Black House

And, after another moment, Young and Heavyset put the tire iron down.

Fred wasn’t aware that a crowd had gathered until he heard the spontaneous applause from perhaps thirty onlookers. He joined in, never more proud of her than he was at that moment. And for the first time, Judy looked startled. She hung in there, though, startled or not. She got the two of them together, tugging Mr. Middle-Aged Suit forward by one arm, and actually hectored them into shaking hands. By the time the cops arrived, Young and Heavyset and Mr. Middle-Aged Suit were sitting side by side on the curb, studying each other’s insurance papers. Case closed.

Fred and Judy walked on toward the campus, holding hands again. For two blocks Fred didn’t speak. Was he in awe of her? He supposes now that he was. At last he said: That was amazing.

She gave him an uncomfortable little look, an uncomfortable little smile. No it wasn’t, she said. If you want to call it something, call it good citizenship. I could see that guy getting ready to send himself to jail. I didn’t want that to happen. Or the other guy to be hurt.

Yet she said that last almost as an afterthought, and Fred for the first time sensed not only her courage but her unflinching Viking’s heart. She was on the side of Young and Heavyset because . . . well, because the other fellow had been afraid.

Weren’t you worried, though? he asked her. He had still been so stunned by what he’d seen that it hadn’t crossed his mind — yet — to think he should be a little ashamed; after all, it was his girlfriend who’d stepped in instead of him, and that wasn’t the Gospel According to Hollywood. Weren’t you afraid that in the heat of the moment the guy with the tire iron would take a swing at you?

Judy’s eyes had grown puzzled. It never crossed my mind, she said.

Camelot eventually debouches into Chase Street, where there is a pleasant little gleam of the Mississippi on clear days like this one, but Fred doesn’t go that far. He turns at the top of Liberty Heights and starts back the way he came, his shirt now soaked with sweat. Usually the run makes him feel better, but not today, at least not yet. The fearless Judy of that afternoon on the corner of State and Gorham is so unlike the shifty-eyed, sometimes disconnected Judy who now lives in his house — the nap-taking, hand-wringing Judy — that Fred has actually spoken to Pat Skarda about it. Yesterday, this was, when the doc was in Goltz’s, looking at riding lawn mowers.

Fred had shown him a couple, a Deere and a Honda, inquired after his family, and then asked (casually, he hoped), Hey, Doc, tell me something — do you think it’s possible for a person to just go crazy? Without any warning, like?

Skarda had given him a sharper look than Fred had really liked. Are we talking about an adult or an adolescent, Fred?

Well, we’re not talking about anyone, actually. Big, hearty laugh — unconvincing to Fred’s own ears, and judging from Pat Skarda’s look, not very convincing to him, either. Not anyone real, anyway. But as a hypothetical case, let’s say an adult.

Skarda had thought about it, then shook his head. There are few absolutes in medicine, even fewer in psychiatric medicine. That said, I have to tell you that I think it’s very unlikely for a person to "just go crazy." It may be a fairly rapid process, but it is a process. We hear people say "So-and-so snapped," but that’s rarely the case. Mental dysfunction — neurotic or psychotic behavior  — takes time to develop, and there are usually signs. How’s your mom these days, Fred?

Mom? Oh hey, she’s fine. Right in the pink.

And Judy?

It had taken him a moment to get a smile started, but once he did, he managed a big one. Big and guileless. Judy? She’s in the pink, too, Doc. Of course she is. Steady as she goes.

Sure. Steady as she goes. Just showing a few signs, that was all.

Maybe they’ll pass, he thinks. Those good old endorphins are finally kicking in, and all at once this seems plausible. Optimism is a more normal state for Fred, who does not believe in slippage, and a little smile breaks on his face — the day’s first. Maybe the signs will pass. Maybe whatever’s wrong with her will blow out as fast as it blew in. Maybe it’s even, you know, a menstrual thing. Like PMS.

God, if that was all it was, what a relief ! In the meantime, there’s Ty to think about. He has to have a talk with Tyler about the buddy system, because while Fred doesn’t believe what Wendell Green is apparently trying to insinuate, that the ghost of a fabulous turn-of-the-century cannibal and all-around boogerman named Albert Fish has for some reason turned up here in Coulee Country, someone is certainly out there, and this someone has murdered two little children and done unspeakable (at least unless you’re Wendell Green, it seems) things to the bodies.

Thighs, torso, and bu**ocks bitten, Fred thinks, and runs faster, although now he’s getting a stitch in his side. Yet this bears repeating: he does not believe that these horrors can actually touch his son, nor does he see how they can have caused Judy’s condition, since her oddities started while Amy St. Pierre was still alive, Johnny Irkenham too, both of them presumably playing happily in their respective backyards.

Maybe this, maybe that . . . but enough of Fred and his worries, all right? Let us rise from the environs of his troubled head and precede him back to No. 16, Robin Hood Lane — let’s go directly to the source of his troubles.

The upstairs window of the connubial bedroom is open, and the screen is certainly no problem; we strain ourselves right through, entering with the breeze and the first sounds of the awakening day.

The sounds of French Landing awakening do not awaken Judy Marshall. Nope, she has been starey-eyed since three, conning the shadows for she doesn’t know what, fleeing dreams too horrible to remember. Yet she does remember some things, little as she wants to.