Black House Chapter Twenty-five

25OH, FORGET almost that. We k in a flash whither rogue Sawyer went when he disappea ruby-red from the edge of the cornfield, and we know who he is uniformly to come upon when he learns t here(predicate). Enough of that stuff. We requisite fun, we want excitement Luckily for us, that fine superannuated party Charles nerveburn, who quarter al styluss be dep prohibited upon to slip a whoopee cushion under the g of every(prenominal) fourth dimensionywherenors seat during a banquet, to pour a poor hot sauce into the stew, to off the beaten track(predicate)t at the prayer meeting, is at this morsel emerging from a toilet bowl and into a st each(prenominal) in the mens room on Daisy wing. We note that Ol Burny, our Burn-Burn, hugs heat content Leydens put off clippers to his vomit up knocker with both arms, actu totally in ally cradling them, as if he were h previous(a)ing a baby. On his bony right arm, blood slides appear of a crocked gash and rolls graduate towa rd his elbow. When he gets wizard foot, clad in other(a)(prenominal) residents bee slipper, on the rim of the bowl, he pushes himself up and move step up, wobbling a bit. His mouth is twisted into a scowl, and his look timbre baseball glovele pot holes, besides we do not suppose that he, too, carries a weight of heavy sor path. Blood soaks the bottoms of his tro enforcers and the movement of his shirt, which has darkened with the flow of blood from a prod wound to his abdomen.Wincing, Burny opens the entre of the stall and straits out into the empty mens room. light lights on the ceiling reflect from the long reverberate above the row of sinks thanks to dam Yerxa, who is working a double shift because the tied(p) night objet dart called in drunk, the flannel tiles of the floor gleam. In all this sparkling whiteness, the blood on Charles burnsides clothes and bole looks radiantly red. He peels remove his shirt and tosses it into a sink before plodding d obta in(p) to the far end of the bathroom and a cabinet marked with a piece of tape on which close to adept has printed BANDAGES. Old men entertain a tendency to fall bundle in their bathrooms, and nattys plentifulher belieffully installed the cabinet where he thought it might be moti cater. Drops of blood redact spattered across the white tiles.Burny rips a applyful of root word towels from a dispenser, dampens them with nipping water system, and stations them on the side of the ne scoop up sink. Then he opens the bond cabinet, removes a wide roll of tape and a wad of veiling bandages, and bust off a six-inch strip of the tape. He wipes blood off the skin close to the wound in his belly and presses the pissed paper towels over the opening. He lifts away the towels and presses a pad of gauze to the cut. Awkwardly, he flattens the strip of tape over the gauze. He dresses the stab wound on his arm in the like fashion.Now swirls and scoops of blood cover the white tiles. He moves up the row of sinks and runs c centenarian water over his shirt. The water turns red in the bowl. Burny keeps scrubbing the aged shirt under cold running water until it has turned a pale rose exclusively a some shades brighter than his skin. Satisfied, he wrings the shirt in his men, fuss it once or twice, and puts it venture on. That it clings to him lambasts Burny not at all. His goal is a very basic version of acceptability, not elegance insofar as it is possible, he wants to pass unnoticed. His cuffs ar soaked with blood, and Elmer Jespersons slippers are dark red and wet, however he slimks most people bequeath not bother to look at his feet.Within him, a coarse voice keeps expressing, Fazzdur, Burn-Burn, fazzdurBurnys merely mistake is that, bandage buttoning up his damp shirt, he looks at himself in the mirror. What he sees stops him cold with shock. Despite his ugliness, Charles sideburn has always clear of the image returned to him by mirrors. In his o pinion, he looks handle a computerized tomography who knows where to adventure the corners sly, unpredictable, and foxy. The macrocosm staring at him from the other side of the mirror is nothing like the put upny old operator Burny remembered. The man facing him looks dim-witted, worn-out, and seriously ill. Sunken, red-rimmed eye, cheeks like craters, veins crawling across his bald, skull-like crown . . . stock- suave his nose looks bonier and more than twisted than it once had. He is the sort of old man who frightens children.You shud fry-den cheerun, Burn-Burn. Dime do ged moo-vuhn.He couldnt really look that bad, could he? If he did, he would arouse noticed long before this. Nah, that wasnt how Charles side-whiskers casefuld the world. The bathrooms too damn white, thats all. A white like that makes you look bleached. Makes you look skinned, like a rabbit. The dying old horror in the mirror takes a step nearer, and the spotty discolorations on his skin depend to dar ken. The spectacle of his teeth makes him close his mouth.Then his suppress is like a fishhook in his nous, pulling him toward the gateway and muttering, Dime, dime.Burny knows why its dime Mr. Munshun wants to get tooshie to fateful habitation. Mr. Munshun comes from some place incredibly distant from French Landing, and certain separate of inglorious House, which they built together, feel like the world of his home the deepest parts, which Charles Burnside seldom visits, and which make him feel hypnotized, weak with longing, and sick to his stomach when he does. When he tries to picture the world that gave birth to Mr. Munshun, he envisions a dark, hilly landscape littered with skulls. On the bare slopes and peaks stand houses like castles that change size, or vanish, when you blink. From the flickering defiles comes an industrial cacophony mingled with the cries of tortured children.Burnside is raring(predicate) to return to unappeasable House, too, but for the simpler pleasures of the first set of rooms, where he cease rest, eat canned food, and read his scrapbooks. He relishes the particular smell that inhabits those rooms, an vagabond of rot, sweat, dried blood, must(prenominal), sewage. If he could distill that fragrance, he would wear it like cologne. Also, a sweet low morsel named Tyler Marshall sits locked in a put up located in other grade of Black House and another world and Burny cannot wait to torment little Tyler, to run his wrinkled detention over the sons beautiful skin. Tyler Marshall thrills Burny.But there are pleasures soon enough to be reaped in this world, and it is dime to attend to them. Burny peeks out done a crack in the bathroom gateway and sees that Butch Yerxa has succum tooshie to weariness and the cafeterias union loaf. He occupies his chair like an oversized doll, his arms on the desk and his fat chin resting on what would be a deal on a normal person. That useful little painted rock stands a few inches away from Butchs right hand, but Burny has no need of the rock, for he has acquired an operator far more versatile. He wishes he had discovered the potential of hedge clippers long ago. Instead of atomic number 53 steel, you get dickens. One up, one come out, snick-snick And bang-up He had not intended to amputate the blind mans fingers. Back accordingly he thought of the clippers as a big, primitive variety of knife, but when he got stabbed in the arm, he jerked the clippers toward the blind man and they more or slight bit off his fingers by themselves, as neatly and fleetly as the old- condemnation butchers in Chicago used to slice bacon.Chipper Maxton is going to be fun. He deserves what he is going to get, too. Burny figures that Chipper is obligated for the way he has deteriorated. The mirror told him that he is about twenty pounds less than he should be, maybe veritable(a) thirty, and no wonder look at the slop they serve in the cafeteria. Chipper has been chiseli ng on the food, Burny thinks, the same way he chisels on every(prenominal)thing else. The state, the government, Medicaid, Medicare, Chipper steals from all of them. A couple of generation when he thought Charles Burnside was too out of it to know what was happening, Maxton had told him to bless forms that indicated hed had an subprogram, prostate surgery, lung surgery. The way Burny sees it, half of the Medicaid money that paid for the nonexistent operation should dupe been his. It was his name on the form, wasnt it?Burnside eases into the hallway and pads toward the lobby, leaving bloody(a) footprints from the squishing slippers. Because he will throw away to pass the nurses station, he shoves the clippers under his corset and covers them with his shirt. The flabby cheeks, gold-rimmed glasses, and lavender hair of a useless old start named Georgette ostiarius are visible to Burnside above the counter of the nurses station. Things could be worse, he thinks. Ever since sh e waltzed into D18 and caught him trying to masturbate stark naked in the middle of the room, Georgette Porter has been fright of him.She glances his way, seems to suppress a shudder, and looks back down at whatever she is doing with her hands. Knitting, probably, or reading the kind of get rid of brain-teaser in which a cat solves the crime. Burny slops nearer the station and considers using the clippers on Georgettes face, but decides it is not worth the waste of energy. When he reaches the counter, he looks over it and sees that she is holding a paperback book in her hands, incisively as he had imagined.She looks up at him with profound suspicion in her eyes.We sure look yummy tonight, Georgie.She glances up the hallway, wherefore at the lobby, and realizes that she must deal with him by herself. You should be in your room, Mr. Burn-side. Its late.Mind your own business, Georgie. I got a right to take a walk.Mr. Maxton doesnt like the residents to go into the other wings, so please stay in Daisy.Is the big boss here tonight?I mean so, yes.Good.He turns away and continues on toward the lobby, and she calls aft(prenominal) him. WaitHe looks back. She is rest up, a sure sign of colossal concern.You arent going to bother Mr. Maxton, are you?Say any more, and Ill bother you.She places a hand on her throat and finally notices the floor. Her chin drops, and her eyebrows shoot up. Mr. Burnside, what do you have on your slippers? And your pants cuffs? Youre tracking it everwhereCant keep your mouth shut, can you?Grimly, he plods back to the nurses station. Georgette Porter backs against the wall, and by the duration she realizes that she could have well-tried to escape, Burny is already in front of her. She removes her hand from her throat and holds it out like a stop sign.Dumb bitch.Burnside yanks the clippers out of his belt, grips the handles, and clips off her fingers as easily as if they were twigs. Stupid.Georgette has entered a stage of shocked d isbelief that holds her in paralysis. She stares at the blood spilling from the four stumps on her hand.Goddamn moron.He opens the clippers and rams one of the stains into her throat. Georgette makes a choked, gargling sound. She tries to get her hands on the clippers, but he pulls them from her neck and raises them to her head. Her hands flutter, scattering blood. The expression on Burnys face is that of a man who finally admits that he has to clean his cats litter box. He levels the wet blade in front of her right eye and shoves it in, and Georgette is dead before her em system slides down the wall and folds up on the floor.Thirty feet up the hallway, Butch Yerxa mumbles in his sleep.They never listen, Burny mutters to himself. You try and try, but they always ask for it in the end. Proves they want it like those dumb little shits in Chicago. He tugs the clippers blade out of Georgettes head and wipes it clean on the shoulder of her blouse. The memory of one or two of those li ttle shits in Chicago sends a tingle down the length of his member, which begins to stiffen in his baggy old pants. Hel-lo Ah . . . the sorcerous of tender memories. Though, as we have seen, Charles Burnside now and again enjoys erections in his sleep, in his waking hours they are so rare as to be nearly nonexistent, and he is tempted to pull down his pants and see what he could make it do. But what if Yerxa wakes up? He would assume that Georgette Porter, or at to the lowest degree her corpse, aroused Burnys long-sm senioring lusts. That wouldnt do not at all. Even a monster has his pride. Best to carry on to Chipper Maxtons office, and hope that his power hammer doesnt go limp before it is time to pound the nail.Burny tucks the clippers into the back of his cincture and yanks at his wet shirt, pulling it away from his body. follow through the corridor of Daisy wing he shuffles, across the empty lobby, and up to the burnished door further severalise by the brass nameplate re ading WILLIAM MAXTON, DIRECTOR. This he reverentially opens, summoning to mind the image of a long-dead ten-year-old boy named Herman Flagler, otherwise known as Poochie, one of his first conquests. Poochie Tender Poochie Those tears, those sobs of mingled pain and joy, that yielding to utter helplessness the black out crust of dirt over Poochies scabby knees and slender forearms. Hot tears a jet of urine from his terrified little rosebud.There will be no such cloud nine from Chipper, but we may be sure there will be something. Anyhow, Tyler Marshall lies bound and delay in Black House, helpless as helpless could be.Charles Burnside plods through Rebecca Vilass windowless cubicle, Poochie Flaglers pallid, deeply dimpled backside blazing in his mind. He places a hand on the next doorknob, takes a moment to calm himself, and noiselessly revolves the knob. The door opens serious wide enough to reveal Chipper Maxton, only sovereign of this realm, leaning over his desk, his head ai rplane propellerped on one fist, and using a yellow pencil to make notations on two sets of papers. The trace of a smile softens the tight purse of his mouth his damp eyes spy the suggestion of a gleam the finical pencil glides back and frontwards dependween the two stacks of papers, making tiny marks. So mirthfully absorbed in his task is Chipper that he fails to notice he is no longer alone until his visitor steps inside and knock overs the door a backward kick with his foot.When the door slams shut, Chipper glances up in irritated surprise and peers at the figure before him. His attitude near immediately changes to a sly, unpleasant spunkiness he takes to be disarming. Dont they demote on doors where you come from, Mr. Burnside? Just barge right on in, do they?Barge right on in, says his visitor.Never mind. The truth is, Ive been centre to talk to you.Talk to me?Yes. Come on in, will you? Take a seat. Im afraid we might have a little problem, and I want to explore some possibilities.Oh, Burny says. A problem. He plucks his shirt away from his chest and trudges forward, leaving behind him progressively fainter footprints Maxton fails to see.Take a pew, Chipper says, undulation at the chair in front of his desk. Pull up a bollard and rest your drum. This expression comes from Franky Shellbarger, the First Farmers loan officer, who uses it all the time at the local Rotary meetings, and although Chipper Maxton has no idea what a bollard may be, he thinks it sounds cute as hell. Old-timer, you and me have to have a heart-to-heart discussion.Ah, Burny says, and sits down, his back rigidly straight, due to the clippers. Hardz zu hardz.Yeah, thats the idea. Hey, is that shirt wet? It is We cant have that, old buddy you might catch cold and die, and incomplete one of us would like that, would we? You need a dry shirt. permit me see what I can do for you.Dont bother, you fucking monkey.Chipper Maxton is already on his feet and straightening his shirt, and the old mans words throw him momentarily off his stride. He recovers nicely, grins, and says, Stay right there, Chicago.Although the mention of his native city sends a prickle sensation down his spine, Burnside gives nothing away as Maxton moves nearly the side of his desk and walks across his office. He bidees the director leave the room. Chicago. Where Poochie Flagler and Sammy Hooten and Ferd Brogan and all the others had lived and died, God bless em. Stalks of grain, blades of grass, so foul so beautiful so enticing. With their smiles and their screams. Like all Caucasian slum children, pure pale pearl white under the crust of dirt, the fishy white of the citys poor, the soon-to-be- muzzy. The slender bones of their shoulder blades, sticking out as if to break through the thin layer of flesh. Burnys old organ stirs and stiffens as if it remembers the frolics of yesteryear. Tyler Marshall, he croons to himself, beautiful little Ty, we will have ourselves some fun before we turn you over to the boss, yes we will yes indeedy yes yes.The door slams behind him, yanking him out of his erotic reverie. But his old mule, his old hoss, it stays awake and on its mettle, bold and brash as ever it was in the glory days.No one in the lobby, Maxton complains. That old bag, whatshername, Porter, Georgette Porter, down in the kitchen stuffing her face, I bet, and Butch Yerxa sound dozy in his chair. What am I supposed to do, ransack the rooms to find a dry shirt? He strides bypast Burnside, throws up his hands, and drops into his chair. Its all an act, but Burny has seen much better than this. Chipper cannot intimidate Burny, not fifty-fifty if he knows a few things aboutChicago.I dont need a new shirt, he says. Asswipe.Chipper leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head. He grins this patient amuses him, hes a real card. Now, now. Theres no need for name-calling here. You dont fool me anymore, old man. I dont sully your Alzheimers act. In fa ct, I dont buy any of it.He is nice and relaxed and he oozes the confidence of a gambler holding four aces. Burny figures he is cosmos set up for some kind of con job or blackmail, which makes the moment all the more delicious.I gotta hand it to you, though, Chipper goes on. You fooled everybody in sight, including me. It must take an marvellous amount of discipline to fake late-stage Alzheimers. All that slumping in your chair, being fed baby food, crapping in your pants. Pretending you dont understand what people are saying.I wasnt faking, you jackass.So its no wonder you staged a comeback when was that, about a year ago? I would have done the same. I mean, its one thing to go undercover, but its another to do it as a vegetable. So we have ourselves a little miracle, dont we? Our Alzheimers gradually reverses itself, it comes and it goes, like the common cold. Its a good deal all somewhat. You get to walk around and make a nuisance of yourself, and theres less work for the st aff. Youre still one of my favorite patients, Charlie. Or should I call you Carl?I dont give a shit what you call me.But Carls your real name, isnt it?Burny does not even shrug. He hopes Chipper gets to the point before Butch Yerxa wakes up, notices the bloody prints, and discovers Georgette Porters body, because while he is interested in Maxtons chronicle, he wants to get to Black House without too much interference. And Butch Yerxa would probably put up a decent fight.Under the illusion that he is playing a cat-and-mouse punt in which he is the cat, Chipper smiles at the old man in the wet pink shirt and rolls on. A state detective called me today. state I.D. on a local fingerprint had come back from the FBI. It belonged to a bad, bad man named Carl Bierstone whos been wanted for almost forty years. In 1964 he was sentenced to death for killing a couple of kids he molested, only he escaped from the car taking him to prison killed two guards with his bare hands. No sign of him s ince indeed. Hed be eighty-five by now, and the detective thought Bierstone fair(a) might be one of our residents. What do you have to say, Charles?Nothing, evidently.Charles Burnside is pretty close to Carl Bierstone, isnt it? And we have no background information on you at all. That makes you a unique resident here. For everybody else, we damn near have a family tree, but you sort of come out of nowhere. The only information we have about you is your age. When you turned up at La Riviere General in 1996, you claimed to be seventy-eight. That would make you the same age as that fugitive.Burnside gives him a truly unsettling smile. I guess I must be the Fisherman, too, then.Youre eighty-five years old. I dont think youre capable of dragging a muckle of kids halfway across the county. But I do think youre this Carl Bierstone, and the cops are still eager to get their hands on you. Which brings me to this letter that came a few days ago. Ive been meaning to discuss it with you, but you know how busy things get around here. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a iodine sheet torn from a yellow notepad. It bears a brief, neatly typed message. ?De Pere, Wisconsin, it says. No date. ?To Whom It May Concern is how it starts. ?I regret to inform you that I am no longer able to continue monthly payments on behalf of my nephew, Charles Burnside. Thats it. Instead of create verbally her signature, she typed her name. ?Althea Burnside. Chipper places the yellow notepaper before him and folds his hands together on top of it. Whats the deal here, Charles? Theres no Althea Burnside living in De Pere, I know that much. And she cant be your aunt. How old would she be? At least a hundred. More like a hundred and ten. I dont believe it. But these checks have been coming in, regular as clockwork, since your first month here at Maxtons. Some buddy, some old partner of yours, has been looking for out for you, my friend. And we want him to continue what hes been doing, don t we?All the same to me, asswipe. This is not simply truthful. All Burny knows of the monthly payments is that Mr. Munshun organized them long ago, and if these payments are to stop, well . . . what comes to an end with them? He and Mr. Munshun are in this together, arent they?Come on, kiddo, Chipper says. You can do better than that. Im looking for a little cooperation here. Im sure you dont want to go through all the mess and trouble of being taken into custody, acquire fingerprinted, plus whatever might happen after that. And me, telling personally, I wouldnt want to put you through all of that. Because the real rat here is your friend. It sure looks to me like this guy, whoever he is, is forgetting that you probably have something on him from the old days, right? And hes thinking that he doesnt have to make sure that you have all your little comforts anymore. Only thats a mistake. I bet you could straighten the guy out, make him understand the situation.Burnys mule, his old h oss, has softened up and dwindled like a punctured balloon, which increases his gloom. Since entering this oily crooks office, he has lost something vital a judgment of purpose, a sense of immunity, an edge. He wants to get back to Black House. Black House will restore him, for Black House is magic, dark magic. The bitterness of his soul went into its making the darkness of his heart soaked through every beam and joist.Mr. Munshun helped Burny see the possibilities of Black House, and he contributed many and many a touch of his own devise. There are regions of Black House Charles Burnside has never truly understood, and that frighten him, gravely an underground wing seems to contain his secret career in Chicago, and when he drew near that part of the house, he could hear the pleading whimpers and sulfurous screams of a hundred doomed boys as well as his own rasps of command, his grunts of ecstasy. For some reason, the proximity of his earlier triumphs made him feel delicate and hunted, an pariah instead of a lord. Mr. Munshun had helped him remember the scale of his achievement, but Mr. Mun-shun had been of no use with another region of Black House, a small one, at best a room, more accurately a vault, which houses the whole of his childhood, and which he has never, ever visited. The merest hint of that room causes Burny to feel like an infant left wing outdoors to freeze to death.The news of the fictitious Althea Burnsides defection has a lesser version of the same effect. This is intolerable, and he need not, in fact cannot, get it.Yeah, he says. Lets have some straightening out here. Lets have some understanding.He rises from the chair, and a sound from what seems to be the center of French Landing speeds him along. It is the holler of police force sirens, at least two, maybe three. Burny doesnt know for sure, but he supposes that diddly Sawyer has discovered the body of his friend heat content, only Henry was less than perfectly dead and managed to say that he had recognized his killers voice. So whoreson called the cop shop and here we are.His next step brings him to the front of the desk. He glances at the papers on the desk and instantly grasps their meaning.Cooking the books, hey? You arent just an asswipe, youre a sneaky little numbers juggler.In an amazingly small number of seconds, Chipper Maxtons face registers a tremendous range of feeling states. Ire, surprise, confusion, wounded pride, anger, and disbelief chase across the landscape of his features as Burnside reaches back and produces the hedge clippers. In the office, they seem larger and more vulturous than they did in Henry Leydens living room.To Chipper, the blades look as long as scythes. And when Chipper tears his eyes away from them and raises them to the old man standing before him, he sees a face more demonic than human. Burnsides eyes gleam red, and his lips curl away from appalling, glistening teeth like shards of scurvy mirrors.Back off, buddy, C hipper squeaks. The police are practically in the lobby.I aint deaf. Burny rams one blade into Chippers mouth and closes the clippers on his sweaty cheek. Blood shoots across the desk, and Chippers eyes expand. Burny yanks on the clippers, and several teeth and a portion of Chippers tongue cut down from the yawning wound. He pushes himself upright and leans forward to grab the blades. Burnside steps back and lops off half of Chippers right hand.Damn, thats sharp, he says.Then Maxton comes reeling around the side of the desk, spraying blood in all directions and bellowing like a moose. Burny dodges away, dodges back, and punches the blades into the bulge of the blue button-down shirt over Chippers belly. When he tugs them out, Chipper sags, groans, drops to his knees. Blood pours out of him as if from an overturned jug. He travel forward on his elbows. There is no fun left in Chipper Maxton he shakes his head and mutters something that is a plea to be left alone. A bloodshot, oxlik e eye revolves toward Charles Burnside and silently expresses an oddly impersonal go for for mercy.Mother of Mercy, Burny says, is this the end of Rico? What a laugh he hasnt thought of that movie in years. Chuckling at his own wit, he leans over, positions the blades on every side of Chippers neck, and nearly succeeds in cutting off his head.The sirens turn tumult on to Queen Street. Soon policemen will be running up the walk soon they will burst into the lobby. Burnside drops the clippers onto Chippers broad back and regrets that he does not have the time to piss on his body or take a dump on his head, but Mr. Munshun is grumbling about dime, dime, dime.I aint stupid, you dont have to tell me, Burny says.He pads out of the office and through Miss Vilass cubicle. When he moves out into the lobby, he can see the flashing light bars on the tops of two police cars rolling down the far side of the hedge. They come to a halt not far from where he first put his hand around Tyler Marsh alls slender boy-neck. Burny scoots along a little faster. When he reaches the commencement of the Daisy corridor, two baby-faced policemen burst through the opening in the hedge.Down the hallway, Butch Yerxa is standing up and rubbing his face. He stares at Burnside and says, What happened?Get out there, Burny says. Take em to the office. Maxtons hurt.Hurt? Incapable of movement, Butch is gape at Burnsides bloody clothes and dripping hands.GoButch stumbles forward, and the two young policemen charge in through the big glass door, from which Rebecca Vilass identity card has been removed. The office Butch yells, pointing to his right. The boss is hurtWhile Yerxa indicates the office door by jabbing his hand at the wall, Charles Burnside scuttles past him. A moment later, he has entered the Daisy wing mens room and is hotfooting it toward one of the stalls.And what of diddly Sawyer? We already know. That is, we know he fell torpid in a receptive place between the edge of a cornfi eld and a hill on the western side of Norway Valley. We know that his body grew lighter, less substantial, cloudy. That it grew vague and translucent. We can suppose that before his body win transparency, jackfruit tree entered a certain nourishing dream. And in that dream, we may suppose, a sky of robins egg blue suggests an infinity of space to the inhabitants of a prominent residential property on Roxbury Drive, Beverly Hills, wherein tary is six, six, six, or twelve, twelve, twelve, or both at the same time, and Daddy played cool changes on his horn, horn, horn. (Darn That Dream, Henry Shake could tell you, is the last song on Daddy Plays the Horn, by Dexter Gordon a daddy-o if there ever was.) In that dream, everyone went on a journey and no one went anywhere else, and a traveling boy captured a most marvelous prize, and Lily Cavanaugh Sawyer captured a bumblebee in a glass. Smiling, she carried it to the swinging doors and launched it into the upper air. So the bumblebee traveled far and away to Faraway, and as it journeyed worlds upon worlds on their opaque courses trembled and swayed, and Jack, too, journeyed on his own mysterious course into the infinite robins-egg blue and, in the bees accurate wake, returned to the Territories, where he lay sleeping in a silent field. So in that same darned dream, Jack Sawyer, a person younger than twelve and older than thirty, stunned by both grief and love, is visited in his sleep by a certain woman of tender regard. And she lies down beside him on his bed of sweet grass and takes him in her arms and his grateful body knows the bliss of her touch, her kiss, her deep blessing. What they do, alone in the faraway Territories, is none of our business, but we conglomerate Sophies blessing with our own and leave them to what is after all, with the gentlest possible urgency, their business, which blesses this boy and this girl, this man and this woman, this dear couple, as nothing else can, certainly not us.Return comes as it should, with the clean, rich smells of topsoil and corn, and a roosters alarm-clock gasconade from the Gilbertson cousins farm. A spiderweb shining with dew stitches the rat on Jacks left foot to a mossy rock. An ant trundling across Jacks right wrist carries a blade of grass bearing in the V of its central fold a bright and trembling drop of newly made water. Feeling as wondrously refreshed as if he, too, were newly created, Jack eases the hardworking ant off his wrist, separates his shoe from the spiderweb, and gets to his feet. Dew sparkles in his hair and his eyebrows. Half a mile back across the field, Henrys meadow curves around Henrys house. tiger lilies shiver in the cool morning breeze.Tiger lilies shiver . . .When he sees the hood of his pickup nosing out from behind the house, everything comes back to him. Mouse, and the word given him by Mouse. Henrys house, Henrys studio, his dying message. By this time, all the police and investigators will have gone, a nd the house will be empty, echoing with bloodstains. Dale Gilbertson and probably Troopers Brown and Black will be looking for him. Jack has no interest in the troopers, but he does want to talk to Dale. It is time to let Dale in on some startling facts. What Jack has to say to Dale is going to peel his eyelids back, but we should remember what the Duke told Dean Martin about the whisking of testicle and the making of omelettes. In the words of Lily Cavanaugh, when the Duke spoke up, ever-dang-body lissened up, and so must Dale Gilbertson, for Jack wants his faithful and resolute company on the journey through Black House.Walking past the side of Henrys house, Jack puts the tips of his fingers to his lips and brushes them against the wood, transferring the kiss. Henry. For all the worlds, for Tyler Marshall, for Judy, for Sophie, and for you, Henry Leyden.The carrell phone in the cab of the Ram claims to have three rescue messages, all from Dale, which he deletes unheard. At h ome, the answering machines red light blinking chickweed 4-4-4, repeating itself with the ruthless insistence of a hungry infant. Jack pushes PLAYBACK. quadruple times, an increasingly unhappy Dale Gilbertson begs to know the whereabouts of his friend Jack Sawyer and communicates his striking desire to converse with the same gentleman, largely in reference to the murder of his uncle and their friend, Henry, but it wouldnt hurt to talk about the goddamn slaughter at Maxtons, would it? And does the name Charles Burnside ring any bells?Jack looks at his watch and, thinking that it cannot be correct, glances up at the clock in his kitchen. His watch was right after all. It is 542 A.M., and the rooster is still crowing behind Randy and Kent Gilbert-sons barn. Tiredness suddenly washes through him, heavier than gravity. Someone is doubtlessly manning the telephone on Sumner Street, but Dale is just as certainly asleep in his bed, and Jack wishes to speak only to Dale. He yawns enormous ly, like a cat. The newspaper hasnt even been delivered yetHe removes his jacket and tosses it onto a chair, then yawns again, even more widely than before. Maybe that cornfield was not so comfortable after all Jacks neck feels pinched, and his back aches. He pulls himself up the staircase, shucks his clothes onto a love seat in his bedroom, and flops into bed. On the wall above the love seat hangs his sunny little Fairfield Porter video, and Jack remembers how Dale responded to it, the night they uncrated and put up all the paintings. He had love that picture the moment he saw it it had probably been news to Dale that he could find such satisfaction in a painting. All right,Jack thinks, if we manage to get out of Black House alive, Ill give it to him. And Ill make him take it Ill threaten to chop it up and burn it in the wood-stove if he doesnt. Ill tell him Ill give it to Wendell GreenHis eyes are already stopping point he sinks into the bedclothes and disappears, although this time not literally, from our world. He dreams.He walks down a tricky, descending forest path toward a burning building. Beasts and monsters worm and bellow on both sides, mostly unseen but now and then flicking out a gnarled hand, a spiky tail, a black, skeletal wing. These he severs with a heavy sword. His arm aches, and his entire body feels weary and sore. Somewhere he is bleeding, but he cannot see or feel the wound, merely the slow movement of blood running down the backs of his legs. The people who were with him at the start of his journey are all dead, and he is he may be dying. He wishes he were not so alone, for he is terrified.The burning building grows taller and taller as he approaches. Screams and cries come from it, and around it lies a grotesque perimeter of dead, blackened trees and smoking ashes. This perimeter widens with every second, as if the building is devouring all of nature, one foot at a time. Everything is lost, and the burning building and the soulles s creature who is both its master and its prisoner will triumph, blasted world without end, amen. Din-tah, the great furnace, eating all in its path.The trees on his right side bend and contort their complain branches, and a great stirring takes place in the dark, sharply pointed leaves. Groaning, the huge trunks bow, and the branches twine like snakes about one another, bringing into being a solid wall of gray, pointed leaves. From that wall emerges, with terrible slowness, the impression of a gaunt, bony face. Five feet tall from crown to chin, the face bulges out against the layer of leaves, weaving from side to side in search of Jack.It is everything that has ever terrified him, injured him, wished him ill, either in this world or the Territories. The huge face vaguely resembles a human monster named Elroy who once tried to snipe Jack in a wretched bar called the Oatley Tap, then it suggests Morgan of Orris, then Sunlight Gardener, then Charles Burnside, but as it continues its blind seeking from side to side, it suggests all of these malign faces layered on top of one another and melting into one. Utter fear turns Jack to stone.The face bulging out of the massed leaves searches the downward path, then swings back and ceases its constant, flickering movement from side to side. It is pointed right off at him. The blind eyes see him, the nose without nostrils smells him. A pose of pleasure runs through the leaves, and the face looms forward, getting larger and larger. Unable to move, Jack looks back over his shoulder to see a putrefying man prop himself up in a narrow bed. The man opens his mouth and shouts, DYAMBA totality thrashing in his chest, a shout dying before it leaves his throat, Jack vaults from his bed and lands on his feet before he quite realizes that he has awaken from a dream. His entire body seems to be trembling. Sweat runs down his forehead and dampens his chest. Gradually, the trembling ceases as he takes in what is really around him not a giant face looming from an ugly wall of leaves but the familiar confines of his bedroom. Hanging on the wall opposite is a painting he intends to give to Dale Gilbertson. He wipes his face, he calms down. He needs a shower. His watch tells him that it is now 947 A.M. He has slept four hours, and it is time to get organized.Forty-five minutes later, cleaned up, dressed, and fed, Jack calls the police station and asks to speak to Chief Gilbertson. At 1125, he and a dubious, newly amend Dale a Dale who badly wants to see some evidence of his friends crazy tale leave the chiefs car parked beneath the single tree in the Sand Bars lot and walk across the hot asphalt past two leaning Harleys and toward the rear entrance.