Black House (Page 183)
- Page 1
- Page 1
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 2
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 3
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 4
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 5
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 6
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 7
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 8
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 9
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 10
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 11
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 12
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 13
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 14
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 15
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 16
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 17
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 18
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 19
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 20
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 21
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 22
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 23
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 24
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 25
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 26
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 27
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 28
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 29
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 30
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 117
- Page 118
- Page 118
- Page 119
- Page 119
- Page 120
- Page 120
- Page 121
- Page 121
- Page 122
- Page 122
- Page 123
- Page 123
- Page 124
- Page 124
- Page 125
- Page 125
- Page 126
- Page 126
- Page 127
- Page 127
- Page 128
- Page 128
- Page 129
- Page 129
- Page 130
- Page 130
- Page 131
- Page 131
- Page 132
- Page 132
- Page 133
- Page 133
- Page 134
- Page 134
- Page 135
- Page 135
- Page 136
- Page 136
- Page 137
- Page 137
- Page 138
- Page 138
- Page 139
- Page 139
- Page 140
- Page 140
- Page 141
- Page 141
- Page 142
- Page 142
- Page 143
- Page 143
- Page 144
- Page 144
- Page 145
- Page 145
- Page 146
- Page 146
- Page 147
- Page 147
- Page 148
- Page 148
- Page 149
- Page 149
- Page 150
- Page 150
- Page 151
- Page 151
- Page 152
- Page 152
- Page 153
- Page 153
- Page 154
- Page 154
- Page 155
- Page 155
- Page 156
- Page 156
- Page 157
- Page 157
- Page 158
- Page 158
- Page 159
- Page 159
- Page 160
- Page 160
- Page 161
- Page 161
- Page 162
- Page 162
- Page 163
- Page 163
- Page 164
- Page 164
- Page 165
- Page 165
- Page 166
- Page 166
- Page 167
- Page 167
- Page 168
- Page 168
- Page 169
- Page 169
- Page 170
- Page 170
- Page 171
- Page 171
- Page 172
- Page 172
- Page 173
- Page 173
- Page 174
- Page 174
- Page 175
- Page 175
- Page 176
- Page 176
- Page 177
- Page 177
- Page 178
- Page 178
- Page 179
- Page 179
- Page 180
- Page 180
- Page 181
- Page 181
- Page 182
- Page 182
- Page 183
- Page 183
- Page 184
- Page 184
- Page 185
- Page 185
- Page 186
- Page 186
- Page 187
- Page 187
- Page 188
- Page 188
- Page 189
- Page 189
- Page 190
- Page 190
- Page 191
- Page 191
- Page 192
- Page 192
- Page 193
- Page 193
- Page 194
- Page 194
- Page 195
- Page 195
- Page 196
- Page 196
- Page 197
- Page 197
- Page 198
- Page 198
- Page 199
- Page 199
- Page 200
- Page 200
- Page 201
- Page 201
- Page 202
- Page 202
- Page 203
- Page 203
- Page 204
- Page 204
- Page 205
- Page 205
- Page 206
- Page 206
- Page 207
- Page 207
- Page 208
- Page 208
- Page 209
- Page 209
- Page 210
- Page 210
- Page 211
- Page 211
- Page 212
- Page 212
- Page 213
- Page 213
- Page 214
- Page 214
- Page 215
- Page 215
- Page 216
- Page 216
- Page 217
- Page 217
- Page 218
- Page 218
- Page 219
- Page 219
- Page 220
- Page 220
- Page 221
- Page 221
- Page 222
- Page 222
- Page 223
- Page 223
- Page 224
- Page 224
- Page 225
- Page 225
- Page 226
- Page 226
- Page 227
- Page 227
- Page 228
- Page 228
- Page 229
- Page 229
He hears the handle on the studio door revolve clockwise with a marvelous slowness. The door whispers open an inch, two inches, three. The floral, musky scent of My Sin invades the studio, seeming to coat a thin chemical film over the mike, the tape canisters, all the dials, and the back of Henry’s deliberately exposed neck. The sole of what sounds like a carpet slipper hushes over the floor. Henry tightens his hands on his weapons and waits for the particular sound that will be his signal. He hears another nearly soundless step, then another, and knows the Fisherman has moved behind him. He carries some weapon of his own, something that cuts through the mist of perfume with the grassy smell of front yards and the smoothness of machine oil. Henry cannot imagine what this is, but the movement of the air tells him it is heavier than a knife. Even a blind man can see that. An awkwardness in the way the Fisherman takes his next oh-so-quiet step suggests to Henry that the old fellow holds this weapon with both of his hands.
An image has formed in Henry’s mind, that of his adversary standing behind him poised to strike, and to this image he now adds extended, upraised arms. The hands hold an instrument like garden shears. Henry has his own weapons, the best of these being surprise, but the surprise must be well timed to be effective. In fact, if Henry is to avoid a quick and messy death, his timing has to be perfect. He lowers his neck farther over the desk and awaits the signal. His calm surprises him.
A man standing unobserved with an object like garden shears or a heavy pair of scissors in his hands behind a seated victim will, before delivering the blow, take a long second to arch his back and reach up, to get a maximum of strength into the downward stroke. As he extends his arms and arches his back, his clothing will shift on his body. Fabric will slide over flesh; one fabric may pull against another; a belt may creak. There will be an intake of breath. An ordinary person would hear few or none of these telltale disturbances, but Henry Leyden can be depended upon to hear them all.
Then at last he does. Cloth rubs against skin and rustles against itself; air hisses into Burny’s nasal passages. Instantly, Henry shoves his chair backward and in the same movement spins around and swings the award toward his assailant as he stands upright. It works! He feels the force of the blow run down his arm and hears a grunt of shock and pain. The odor of My Sin fills his nostrils. The chair bumps the top of his knees. Henry pushes the button on the switchblade, feels the long blade leap out, and thrusts it forward. The knife punches into flesh. From eight inches before his face comes a scream of outrage. Again, Henry batters the award against his attacker, then yanks the knife free and shoves it home again. Skinny arms tangle around his neck and shoulders, filling him with revulsion, and foul breath washes into his face.
He becomes aware that he has been injured, for a pain that is sharp on the surface and dull beneath announces itself on the left side of his back. The goddamn hedge clippers, he thinks and jabs again with the knife. This time, he stabs only empty air. A rough hand closes on his elbow, and another grips his shoulder. The hands pull him forward, and to keep upright he rests his knee on the seat of the chair. A long nose bangs against the bridge of his own nose and jars his sunglasses. What follows fills him with disgust: two rows of teeth like broken clamshells fasten on his left cheek and saw through the skin. Blood sluices down his face. The rows of teeth come together and rip away an oval wedge of Henry’s skin, and over the white jolt of pain, which is incredible, worse by far than the pain in his back, he can hear his blood spatter against the old monster’s face. Fear and revulsion, along with an amazing amount of adrenaline, give him the strength to lash out with the knife as he spins away from the man’s grip. The blade connects with some moving part of the Fisherman’s body — an arm, he thinks.
Before he can feel anything like satisfaction, he hears the sound of the hedge clippers slicing the air before they bite into his knife hand. It happens almost before he can take it in: the hedge clippers’ blades tear through his skin, snap the bones, and sever the last two fingers on his right hand.
And then, as if the hedge clippers were the Fisherman’s last contact with him, he is free. Henry’s foot finds the edge of the door, kicks it aside, and he propels his body through the open space. He lands on a floor so sticky his feet slide when he tries to get up. Can all of that blood be his?
The voice he had been studying in another age, another era, comes from the studio door. "You stabbed me, you asswipe moke."
Henry is not waiting around to listen; Henry is on the move, wishing he did not feel that he was leaving a clear, wide trail of blood behind him. Somehow, he seems to be drenched in the stuff, his shirt is sodden with it, and the back of his legs are wet. Blood continues to gush down his face, and in spite of the adrenaline, Henry can feel his energy dissipating. How much time does he have before he bleeds to death — twenty minutes?
He slides down the hallway and runs into the living room.
I’m not going to get out of this, Henry thinks. I’ve lost too much blood. But at least I can make it through the door and die outside, where the air is fresh.
From the hallway, the Fisherman’s voice reaches him. "I ate part of your cheek, and now I’m going to eat your fingers. Are you listening to me, you moke of an ass**le?"
Henry makes it to the door. His hand slips and slips on the knob; the knob resists him. He feels for the lock button, which has been depressed.
"I said, are you listening?" The Fisherman is coming closer, and his voice is full of rage.
All Henry has to do is push the button that unlocks the door and turn the knob. He could be out of the house in a second, but his remaining fingers will not obey orders. All right, I’m going to die, he says to himself. I’ll follow Rhoda, I’ll follow my Lark, my beautiful Lark.
- Page 1
- Page 1
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 2
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 3
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 4
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 5
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 6
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 7
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 8
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 9
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 10
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 11
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 12
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 13
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 14
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 15
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 16
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 17
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 18
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 19
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 20
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 21
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 22
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 23
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 24
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 25
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 26
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 27
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 28
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 29
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 30
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 117
- Page 118
- Page 118
- Page 119
- Page 119
- Page 120
- Page 120
- Page 121
- Page 121
- Page 122
- Page 122
- Page 123
- Page 123
- Page 124
- Page 124
- Page 125
- Page 125
- Page 126
- Page 126
- Page 127
- Page 127
- Page 128
- Page 128
- Page 129
- Page 129
- Page 130
- Page 130
- Page 131
- Page 131
- Page 132
- Page 132
- Page 133
- Page 133
- Page 134
- Page 134
- Page 135
- Page 135
- Page 136
- Page 136
- Page 137
- Page 137
- Page 138
- Page 138
- Page 139
- Page 139
- Page 140
- Page 140
- Page 141
- Page 141
- Page 142
- Page 142
- Page 143
- Page 143
- Page 144
- Page 144
- Page 145
- Page 145
- Page 146
- Page 146
- Page 147
- Page 147
- Page 148
- Page 148
- Page 149
- Page 149
- Page 150
- Page 150
- Page 151
- Page 151
- Page 152
- Page 152
- Page 153
- Page 153
- Page 154
- Page 154
- Page 155
- Page 155
- Page 156
- Page 156
- Page 157
- Page 157
- Page 158
- Page 158
- Page 159
- Page 159
- Page 160
- Page 160
- Page 161
- Page 161
- Page 162
- Page 162
- Page 163
- Page 163
- Page 164
- Page 164
- Page 165
- Page 165
- Page 166
- Page 166
- Page 167
- Page 167
- Page 168
- Page 168
- Page 169
- Page 169
- Page 170
- Page 170
- Page 171
- Page 171
- Page 172
- Page 172
- Page 173
- Page 173
- Page 174
- Page 174
- Page 175
- Page 175
- Page 176
- Page 176
- Page 177
- Page 177
- Page 178
- Page 178
- Page 179
- Page 179
- Page 180
- Page 180
- Page 181
- Page 181
- Page 182
- Page 182
- Page 183
- Page 183
- Page 184
- Page 184
- Page 185
- Page 185
- Page 186
- Page 186
- Page 187
- Page 187
- Page 188
- Page 188
- Page 189
- Page 189
- Page 190
- Page 190
- Page 191
- Page 191
- Page 192
- Page 192
- Page 193
- Page 193
- Page 194
- Page 194
- Page 195
- Page 195
- Page 196
- Page 196
- Page 197
- Page 197
- Page 198
- Page 198
- Page 199
- Page 199
- Page 200
- Page 200
- Page 201
- Page 201
- Page 202
- Page 202
- Page 203
- Page 203
- Page 204
- Page 204
- Page 205
- Page 205
- Page 206
- Page 206
- Page 207
- Page 207
- Page 208
- Page 208
- Page 209
- Page 209
- Page 210
- Page 210
- Page 211
- Page 211
- Page 212
- Page 212
- Page 213
- Page 213
- Page 214
- Page 214
- Page 215
- Page 215
- Page 216
- Page 216
- Page 217
- Page 217
- Page 218
- Page 218
- Page 219
- Page 219
- Page 220
- Page 220
- Page 221
- Page 221
- Page 222
- Page 222
- Page 223
- Page 223
- Page 224
- Page 224
- Page 225
- Page 225
- Page 226
- Page 226
- Page 227
- Page 227
- Page 228
- Page 228
- Page 229
- Page 229