them, has never wanted to listen to anything any less in his life (with the possible exception of Chicago singing Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?), but he has to. If it might save Ty Marshalls life, or the life of even o ne other child, he must.Slowly, dreading every step, Henry Leyden makes his blind way to his studio, where two cassettes wait for him on the soundboard.In heaven there is no beer, Mouse sings in a toneless, droning voice.His cheeks are now covered with ugly red patches, and his nose seems to be drop sideways into his face, like an atoll after an undersea earthquake.Thats why we drink it here. And when . . . were gone . . . from here . . . our friends will be drinking all the beer.Its been like this for hours now philosophical nuggets, instructions for the beginning beer-making enthusiast, snatches of song. The light coming through the blankets over the windows has dimmed appreciably.Mouse pauses, his eyes closed. Then he starts another ditty.Hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer . . . if one of those bottles should happen to fall . . .I have to go, Jack says. Hes hung in there as well as he can, convinced that Mouse is going to give him something, but he can wait no longer. Somewhere, Ty Marshall is waiting for him.Hold on, Doc says. He rummages in his bag and comes out with a hypodermic needle. He raises it in the dimness and taps the glass barrel with a fingernail.Whats that?Doc gives Jack and Beezer a brief, grim smile. Speed, he says, and injects it into Mouses arm.For a moment theres nothing. Then, as Jack is opening his mouth again to tell them he has to go, Mouses eyes snap wide. They are now entirely red a bright and bleeding red. Yet when they turn in his direction, Jack knows that Mouse is seeing him. Maybe really seeing him for the first time since he got here.Bear Girl flees the room, trailing a single diminish pronounce behind her No more no more no more no more Fuck, Mouse says in a rusty voice. Fuck, Im fucked. Aint I?Beezer touches the top of his friends head briefly but tenderly. Yeah, man. I think you are. Can you help us out?Bit me once. Just once, and now . . . now . . . His fearful red gaze turns to Doc. Ca n barely see you. Fuckin eyes are all weird.Youre going down, Doc says. Aint gonna lie to you, man.Not yet I aint, Mouse says. Gimme something to write on. To draw a map on. Quick. Dunno what you shot me with, Doc, but the stuff from the dogs stronger. I aint gonna be compos long. QuickBeezer feels around at the foot of the couch and comes up with a trade-sized paperback. Given the heavy shit on the bookcases, Jack could almost laugh the book is The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Beezer tears off the back cover and hands it to Mouse with the blank side up.Pencil, Mouse croaks. Hurry up. I got it all, man. I got it . . . up here. He touches his forehead. A patch of skin the size of a quarter sloughs off at his touch. Mouse wipes it on the blanket as if it were a booger.Beezer pulls a gnawed stub of pencil from an inside pocket of his vest. Mouse takes it and makes a pathetic effort to smile. The black stuff oozing from the corners of his eyes has continued to build up, and now it lies on his cheeks like smears of decayed jelly. More of it is springing out of the pores on his forehead in minute black dots that remind Jack of Henrys braille books. When Mouse bites his lower lip in concentration, the tender flesh splits open at once. Blood begins dribbling into his beard. Jack supposes the rotted-meat smell is still there, but Beezer had been right hes gotten used to it.Mouse turns the book cover sideways, then draws a series of quick squiggles. Lookit, he says to Jack. This the Mississippi, right?Right, Jack says. When he leans in, he starts getting the smell again. Up close its not even a stench its a miasma trying to crawl down his throat. But Jack doesnt move away. He knows what an effort Mouse is making. The least he can do is play his part.Heres downtown the Nelson, Luckys, the Agincourt Theater, the Taproom . . . heres where Chase Street turns into Lyall Road, then Route 35 . . . heres Libertyville . . . the VFW . . . Goltzs . . . ah, Christ Mouse begins to pound on the couch. Sores on his face and upper body burst open and begin leaking. He screams with pain. The hand not holding the pencil goes to his face and paws at it ineffectually.Something inside Jack speaks up, then speaks in a shining, imperative voice he remembers from his time on the road all those years ago. He supposes its the voice of the Talisman, or whatever remains of it in his mind and soul.It doesnt want him to talk, its trying to kill him before he can talk, its in the black stuff, maybe it is the black stuff, youve got to get rid of it Some things can only be done without the minds prudish interference when the work is nasty, instinct is often best. So it is without thinking that Jack reaches out, grasps the black slime oozing from Mouses eyes between his fingers, and pulls. At first the stuff only stretches, as if made of rubber. At the same time Jack can feel it squirming and writhing in his grip, perhaps trying to pinch or bite him. Then it lets go with a twang sound. Jack throws the convulsing black tissue onto the floor with a cry.The stuff tries to slither beneath the couch Jack sees this even as he wipes his hands on his shirt, frantic with revulsion. Doc slams his bag down on one piece. Beezer squashes the other with the heel of a motorcycle boot. It makes a squittering sound.What the fuck is that shit? Doc asks. His voice, ordinarily husky, has gone up into a near-falsetto range. What the fuck Nothing from here, Jack says, and never mind. Look at him Look at MouseThe red glare in Mouses eyes has retreated for the moment he looks almost normal. Certainly hes seeing them, and the pain seems gone. Thanks, he breathes. I only wish you could get it all that way, but man, its already coming back. Pay attention.Im listening, Jack says.You better, Mouse replies. You think you know. You think you can find the place again even if these two cant, and maybe you can, but maybe you dont know quite so much as you . . . ah, fuck. From someplace beneath the blanket there is a ghastly bursting sound as something gives way. Sweat runs down Mouses face, alloy with the black poison venting from his pores and turning his beard a damp and dirty gray. His eyes chronicle up to Jacks, and Jack can see that red glare starting to haze over them again.This sucks, Mouse pants. Never thought Id go out this way. Lookit, Hollywood . . . The dying man draws a small rectangle on his makeshift scribble of map. This Eds Eats, where we found Irma, Jack says. I know.All right, Mouse whispers. Good. Now look . . . over on the other side . . . the Schubert and Gale side . . . and to the west . . .Mouse draws a line going north from Highway 35. He puts little circles on either side of it. Jack takes these to be representations of trees. And, across the front of the line like a gate NO TRESPASSING.Yeah, Doc breathes. Thats where it was, all right. Black House.Mouse takes no notice. His dimming gaze is fixed solely on Jack. Listen to m e, cop. argon you listening?Yes.Christ, you better be, Mouse tells him.As it always has, the work captures Henry, absorbs him, takes him away. Boredom and sorrow have never been able to stand against this old trance with sound from the sighted world. Apparently fear cant stand against it, either. The hardest moment isnt listening to the tapes but mustering the courage to stick the first one in the big TEAC audio deck. In that moment of hesitation hes sure he can smell his wifes perfume even in the soundproofed and air-filtered environment of the studio. In that moment of hesitation he is positive he isnt alone, that someone (or something) is standing just outside the studio door, looking in at him through the glass upper half. And that is, in fact, the absolute truth. Blessed with sight as we are, we can see what Henry cannot. We want to tell him whats out there, to lock the studio door, for the love of God lock it now, but we can only watch.Henry reaches for the PLAY button on the tape deck. Then his finger changes course and hits the intercom toggle instead.Hello? Is anyone out there?The figure standing in Henrys living room, looking in at him the way someone might look into an aquarium at a single exotic fish, makes no sound. The last of the suns on the other side of the house and the living room is fair quite dark, Henry being understandably forgetful when it comes to turning on the lights. Elmer Jespersons amusing bee slippers (not that they amuse us much under these circumstances) are just about the brightest things out there.Hello? Anyone?The figure looking in through the glass half of the studio door is grinning. In one hand it is holding the elude clippers from Henrys garage.Last chance, Henry says, and when theres still no response, he becomes the Wisconsin Rat, shrieking into the intercom, trying to startle whatevers out there into revealing itself Come on now, honey, come on now, you muthafukkah, talk to RattyThe figure peering in at Henry recoi ls as a snake might recoil when its prey makes a feint but it utters no sound. From between the grinning teeth comes a leathery old tongue, wagging and poking in derision. This peter has been into the perfume that Mrs. Morton has never had the heart to remove from the vanity in the little powder room neighboring(a) to the master bedroom, and now Henrys visitor reeks of My Sin.Henry decides its all just his imagination playing him up again oy, such a mistake, Morris Rosen would have told him, had Morris been there and hits PLAY with the tip of his finger.He hears a throat-clearing sound, and then Arnold Hrabowski identifies himself. The Fisherman interrupts him before he can even finish Hello, asswipe.Henry rewinds, listens again Hello, asswipe. Rewinds and listens yet again Hello, asswipe. Yes, he has heard this voice before. Hes sure of it. But where? The answer will come, answers of this sort always do at long last and getting there is half the fun. Henry listens, enrapt. His fingers dance back and forth over the tape decks buttons like the fingers of a concert pianist over the keys of a Steinway. The feeling of being watched slips from him, although the figure outside the studio door the thing wearing the bee slippers and holding the hedge clippers never moves. Its smile has faded somewhat. A gruff expression is growing on its aged face. There is confusion in that look, and perhaps the first faint trace of fear. The old monster doesnt like it that the blind fish in the aquarium should have captured its voice. Of course it doesnt matter maybe its even part of the fun, but if it is, its Mr. Munshuns fun, not its fun. And their fun should be the same . . . shouldnt it?You have an emergency. Not me. You.Not me, you, Henry says. The mimicry is so good its weird. A little bit of sauerkraut in your salad, mein friend, ja?Your worst nightmare . . . worst nightmare.Abbalah.Im the Fisherman.Henry listening, intent. He lets the tape run awhile, then listens to the same phrase four times over Kiss my scrote, you monkey . . . kiss my scrote, you monkey . . . you monkey . . . monkey . . .No, not monkey. The voice is actually saying munggey. MUNG-ghee.I dont know where you are now, but you grew up in Chicago, Henry murmurs. South Side. And . . .Warmth on his face. Suddenly he remembers warmth on his face. Why is that, friends and neighbors? Why is that, O great wise ones?Youre no bettern a monkey on a stick.Monkey on a stick.Monkey Monkey, Henry says. Hes rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers now. Monkey on a stick. MUNG-ghee on a stigg. Who said that?He plays the 911 Kiss my scrote, you monkey.He plays his memory Youre no bettern a monkey on a stick.Warmth on his face.Heat? Light?Both?Henry pops out the 911 tape and sticks in the one Jack brought today.Hello, Judy. Are you Judy today, or are you Sophie? The abbalah sends his best, and Gorg says Caw-caw-caw Husky, phlegmy laughter. Ty says hello, too. Your little boy is very lo nely . . .When Tyler Marshalls weeping, terrified voice booms through the speakers, Henry winces and fast-forwards.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 its almost vips in hell, almost chenz in Shayol. Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg.Youre no bettern Henry begins, and then, all at once, another line comes to him.Lady Magowans Nightmare. That ones 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 criminally stupid The boys bike . . . it had been right there. Right there, for Christs 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 physician at Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in Gods name could he have stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French Landing? Does he have a car somewhere?Doesnt matter, Henry murmurs. Not now, anyway. Who is he and where is he? Those are the things that matter.The warmth on his face his minds first effort to locate the Fishermans voice in time and place had been the spotlight, of course, Symphonic Stans spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman, some nice old woman Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan? had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together I was here first, old woman. had int errupted. 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 vs had been lurking, hadnt 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 Jacks still not answering his phone . . . and put an end to French Landings bad dream.Lady Magowans Nightmare. That ones 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 bitter and gnashing the hedge clippers in front of the glass. How can the blindman in there sound so much like him? Its not right its completely improper. The old monster longs to cut the vocal cords right out of Henry Leydens throat. Soon, he promises himself, he will do that.And eat them.Sitting in the swivel chair, drum 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 youd like to hear.I am Alice Weathers, and . Moonglow, please. By benny Goodman.Alice Weathers, Henry says. That was her name, and if she doesnt know your name, my homicidal friend, then Im a monkey on a stick.He starts to get up, and that is when someone something 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, theres no quicksand, but he s dying badly, all right. work out theres no question about that.Listen up, Mouse tells them. The black goo is forming at the corners of his eyes again. Worse, its trickling from the corners of his mouth. The stench of decay is stronger than ever as Mouses inner running(a)s give up the struggle. Jack is frankly out(p) that theyve lasted as long as they have.You talk, Beezer says. Well 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 youve got.Mouse nods.Im down with that, Doc agrees. Youll go out with a smile on your face.Doubt that, bro, but Ill give it a try.Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. When its done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents thatre in the garage. Stick me in the tub. Im betting that by midnight, youll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. Id be careful, though. Dont . . . touch whats left.Bear Girl bursts into tears.Dont cry, darlin , Mouse says. Im gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?Right here, buddy.You have a little service for me. Okay? run down 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. Hes crying. You got it, Mousie.Play some Dead . . . ?Ripple, maybe . . . and make sure youre full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there wont . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can.Jack laughs at that. He cant help it. And this time its his turn to catch the full force of Mouses crimson eyes.Promise me youll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop.Mouse, Im not sure I can do that.You gotta. Go out there tonight, you wont have to worry about the rally dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . . The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouses beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. The other things in those woods will eat you like candy.I think thats a chance Ill have to take, Jack says, frowning. Theres a little boy somewhere unhurt, Mouse whispers.Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure if hes heard Mouse right. And even if he has, can he trust what hes heard? Mouse has some reigning, evil poison working in him. So far hes been able to withstand it, to communicate in spite of it, but Safe for a little while, Mouse says. Not from everything . . . theres things that might still get him, I suppose . . . but for the time being hes 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 mans 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 its better the kid sho uld 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. Thats what your . . . your friend says.What friend? Doc asks suspiciously.Never mind, Mouse says. Hollywood knows. Dontcha, Holly-wood?Jack nods reluctantly. Its Speedy, of course. Or Parkus, if you prefer.Wait until tomorrow, Mouse says. High noon, when the suns strongest in both worlds. Promise.At first Jack can say nothing. Hes torn, in something close to agony.Itd be almost full dark before you could get back out Highway 35 anyway, Bear Girl says quietly.And theres bad shit in those woods, all right, Doc says. Makes the stuff in that Blair Witch Project look fuckin tame. I dont think you want to try it in the dark. Not unless you got a death wish, that is.When youre done . . . Mouse whispers. When youre done . . . if any of you are left . . . burn the place to the ground. That hole. That tom b. Burn it to the ground, do you hear me? Close the door.Yeah, Beezer says. Heard and understood, buddy.Last thing, Mouse says. Hes speaking directly to Jack now. You may be able to find it . . . but I think I got something else you need. Its a word. Its powerful to you because of something you . . . you touched. Once a long time ago. I dont understand that part, but . . .Its all right, Jack tells him. I do. Whats the word, Mouse?For a moment he doesnt think Mouse will, in the end, be able to tell him. Something is clearly struggling to keep him from saying the word, but in this struggle, Mouse comes out on top. It is, Jack thinks, very likely his lifes last W.Dyamba, Mouse says. Now you, Hollywood. You say it.Dyamba, Jack says, and a row of heavy 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.Dont forget it, Mouse say s. Youre gonna need it.How? How am I going to need it?Mouse shakes his head wearily. Dont . . . know.Beezer reaches over Jacks shoulder and takes the moving little scribble of map. Youre 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 Ill just hold on to this. A little insurance policy to make sure you do things Mouses way.Okay, Jack says. He doesnt need the map to find Chummy Burn-sides Black House, but Mouse is almost certainly right its probably not the sort of place you want to tackle after dark. He hates to leave Ty Marshall in the furance-lands it feels wrong in a way thats almost flagitious but he has to remember that theres more at stake here than one little boy lost.Beezer, are you sure you want to go back there?Hell no, I dont want to go back, Beezer says, almost indignantly. But something killed my daughter my daughter and it got here from there You want to tell me you dont know thats true?Jack makes no reply. Of course its 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.Dyamba, he thinks. Dyamba. Dont forget.He turns back to the couch. Mouse, do you No, Doc says. Guess he wont 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 Henrys How did it get late so early? Just how in hell did that happen?In heaven, there is no beer . . . thats why we drink it here . . . and when . . . were gone . . . from here . . .Jack tiptoes across the room. On the far side, theres a lighted Kingsland Premium Golden Pale Ale bar clock. Our old friend who is finally looking every year of his age and no t quite so gilt peers at the time with disbelief, not accepting it until he has compared it to his own watch. some eight. He has been here for hours.Almost dark, and the Fisherman still out there someplace. Not to mention his otherworldly playmates.Dyamba, 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 obstreperously with great sincerity into the darkening day Speedy, Id like to wring your neck.