Black House (Page 180)

Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg.

"You’re no better’n — " Henry begins, and then, all at once, another line comes to him.

"Lady Magowan’s Nightmare." That one’s good.

A bad nightmare of what? Vips in hell? Chenz in Shayol? Mung-ghees on sticks?

"My God," Henry says softly. "Oh . . . my . . . God. The dance. He was at the dance."

Now it all begins to fall into place. How stupid they have been! How criminally stupid! The boy’s bike . . . it had been right there. Right there, for Christ’s sake! They were all blind men, make them all umps.

"But he was so old," Henry whispers. "And senile! How were we supposed to guess such a man could be the Fisherman?"

Other questions follow this one. If the Fisherman is a resident at Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in God’s name could he have stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French Landing? Does he have a car somewhere?

"Doesn’t matter," Henry murmurs. "Not now, anyway. Who is he and where is he? Those are the things that matter."

The warmth on his face — his mind’s first effort to locate the Fisherman’s voice in time and place — had been the spotlight, of course, Symphonic Stan’s spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman, some nice old woman —

Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?

— had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together —

I was here first, old woman.

— had interrupted. Flat . . . and hard . . . and with that faint Germanic harshness that said South Side Chicago, probably second or even third generation. Not vass here first, not old vumman, but those telltale v’s had been lurking, hadn’t they? Ah yes.

"Mung-ghee," Henry says, looking straight ahead. Looking straight at Charles Burnside, had he only known it. "Stigg. Havv-us-ted. Hasta la vista . . . baby."

Was that what it came down to, in the end? A dotty old maniac who sounded a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Who was the woman? If he can remember her name, he can call Jack . . . or Dale, if Jack’s still not answering his phone . . . and put an end to French Landing’s bad dream.

Lady Magowan’s Nightmare. That one’s good.

"Nightmare," Henry says, then adjusting his voice: "Nahht-mare." Once again the mimicry is good. Certainly too good for the old codger standing outside the studio door. He is now scowling bitterly and gnashing the hedge clippers in front of the glass. How can the blindman in there sound so much like him? It’s not right; it’s completely improper. The old monster longs to cut the vocal cords right out of Henry Leyden’s throat. Soon, he promises himself, he will do that.

And eat them.

Sitting in the swivel chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the gleaming oak in front of him, Henry recalls the brief encounter at the bandstand. Not long into the Strawberry Fest dance, this had been.

Tell me your name and what you’d like to hear.

I am Alice Weathers, and — . "Moonglow," please. By Benny Goodman.

"Alice Weathers," Henry says. "That was her name, and if she doesn’t know your name, my homicidal friend, then I’m a monkey on a stick."

He starts to get up, and that is when someone — something — begins to knock, very softly, on the glass upper half of the door.

Bear Girl has drawn close, almost against her will, and now she, Jack, Doc, and the Beez are gathered around the sofa. Mouse has sunk halfway into it. He looks like a person dying badly in quicksand.

Well, Jack thinks, there’s no quicksand, but he’s dying badly, all right. Guess there’s no question about that.

"Listen up," Mouse tells them. The black goo is forming at the corners of his eyes again. Worse, it’s trickling from the corners of his mouth. The stench of decay is stronger than ever as Mouse’s inner workings give up the struggle. Jack is frankly amazed that they’ve lasted as long as they have.

"You talk," Beezer says. "We’ll listen."

Mouse looks at Doc. "When I finish, give me the fireworks. The Cadillac dope. Understand?"

"You want to get out ahead of whatever it is you’ve got."

Mouse nods.

"I’m down with that," Doc agrees. "You’ll go out with a smile on your face."

"Doubt that, bro, but I’ll give it a try."

Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. "When it’s done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents that’re in the garage. Stick me in the tub. I’m betting that by midnight, you’ll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. I’d be careful, though. Don’t . . . touch what’s left."

Bear Girl bursts into tears.

"Don’t cry, darlin’," Mouse says. "I’m gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?"

"Right here, buddy."

"You have a little service for me. Okay? Read a poem . . . the one by Auden . . . the one that always used to frost your balls . . ."

" ‘Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose,’ " Beezer says. He’s crying. "You got it, Mousie."

"Play some Dead . . . ‘Ripple,’ maybe . . . and make sure you’re full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there won’t . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can."

Jack laughs at that. He can’t help it. And this time it’s his turn to catch the full force of Mouse’s crimson eyes.

"Promise me you’ll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop."

"Mouse, I’m not sure I can do that."

"You gotta. Go out there tonight, you won’t have to worry about the devil dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . ." The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouse’s beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. "The other things in those woods will eat you like candy."