Black House Chapter Six

6IN THE READY ROOM of the French Landing P.D., the ph maven on the desk rings. Bobby Dulac has been minelaying for nose-gold. Now he squashes his latest trea certain on the sole of his shoe and picks up the ph unrivalled.Yell-o, Police Department, police officer Dulac speaking, how arse I help you?Hey, Bobby. Its Danny Tcheda.Bobby feels a barde of unease. Danny Tcheda last name pronounced Cheetah is one of French Landings fourteen full-time RMP cops. Hes currently on duty, and ordinary procedure dictates that duty cops radio in thats what the R in RMP stands for, after all. The only exception to the rule has to do with the Fisherman. Dale has mandated that patrol officers call in on a landline if they think they confine a situation involving the killer. Too many people get eat their ears on bulge there, doubtless including W endell Piss precede Green.Danny, whats up?Maybe nil, maybe virtually social function not so easily. I got a bike and a snitch in the trunk of my car. I found em both jell on Queen Street. Near Maxton elderly C ar?Bobby draws a pad toward him and begins to jot. The tickle of unease has be total a sinking feeling.Nothing wrong with the bike, Danny continues, exactly sitting there on its kickstand, but combined with the sneaker . . .Yeah, yeah, I obtain your point, Danny, but you neer should have fooled with what could be evidence of a crime. satisfy God dont let it be evidence of a crime, Bobby Dulac is thinking. Please God dont let it be another one.Irma Freneaus mother has just been in to see Dale, and while there was no screaming or shouting, she came out with divide on her cheeks and opineing like death on the half shell. They cant still be sure the little girl has become the Fishermans third victim, but Bobby, I had to, Danny is saying. Im ridin solo, I didnt want to put this out on the air, I hadda drive a phone. If Id left the bike there, soulfulness else coulda monkeyed with it. Hell, stolen it. This is a g ood bike, Schwinn three-speed. Bettern the one my kids got, narrate you that.Whats your twenty?7-El all the same, up the hill on 35. What I did was mark the location of the bike and the sneaker with chalk Xs on the sidewalk. I handled them with gloves and put the sneaker in an evidence bag. Danny is sounding to a greater extent and more anxious. Bobby k straights how he must feel, sympathizes with the choices Danny had to make. Riding solo is a screak, but French Landing is already supporting as many cops full-time and part-time as the budget will bear. Unless, of course, this Fisherman business gets totally out of control in that case, the town fathers will no doubt discover a bit more elastic in the budget.Maybe its already out of control, Bobby thinks.Okay, Danny. Okay. See your point. Whether or not Dale sees it is a on the whole nother thing, Bobby thinks.Danny depressive disorderers his voice. No one needs to know I broke the chain of evidence, do they? I mean, if the su bject ever came up. In court, or something.I understand thats up to Dale. Oh God, Bobby thinks. A new problem has just occurred to him. All calls that come in on this phone are automatically taped. Bobby decides the taping machinery is about to have a malfunction, retroactive to about two oclock in the afternoon.And you want to know the other thing? Danny is asking. The big thing? I didnt want people to see it. A bike standing all by itself that way, you dont have to be Sherlock Fucking Holmes to draw a certain conclusion. And folksre getting close to the alarm line, especially after that goddamned irresponsible story in the paper this morning. I didnt want to call from Maxtons for the same reason.Im gonna put you on hold. You better let loose to Dale.In a vastly unhappy voice, Danny says Oh boy.In Dale Gilbertsons office there is a bulletin board dominated by enlarged photographs of Amy St. Pierre and insurgent Irkenham. A third photo will be added soon, he fears that of Irma Freneau. Beneath the two current photos, Dale sits at his desk, smoking a Marlboro 100. Hes got the fan on. It will, he hopes, mud the smoke past. Sarah would just about kill him if she knew he was smoking again, but dear Jesus Christ, he needs something.His interview with Tansy Freneau had been short and nothing short of purgatorial. Tansy is a juicer, a regular patron of the Sand Bar, and during their interview the smell of coffee brandy was so strong it almost seemed to be glide slope out of her pores (another excuse for the fan). Half drunk, she had been, and Dale was glad. It kept her calm, at least. It didnt put any sparkle in her dead eyes, coffee brandy was no good for that, but she had been calm. Hideously, she had even said Thank you for helping me, sir before leaving.Tansys ex Irmas father lives across the state in Green Bay (Green Bay is the devils town, Dales father use to say, God knows why), where he works in a garage and, according to Tansy, supports several bar s with names like the End Zone and the Fifty-Yard Line. Until today, there has been some reason to believe at least to hope that Richard cubbyhole Freneau snatched his daughter. An e-mail from the Green Bay Police Department has put paid to that little idea. Cubby Freneau is living with a woman who has two kids of her own, and he was in jail D & D the day Irma disappeared. There is still no body, and Tansy hasnt receive a letter from the Fisherman, but The door opens. Bobby Dulac sticks his level in. Dale mashes his cigarette out on the inside lip of the violentbasket, burning the back off of his hand with sparks in the process.Gosh n fishes, Bobby, do you know how to knock?Sorry, Chief. Bobby airs at the smoke ribboning up from the wastebasket with neither surprise nor interest. Danny Tchedas on the phone. I think you better take it.Whats it about? besides he knows. Why else would it be the phone?Bobby only repeats, not without sympathy, I think you better take it.The ca r sent by Rebecca Vilas delivers atomic number 1 to Maxton Elder Care at three-thirty, ninety minutes before the Strawberry Fest dance is scheduled to begin. The idea is for the old folks to work up an appetite on the floor, so troop down to the caff compositors caseably decorated for the occasion for a glamorously late (seven-thirty is quite late for Maxtons) dinner. With wine, for those who drink it.A resentful Pete Wexler has been drafted by Rebecca Vilas to ingest in the deejays shit (Pete thinks of Henry as the guile record-hopper). Said shit consists of two speakers ( genuinely large), one turntable (light, but awkward as a dogshit to carry), one preamp (very heavy), assorted wires (all tangled up, but thats the blind record-hoppers problem), and four boxes of actual records, which went out of style about a hundred years ago. Pete guesses that the blind record-hopper never heard a CD in his whole life.The last item is a suit bag on a hanger. Pete has peeked in and asce rtained that the suit is white.Hang it in there, please, Henry says, pointing with unerring accuracy toward the publish closet that has been designated his dressing room.Okay, Pete says. What exactly is it, if you dont mind me asking?Henry smiles. He knows perfectly nearly that Pete has already had a peep. He heard the plastic bag rattling and the zipper chinking in a duet that only occurs when someone pulls the bag away from the hanger at the neck. Inside that bag, my friend, Symphonic Stan, the Big-Band Man, is just waiting for me to put him on and bring him to life.Oh, uh-huh, Pete says, not knowing if he has been answered or not. All hes really sure of is that those records were almost as heavy as the preamp. Someone should really give the blind record-hopper some information about CDs, the next great leap forward.You asked me one may I ask you one?Be my guest, Pete says.There appears to have been a police presence at Maxton Elder Care this afternoon, the blind record-hopper s ays. Theyre deceased now, but they were here when I arrived. Whats that about? There hasnt been a robbery or an assault among the geriatrics, I hope?Pete stops in his tracks beneath a large cardboard strawberry, holding the suit bag and looking at the blind record-hopper with an amazement Henry can almost touch. Howd you know the cops were here?Henry puts a finger to the side of his nose and malarkys his head to one side. He replies in a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper. Smelled something blue.Pete looks puzzled, debates whether or not to inquire further, and decides not to. Resuming his knock against toward the supply closet?Cdressing room, he says Theyre playing it cagey, but I think theyre looking for another lost kid.The look of amused curiosity fades from Henrys face. Good Christ, he says.They came and went in a hurry. No kids here, Mr . . . uh, Leyden?Leyden, Henry confirms.A kid in this place would stand out like a rose in a patch of poison ivy, if you know what I mean.Henry doesnt consider old folks in any way analogous to poison ivy, but he does indeed get Mr. Wexlers drift. What do them think ?Someone found sumpin on the sidewalk, Pete says. He points out the window, then realizes the blind guy cant see him pointing. Duh, as Ebbie would say. He lowers his hand. If a kid got snatched, someone probably came along in a car and snatched him. No kidnapers in here, I can tell you that much. Pete laughs at the very idea of a Maxton moldy oldie snatching any kid big enough to ride a bike. The kid would probably break the guy over his knee like a dry stick.No, Henry says soberly, that hardly seems likely, does it?But I guess the cops got to dot all the ts and cross all the is. He pauses. Thats just a little joke of mine.Henry smiles politely, thinking that with some people, Alzheimers disease might be an actual improvement. When you hang my suit up, Mr. Wexler, would you be so good as to give it a gentle shake? Just to banish any incipient wrinkles?Okay. W ant me to take it out of the bag forya?Thanks, that wont be necessary.Pete goes into the supply closet, hangs up the suit bag, and gives it a little shake. Incipient, just what the hell does that mean? Theres a rudiment of a library here at Maxtons maybe hell look it up in the dictionary. It pays to increase your rule book power, as it says in the Readers Digest, although Pete doubts it will pay him much in this job. When he goes back out to the common room, the blind record-hopper Mr. Leyden, Symphonic Stan, whoever the hell he is has begun unraveling wires and plugging them in with a speed and accuracy Pete finds a trifle unnerving.Poor old Fred Marshall is having a terrible dream. wise to(p) its a dream should make it less horrible but somehow doesnt. Hes in a rowboat with Judy, out on a lake. Judy is sitting in the bow. They are fishing. He is, at least Judy is just holding her pole. Her face is an expressionless blank. Her skin is waxy. Her eyes have a stunned, hammered loo k. He labors with change magnitude desperation to make contact with her, trying one conversational gambit after another. None work. To make what is, under the circumstances, a fairly apt metaphor, she spits every lure. He sees that her empty eyes appear fixed on the creel sitting mingled with them in the bottom of the boat. Blood is oozing through the wickerwork in fat red dribbles.Its nothing, just fishblood, he tries to assure her, but she makes no reply. In fact, Fred isnt so sure himself. Hes thinking he ought to take a look inside the creel, just to be sure, when his pole gives a tremendous jerk if not for quick reflexes, he would have lost it over the side. Hes hooked a big oneFred reels it in, the fish on the other end of the line fighting him for every foot. because, when he finally gets it near the boat, he realizes he has no net. Hell with it, he thinks, go for broke. He whips the pole backward, just daring the line to snap, and the fish biggest goddamned lake trout y oud ever hope to see flies out of the water and through the air in a gleaming, fin-flipping arc. It lands in the bottom of the boat (beside the oozing creel, in fact) and begins thrashing. It also begins to make gruesome strangulation noises. Fred has never heard a fish make noises like that. He bends forward and is horrified to see that the trout has Tylers face. His son has somehow become a weretrout, and now hes dying in the bottom of the boat. Strangling.Fred grabs at it, wanting to remove the hook and throw it back while theres still time, but the terrible choking thing keeps slipping through his fingers, leaving only a shiny slime of scales behind. It would be tough to get the hook out, in any case. The Ty-fish has swallowed it whole, and the bar experience tip is actually protruding from one of the gills, just below the point where the human face melts away. Tys choking becomes louder, harsher, infinitely more horrible Fred sits up with a low cry, feeling as if hes choking himself. For a moment hes completely adrift as to place and time lost in the slippage, we might say and then he realizes hes in his own bedroom, sitting up on his side of the bed he shares with Judy.He notices that the light in here is much dimmer, because the sun has moved to the other side of the house. My God, he thinks, how long have I been asleep? How could I Oh, but here is another thing that hideous choking sound has followed him out of his dream. Its louder than ever. It will wake Judy, scare her Judy is no longer on the bed, though.Jude? Judy?Shes sitting in the corner. Her eyes are wide and blank, just as they were in his dream. A corsage of crumpled paper is protruding from her mouth. Her throat is grotesquely swelled, looks to Fred like a sausage that has been grilled until the casing is ready to pop. much paper, he thinks. Christ, shes choking on it.Fred rolls himself across the bed, falls off, and lands on his knees like a gymnast doing a trick. He reaches for her. She makes no move to evade him. Theres that, at least. And although shes choking, he still sees no expression in her eyes. They are dusty zeros.Fred yanks the corsage of paper from her mouth. Theres another behind it. Fred reaches between her teeth, tweezes this second ball of paper between the first two fingers of his right hand (thinking Please dont bite me, Judy, please dont), and pulls it out, too. Theres a third ball of paper behind this one, way at the back of her mouth. He gets hold of this one as well, and extracts it. Although its crumpled, he can see the printed words GREAT IDEA, and knows what shes swallowed sheets of paper from the notepad Ty gave her for her birthday.Shes still choking. Her skin is turning slate.Fred grabs her by her amphetamine arms and pulls her up. She comes easily, but when he relaxes his hold her knees bend and she starts to go back down. Shes turned into Raggedy Ann. The choking sound continues. Her sausage throat Help me, Judy Help me, you bitchU naware of what he is saying. He yanks her hard as hard as he yanked the fishing pole in his dream and spins her around like a ballerina when she comes up on her toes. Then he seizes her in a bear hug, his wrists brushing the undersides of her breasts, her bottom tight against his crotch, the kind of position he would find extremely sexy if his wife didnt happen to be choking to death.He pops his thumb up between her breasts like a hitchhiker, then says the magic word as he pulls sharply upward and backward. The magic word is Heimlich, and it works. Two more wads of paper fly from Judys mouth, propelled by a jet of regorge that is little more than bile her intake of food over the last twelve hours amounts to three cups of coffee and a cranberry muffin.She gives a gasp, coughs twice, then begins to breathe more or less normally.He puts her on the bed . . . drops her on the bed. His lower back is spasming wildly, and its really no wonder first Tys dresser, now this.Well, what did y ou think you were doing? he asks her loudly. What in the name of Christ did you think you were doing?He realizes that he has raised one hand over Judys upturned face as if to strike her. composition of him wants to strike her. He loves her, but at this moment he also hates her. He has imagined plenty of bad things over the years theyve been married Judy getting cancer, Judy paralyze in an accident, Judy first taking a lover and then demanding a divorce but he has never imagined Judy going chickenshit on him, and isnt that what this amounts to?What did you think you were doing?She looks at him without fear . . . but without anything else, either. Her eyes are dead. Her husband lowers his hand, thinking Id cut it off before I hit you. I might be rigid at you, I am pissed at you, but Id cut it off before I did that.Judy rolls over, face-down on the coverlet, her hairs-breadth spread around her head in a corona.Judy?Nothing. She just lies there.Fred looks at her for a moment, then uncrumples one of the slimy balls of paper with which she has tried to strangle herself. It is covered with tangles of scribbled words. Gorg, abbalah, eeleelee, munshun, bas, lum, opopanax these mean nothing to him. Others drudge, asswipe, black, red, Chicago, and Ty are actual words but have no context. Printed up one side of the sheet is IF YOUVE GOT PRINCE ALBERT IN A CAN, HOW CAN YOU EVER GET HIM protrude? Up the other, like a teletype stuck in repeat mode, is this BLACK HOUSE CRIMSON KING BLACK HOUSE CRIMSON KING BLACKIf you waste time looking for sense in this, youre as crazy as she is, Fred thinks. You cant waste time Time.He looks at the clock on his side of the bed and cannot believe its news 417 P.M. Is that possible? He looks at his watch and sees that it is.Knowing its foolish, knowing he would have heard his son come in even if in a deep sleep, Fred strides to the door on big nerveless legs. Ty he yells. Hey, Ty TYLERWaiting for an answer that will not come, Fred re alizes that everything in his life has changed, quite possibly forever. People tell you this can happen in the blink of an eye, they say, before you know it, they say but you dont believe it. Then a wind comes.Go down to Tys room? Check? Be sure?Ty isnt there Fred knows this but he does it just the same. The room is empty, as he knew it would be. And it looks oddly distorted, almost sinister, with the dresser now on the other side.Judy. You left her alone, you idiot. Shell be chewing paper again by now, theyre clever, mad people are clever Fred dashes back down to the master bedroom and exhales a sigh of relief when he sees Judy lying just as he left her, face-down, hair spread around her head. He discovers that his worries about his mad wife are now secondary to his worries about his missing son.Hell be home by four, at the latest . . . take it to the bank. So he had thought. But four has come and asleep(p). A strong wind has arisen and blown the bank away. Fred walks to his s ide of the bed and sits down beside his wifes splayed right leg. He picks up the phone and punches in a number. Its an easy number, only three digits.Yell-o, Police Department, Officer Dulac speaking, youve dialed 911, do you have an emergency?Officer Dulac, this is Fred Marshall. Id like to speak to Dale, if hes still there. Fred is pretty sure Dale is. He works late most nights, especially since He pushes the rest away, but inside his head the wind blows harder. Louder.Gee, Mr. Marshall, hes here, but hes in a meeting and I dont think I can Get him.Mr. Marshall, youre not hearing me. Hes in with two guys from the WSP and one from the FBI. If you could just tell me Fred closes his eyes. Its interesting, isnt it? Something interesting here. He called in on the 911 line, but the idiot on the other end seems to have forgotten that. Why? Because its someone he knows. Its good old Fred Marshall, bought a Deere lawn tractor from him just the year before last. Must have dialed 911 becau se it was easier than looking up the regular number. Because no one Bobby knows can actually have an emergency.Fred remembers having a similar idea himself that morning a different Fred Marshall, one who believed that the Fisherman could never touch his son. Not his son.Tys gone.Gorg intrigue him and the abbalah took him. howdy? Mr. Marshall? Fred? Are you still Listen to me, Fred says, his eyes still closed. Down at Goltzs, he would be calling the man on the other end Bobby by now, but Goltzs has never seemed so far away Goltzs is in the star-system Opopanax, on Planet Abbalah. Listen to me carefully. Write it down if you have to. My wife has gone mad and my son is missing. Do you understand those things? Wife mad. Son missing. Now put me through to the chiefBut Bobby Dulac doesnt, not right away. He has made a price reduction. A more diplomatic police officer ( Jack Sawyer as he was in his salad days, for instance) would have kept said deduction to himself, but Bobby cant do th at. Bobby has hooked a big one.Mr. Marshall? Fred? Your son doesnt own a Schwinn, does he? Three-speed Schwinn, red? Got a novelty license main office that reads . . . uh . . . BIG MAC?Fred cannot answer. For several long and terrible moments he cannot even draw a breath. Between his ears, the wind blows both louder and harder. Now its a hurricane.Gorg fascinated him . . . the abbalah took him.At last, just when it seems he will begin to strangle himself, his chest unlocks and he takes in a huge, tearing breath. PUT CHIEF GIL-BERTSONONDOITNOW,YOUMOTHERFUCKERAlthough he shrieks this at the top of his lungs, the woman lying face-down on the coverlet beside him never moves. There is a click. Hes on hold. Not for long, but its long enough for him to see the scratched, bald place on his missing sons bedroom wall, the swelled column of his mad wifes throat, and blood dribbling through the creel in his dream. His back spasms cruelly, and Fred welcomes the pain. Its like getting a conduct ing wire from the real world.Then Dale is on the phone, Dale is asking him whats wrong, and Fred Marshall begins to cry.