Black House (Page 125)

"Bring him out!" Wendell bawls. The raw strength in his voice surprises, then thrills him "Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman!"

The sound of other voices joining in with his provides an incredible rush. It is, as his old college roommate used to say, a real zipper buster.

Wendell takes a step forward, his chest swelling, his cheeks reddening, his confidence building. He’s vaguely aware that the Action News Five truck is rolling slowly toward him through the crowd. Soon there will be 10-k’s and 5-k’s shining through the fog; soon there will be TV cameras rolling tape by their harsh light. So what? If the woman in the blood-spattered sweatshirt was in the end too chicken to stand up for her own kid, Wendell will do it for her! Wendell Green, shining exemplar of civic responsibility! Wendell Green, leader of the people!

He begins to pump his camera up and down. It’s exhilarating. Like being back in college! At a Skynyrd concert! Stoned! It’s like —

There is a huge flash in front of Wendell Green’s eyes. Then the lights go out. All of them.

"ARNIE HIT HIM WITH HIS FLASHLIGHT!" Bobby is screaming.

He grabs Dale’s blind uncle by the shoulders and whirls him in a delirious circle. A thick aroma of Aqua Velva descends toward Henry, who knows Bobby’s going to kiss him on both cheeks, French style, a second before Bobby actually does this. And when Bobby’s narration resumes, he sounds as transported as George Rathbun on those rare occasions when the local sports teams actually buck the odds and grab the gold.

"Can you believe it, the Mad Hungarian hit him with his ever-lovin’ flashlight and . . . GREEN’S DOWN! THE FUCKIN’ HUNGARIAN HAS PUT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE ASSHOLE REPORTER ON THE MAT! WAY TO GO, HRABOWSKI!"

All around them, cops are cheering at the tops of their lungs. Debbi Anderson starts chanting "We Are the Champions," and other voices quickly lend support.

These are strange days in French Landing, Henry thinks. He stands with his hands in his pockets, smiling, listening to the bedlam. There’s no lie in the smile; he’s happy. But he’s also uneasy in his heart. Afraid for Jack.

Afraid for all of them, really.

"That was good work, man," Beezer tells Jack. "I mean, balls to the wall."

Jack nods. "Thanks."

"I’m not going to ask you again if that was the guy. You say he’s not, he’s not. But anything we can do to help you find the right one, you just call us."

The other members of the Thunder Five rumble assent; Kaiser Bill gives Jack a friendly bop on the shoulder. It will probably leave a bruise.

"Thanks," Jack says again.

Before he can knock on the door, it’s opened. Dale grabs him and gives him a crushing embrace. When their chests touch, Jack can feel Dale’s heart beating hard and fast.

"You saved my ass," Dale says into his ear. "Anything I can do — "

"You can do something, all right," Jack says, pulling him inside. "I saw another cop car behind the news trucks. Couldn’t tell for sure, but I think this one was blue."

"Oh-oh," Dale says.

"Oh-oh is right. I need at least twenty minutes with Potter. It might not get us anything, but it might get us a lot. Can you hold off Brown and Black for twenty minutes?"

Dale gives his friend a grim little smile. "I’ll see you get half an hour. Minimum."

"That’s great. And the 911 tape of the Fisherman’s call, do you still have that?"

"It went with the rest of the evidence we were holding after Brown and Black took the case. A trooper picked it up this afternoon."

"Dale, no!"

"Easy, big boy. I’ve got a cassette copy, safe in my desk."

Jack pats his chest. "Don’t scare me that way."

"Sorry," Dale says, thinking, Seeing you out there, I wouldn’t have guessed you were afraid of anything.

Halfway up the stairs, Jack remembers Speedy telling him he could use what had been left in the bathroom twice . . . but he has given the flowers to Tansy Freneau. Shit. Then he cups his hands over his nose, inhales, and smiles.

Maybe he still has them after all.

17

GEORGE POTTER is sitting on the bunk in the third holding cell down a short corridor that smells of piss and disinfectant. He’s looking out the window at the parking lot, which has lately been the scene of so much excitement and which is still full of milling people. He doesn’t turn at the sound of Jack’s approaching footfalls.

As he walks, Jack passes two signs. ONE CALL MEANS ONE CALL, reads the first. A.A. MEETINGS MON. AT 7 P.M., N.A. MEETINGS THURS. AT 8 P.M., reads the second. There’s a dusty drinking fountain and an ancient fire extinguisher, which some wit has labeled LAUGHING GAS.

Jack reaches the bars of the cell and raps on one with his house key. Potter at last turns away from the window. Jack, still in that state of hyperawareness that he now recognizes as a kind of Territorial residue, knows the essential truth of the man at a single look. It’s in the sunken eyes and the dark hollows beneath them; it’s in the sallow cheeks and the slightly hollowed temples with their delicate nestles of veins; it’s in the too sharp prominence of the nose.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," he says. "I want to talk to you, and we have to make it fast."

"They wanted me," Potter remarks.

"Yes."

"Maybe you should have let ’em take me. Another three-four months, I’m out of the race anyway."

In his breast pocket is the Mag-card Dale has given him, and Jack uses it to unlock the cell door. There’s a harsh buzzing as it trundles back on its short track. When Jack removes the key, the buzzing stops. Downstairs in the ready room, an amber light marked H.C. 3 will now be glowing.