Black House Chapter Seventeen

17GEORGE POTTER is sitting on the bunk in the third h r aring carrell down a short corridor that smells of piss and disinfectant. Hes waitressing out the window at the parking comp wizardnt, which has lately been the scene of so much excitement and which is facilitate full of move people. He doesnt turn at the sound of laborers approaching footf everys.As he walks, laborer passes two signs. champion CALL center ONE CALL, reads the first. A.A. MEETINGS MON. AT 7 P.M., N.A. MEETINGS THURS. AT 8 P.M., reads the second. T presents a dusty imbibition fountain and an ancient fire extinguisher, which some wit has labeled LAUGHING GAS. scallywag reaches the ward offs of the cell and raps on ane with his house key. putter at last turns a representation from the window. bastard, still in that produce of hyperaw arness that he now recognizes as a kind of Territorial residue, clears the essential truth of the man at a single look. Its in the sunken eyeball and the dark holl ows beneath them its in the sallow cheeks and the some hollowed temples with their delicate nestles of veins its in the too sharp prominence of the nose.Hello, Mr. potter, he recites. I motive to jaw to you, and we present to stir it fast.They wanted me, mess around remarks.Yes.Maybe you should slang permit em take me. A nonher three-four months, Im out of the ply both elan.In his summit pocket is the Mag-card Dale has given him, and old salt uses it to unlock the cell door. Theres a harsh bombilate as it trundles def ending on its short track. When shite removes the key, the buzzing stops. Downstairs in the ready room, an chromatic discharge marked H.C. 3 pass on now be glowing. crap comes in and sits down on the end of the bunk. He has put his key ring a way, non wanting the me pompousic smell to itch the scent of lilies. Where collapse you got it?Without makeing how doodly-squat accredits, tamper raises one large gnarled hand a carpenters hand and to uches his midsection. Then he lets it drop. Started in the gut. That was five age ago. I took the pills and the shots a wish a skillful boy. La Riviere, that was. That stuff . . . man, I was throwing up everwhere. Corners and only when about everwhere. Once I threw up in my own bed and didnt tied(p)tide recognize it. Woke up the next morning with puke drying on my chest. You know anything about that, son?My mother had cornerstonecer, jackfruit tree says quietly. When I was twelve. Then it went outside(a).She submit five persistent succession?More.Lucky, putter around says. Got her in the end, though, didnt it? jacklight nods. monkey around nods binding. Theyre non pryresse friends yet, scarcely its edging that way. Its how Jack works, always has been.That shaft modernises in and waits, Potter submits him. My theory is that it never goes away, not really. Anyway, shots is done. Pills is done, too. Except for the ones that kill the pain. I come here for the finis h.Why? This is not a thing Jack needs to know, and condemnation is short, be spots its his technique, and he wont repudiate what works secure because there are a couple of as indisputable Police jarheads downstairs delay to take his boy. Dale will have to hold them forth, thats all.Seems like a nice enough slim town. And I like the river. I go down ever day. Like to watch the sun on the water. sometimes I call of all the affairs I did Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois and then sometimes I dont think about much of anything. Sometimes I just sit there on the bank and savor at peace.What was your line of work, Mr. Potter?Started out as a carpenter, just like Jesus. Progressed to builder, then got too macroscopic for my britches. When that happens to a builder, he usually goes around calling himself a contractor. I made three-four million dollars, had a Cadillac, had a unfledged woman who hauled my ashes Friday iniquitys. Nice young woman. No trouble. Then I lost it all. On ly thing I missed was the Cadillac. It had a smoother ride than the woman. Then I got my bad bracings and come here.He looks at Jack.You know what I think sometimes? That French Landings termination to a burst world, one where things look and smell kick downstairs. Maybe where people act better. I dont go around with folks Im not a friendly type person but that doesnt mean I dont feel things. I got this musical theme in my head that its not too late to be decent. You think Im crazy?No, Jack tells him. Thats fine much why I came here myself. Ill tell you how it is for me. You know how if you put a thin cover song over a window, the sun will still shine with?George Potter looks at him with eyes that are suddenly alight. Jack doesnt even have to finish the judgement, which is good. He has found the wavelength he just about always does, its his gift and now its time to get down to business.You do know, Potter says simply.Jack nods. You know why youre here?They think I kil led that ladys kid. Potter nods toward the window. The one 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 detention knot together.Rails stick out he says at last. I shoulda known Nosy satanic old man, always askin questions, always askin do you want to play cards or whitethornbe fill some pool or, I dunno, play Parcheesi, for Christs sake All so he can ask questions. Goddamn nosey parker . . .Theres more in this vein, and Jack lets him go on with it for a while. Cancer or no cancer, this old fellow has been ripped out of his ordinary routine without much mercy, and needs to vent a little. 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), but patience is necessary. When Potter begins t o widen the scope of his attack, however (Morty okay 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 looking at his hands. only he nods. Hes old, hes sick and acquire sicker, but hes four counties over from stupid.The person who led Railsback was almost certainly the same person who odd 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 made 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 split whod like to see Chicago Potsie strung up by the neck. Or the balls.Exactly.Dont want to put a stick in your spokes, sonny, but I cant think of nobody.No? Jack raises his eyebrows. Never did business around here, ma ke a house or laid out a golf range?Potter raises his head and gives Jack a grin. Course I did. How else dyou think I knew 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 Chicago . . . or thought I knew Was he in the business? This last seems to be Potter addressing Potter. In any case, he gives his head a brief shake. Cant remember. Doesnt matter, anyway. How could it? Fella was gettin on then, must 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 dim section of his musical theme where intuition declares its headquarters, lights are coming on. non a lot yet, but maybe more than just a few.A moke, he says, as if he has never comprehend the word originally. Whats that?Potter giv es him a brief, irritated look. A citizen who . . . well, not exactly a citizen. mortal 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, but moking can get you a Cadillac with that nice smooth ride.Were you ever a moke, George? Got to get a little more insinuate now. This is not a question Jack can address to a Mr. Potter.Maybe, Potter says after a grudging, considering pause. Maybe I was. Back in Chi. In Chi, you had to scratch backs and wet beaks if you wanted to land the big contracts. I dont know how it is there now, but in those days, a clean contractor was a light contractor. You know?Jack nods.The biggest deal I ever made was a housing development on the South Side of Chicago. well(p) like in that song about bad, bad Leroy embrown. Potter chuckles rustily. For a moment hes not thinking about cancer, or false accusations, or almost being lynched. Hes animate in the past, and it may be a little sleazy, but its better than the present the bunk set up to the wall, the steel toilet, the cancer spreading by 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 guy, this moke, we were in a horse look sharp He breaks off, looking at Jack with wide eyes.Holy 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 bartender told him about Kinderlings little nose-pinching trick.Its in all probability 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.enunciate me about him, Jack says.He was a moke, Potter repeats, as if this expla ins everything. And he must have got in trouble in Chicago or somewhere around Chicago, because when he showed up here, Im pretty certain(p) he was using a distinguishable call off.When did you swink him on the housing-development deal, George?Potter smiles, and something about the size of his teeth and the way they seem to jut from the gums allows Jack to see how fast death 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, you 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 eye. So Id say 1969. What happened was Id done the building commissioner a big favor, and Id done another for this old woman who swung weight on this partic ular(a) Equal Opportunity Housing Commission that Mayor Daley had set up. So when the bids went out, mine got special consideration. This other guy the moke I have no doubt that his bid was 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 fell again.Mokes bid? Somehow gets lost. Comes in too late. Bad luck. Chicago Potsie nails the job. Then, four years later, the moke shows up here, instruction 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 accident. And he says, You were that guy in Chicago. And I say, There are lots of guys in Chicago. Now this guy was a moke, but he was a scary moke. He had a kind of smell about him. I cant put it any better than that. Anyway, I was big and strong in those days, I could be mean, but I was pretty minor 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 delirious ass from that, Potsie, and I got a long memory.Any other time, any other guy, I office 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 cut him again, but I heard about him from time to time while I was working the Libertyville job. broadly speaking from my subs. Seems like the moke was building a house 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 house here in town, Jack muses.Yeah. It had a name, too, like one of those slope houses. The Birches, Lake augury, 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. unmatchable guy cut his hand clean off on a band truism, almost bled to death before they got him to the hospital. Another guy fell off a staging 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 himself.What else did they say about this place? Jack puts the question idly, as if he doesnt care 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 clustering is finally beginning to disperse. Jack wonders how Dale is doing with Brown and Black. The time seems to be racing, and he hasnt gotten what he needs from Potter. What hes gotten so far is just enough to tantalize.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 mins a day in the summer, but it somehow . . . didnt. He said the guys lost their after parts, 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 unde r 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 when 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, copulate 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 breath 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, Black House. I dont know if thats what he called it or what the subs workin the job got to calling it, but that was the name, all right.Jacks eyes widen. The image of atomic number 1 Leydens cozy living room crosses his sound judgment sitting with a drink at his elbow and reading about Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Did you say Bleak House?Black, Potsie reiterates impatiently. Because it really was. It was Oh dear to Christ, one of the state troope rs 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 batting 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 to 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 t alking about? Brown asks, glowering. He has his cuffs out, and is clearly itching to snap 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, brain 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 Sand blockade 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 express storage.Black grabs Potters narrow shoulder, gives it a vicious twist, then thrusts him so hard toward the doo r 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 pose is arrogant, coercive, and counterproductive to the resolution of this case. Your interdepartmental cooperation skills are nonexistent. Your demeanor 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 department 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 appreciation 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. Might 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 corner of the ONE CALL MEANS ONE CALL sign, and Dale smoothes it back d own 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 flicker in Dale Gilbertsons eyes.Are you sure? Take a minute. call back about it.Told you, no. People dont name their houses in these parts. Oh, I guess old Miss graham 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 murd er by the Wisconsin State Police, but Jack didnt see that cryptical flicker in Potters eyes a single time during their interview. Because Potter was straight 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 furbish up 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 response (he has now turned full-face to the peeling poster, working on it as seriously as he might work on a heart attack victim in the street, administering cardiac resuscitation right out of the manual until the ambulance arrives) suggests to Jack that it might be something like just that. Thre e 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.Sure? One man almost bled to death. Another took a fall that paralyzed him. People complained listen to this, Dale, its good according to Potsie, people complained about losing their shadows. Couldnt see them even at midday, with the sun shining full force. Isnt that something?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 see s 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. Put my hands under his nose my lily-scented hands and make him see it. Part of him even wants to see it. The coppiceman part.Then another part of Jacks mind speaks up in the brisk Parker drawl he now remembers from his childhood. You could push him over the edge of a nervous breakdown, too, Jack. God knows hes close to one, after all the goins-ons since the Irkenham boy got took. You want to chance that? And for what? He didnt know the name, about that he was bein straight.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 Fisherman wanted him to see. With one little barelyion . . . perhaps. The single slipper. Jack doesnt know if it will ever come to anything, but it might. In salute, 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 combination ready room and shipment center. The members of the French Lan ding Police Department 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 station an hour or so later, Beezer, Mouse, and Kaiser Bill are still there. The other two have gone back to the Row to fill in the various old ladies on tonights events.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 fog, humming deep down in his throat.Im goi ng 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. melodic theme 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 evening, he is tired to the osseous tissue and has an idea that Henry feels the same way. Not because hes quiet Jack has become apply to Henrys occasional hibernating(prenominal) stretches. No, its the quiet in the truck itself. Under ordinary circumstances, Henry is a restless, compulsive radio tuner, trial 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 entrant 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 ogre tonight, Jack. Im going straight to bed.The weariness in Henrys voice startles Jack, makes him uneasy. Henry doesnt sound like himself or any of his radio personae at this moment he just sounds old and tired, on the way to being used up.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 wholly sure, Jack says, and perhaps because hes tired, he gets this untruth past Henry. He intends to start Beezer and his bud dies 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 domicile called Black House. Not now, though. Not after hearing how beat Henry sounds. Tomorrow, maybe. Almost certainly, in fact, because Henry is too good a resource 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 back. Yes, Mother. But I dont think I can listen to a killer of subatomic 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 price is king and you never pay a dime bag of interest for the first six months with approved credit. Straight to bed.Me too, Jack says.But an hour after evasiveness 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 clock hands. Or a carousel on a deserted midway. hay-scented 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 phone that was science fiction when Jack first met him Hidey-ho, Travelin Jack . . . as one coppiceman to another, son, I think you ought to figure 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 take a breather under his arm. The night is warm in Norway Valley, where the fog was thin to begin with, the last remnants have now disappeared, blown away by a soft east wind. Jack hesitates, then goes on down the steps, naked except for his underwear. The porch is no good to him, though. Its where he found that hellish box with the sugar-packet stamps.He walks past his truck, past the fowl hotel, and into the north field. Above him are a billion stars. C rickets 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.Thinking 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, agreeable whineing 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 interminably sweeter, infinitely purer. Jack touches the waistband of his underpants and feels some rough weave. No Jockey shorts 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 snap bean 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 horizon the sun is on its way. Hes stiff and his ass hurts and hes damp with dew, but hes rested. The steady, rhythmic creaking is gone, but that doesnt surprise him. He knew from the moment he opened his eyes that hes in Wisconsin again. And he knows something else he can go back. Any time he wants. The real Coulee Country, the deep Coulee Country, is just a wish and a motion away. This fills him with joy and dread in equal parts.Jack gets up and barefoots bac k 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 dip when he was twelve), they werent on him at all. They were somewhere else.In the Land of Opopanax, Jack says, and goes inside. Three minutes later hes asleep again, in his own bed. When he wakes at eight, with the sensible sun streaming in through his window, he could almost believe that his latest journey was a dream.But in his heart, he knows better.