Black House (Page 124)

The crowd falls silent. Only Tansy, lost in the world Gorg has made for her, continues to chant: "Bring him out! Give us the killer!" She doesn’t stop until Jack is directly in front of her, and he doesn’t kid himself that it’s his handsome face or dashing figure that ends the too loud repetition. It is the smell of the flowers, their sweet and vibrant smell the exact opposite of the meaty stench that hung over Ed’s Eats.

Her eyes clear . . . a little, at least.

"Bring him out," she says to Jack. Almost a question.

"No," he says, and the word is filled with heartbreaking tenderness. "No, dear."

Behind them, Doodles Sanger suddenly thinks of her father for the first time in maybe twenty years and begins to weep.

"Bring him out," Tansy pleads. Now her own eyes are filling. "Bring out the monster who killed my pretty baby."

"If I had him, maybe I would," Jack says. "Maybe I would at that." Although he knows better. "But the guy we’ve got’s not the guy you want. He’s not the one."

"But Gorg said — "

Here is a word he knows. One of the words Judy Marshall tried to eat. Jack, not in the Territories but not entirely in this world right now either, reaches forward and plucks the feather from her belt. "Did Gorg give you this?"

"Yes — "

Jack lets it drop, then steps on it. For a moment he thinks — knows — that he feels it buzzing angrily beneath the sole of his shoe, like a half-crushed wasp. Then it stills. "Gorg lies, Tansy. Whatever Gorg is, he lies. The man in there is not the one."

Tansy lets out a great wail and drops the rope. Behind her, the crowd sighs.

Jack puts his arm around her and again he thinks of George Potter’s painful dignity; he thinks of all the lost, struggling along without a single clean Territories dawn to light their way. He hugs her to him, smelling sweat and grief and madness and coffee brandy.

In her ear, Jack whispers: "I’ll catch him for you, Tansy."

She stiffens. "You . . ."

"Yes."

"You . . . promise?"

"Yes."

"He’s not the one?"

"No, dear."

"You swear?"

Jack hands her the lilies and says, "On my mother’s name."

She lowers her nose to the flowers and inhales deeply. When her head comes up again, Jack sees that the danger has left her, but not the insanity. She’s one of the lost ones now. Something has gotten to her. Maybe if the Fisherman is caught, it will leave her. Jack would like to believe that.

"Someone needs to take this lady home," Jack says. He speaks in a mild, conversational voice, but it still carries to the crowd. "She’s very tired and full of sadness."

"I’ll do it," Doodles says. Her cheeks gleam with tears. "I’ll take her in Teddy’s truck, and if he don’t give me the keys, I’ll knock him down. I — "

And that’s when the chant starts again, this time from back in the crowd: "Bring him out! Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman! Bring out the Fisherman!" For a moment it’s a solo job, and then a few other hesitant voices begin to join in and lend harmony.

Still standing with his back against the bricks, Beezer St. Pierre says: "Ah, shit. Here we go again."

Jack forbade Dale to come out into the parking lot with him, saying that the sight of Dale’s uniform might set off the crowd. He didn’t mention the little bouquet of flowers he was holding, and Dale barely noticed them; he was too terrified of losing Potter to Wisconsin’s first lynching of the new millennium. He followed Jack downstairs, however, and has now commandeered the peephole in the door by right of seniority.

The rest of the FLPD is still upstairs, looking out of the ready-room windows. Henry has ordered Bobby Dulac to give him a running play-by-play. Even in his current state of worry about Jack (Henry thinks there’s at least a 40 percent chance the mob will either trample him or tear him apart), Henry is amused and flattered to realize that Bobby is doing George Rathbun without even realizing it.

"Okay, Hollywood’s out there . . . he approaches the woman . . . no sign of fear . . . the rest of them are quiet . . . Jack and the woman appear to be talking . . . and holy jeezum, he’s givin’ her a bouquet of flowers! What a ploy!"

"Ploy" is one of George Rathbun’s favorite sports terms, as in The Brew Crew’s hit-and-run ploy failed yet again last night at Miller Park.

"She’s turnin’ away!" Bobby yells jubilantly. He grabs Henry’s shoulder and shakes it. "Hot damn, I think it’s over! I think Jack turned her off!"

"Even a blind man could see he turned her off," Henry says.

"Just in time, too," Bobby says. "Here’s Channel Five and there’s another truck with one of those big orange poles on it . . . Fox-Milwaukee, I think . . . and — "

"Bring him out!" a voice outside begins yelling. It sounds cheated and indignant. "Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman!"

"Oh nooo!" Bobby says, even now sounding like George Rathbun, telling his morning-after audience how another Badger rally had started to fizzle. "Not nowwww, not with the TV here! That’s — "

"Bring out the Fisherman!"

Henry already knows who that is. Even through two layers of chicken-wire-reinforced glass, that high, yapping cry is impossible to mistake.

Wendell Green understands his job — don’t ever make the mistake of thinking he doesn’t. His job is to report the news, to analyze the news, to sometimes photojournalize the news. His job is not to make the news. But tonight he can’t help it. This is the second time in the last twelve hours that a career maker of a story has been extended to his grasping, pleading hands, only to be snatched away at the last second.