Black House

— Well, Dale had said, if you don’t come down here, Fred Marshall is going to show up at your house, that’s what’ll happen. I can’t put the guy on a leash, and I’m not going to lock him up just to keep him away from you. On top of everything else, we need you here, Jack.

— All right, Dale had said. I know you’re not making any promises. But you know what you should do.

Would these conversations have been enough to get him into his pickup and on the road to Sumner Street? Very likely, Jack imagines, which renders the third factor, the secret, barely acknowledged one, inconsequential. It means nothing. A silly attack of nerves, a buildup of anxiety, completely natural under the circumstances. The kind of thing that could happen to anybody. He felt like getting out of the house, so what? No one could accuse him of escaping. He was traveling toward, not running away from, that which he most wanted to escape — the dark undertow of the Fisherman’s crimes. Neither was he committing himself to any deeper involvement. A friend of Dale’s and the father of a child apparently missing, this Fred Marshall, insisted on talking to him; fine, let him talk. If half an hour with a retired detective could help Fred Marshall get a handle on his problems, the retired detective was willing to give him the time.

Everything else was merely personal. Waking dreams and robins’ eggs messed with your mind, but that was merely personal. It could be out-waited, outwitted, figured out. No rational person took that stuff seriously: like a summer storm, it blew in, it blew out. Now, as he coasted through the green light at Centralia and noted, with a cop’s reflexive awareness, the row of Harleys lined up in the Sand Bar’s parking lot, he felt himself coming into alignment with the afternoon’s difficulties. It made perfect sense that he should have found himself unable — well, let us say unwilling — to open the refrigerator door. Nasty surprises made you think twice. A light in his living room had expired, and when he had gone to the drawer that contained half a dozen new halogen bulbs, he had been unable to open it. In fact, he had not quite been able to open any drawer, cabinet, or closet in his house, which had denied him the capacity to make a cup of tea, change his clothes, prepare lunch, or do anything but leaf half heartedly through books and watch television. When the flap of the mailbox had threatened to conceal a pyramid of small blue eggs, he had decided to put off collecting the mail until the next day. Anyhow, all he ever got were financial statements, magazines, and junk mail.

Let’s not make it sound worse than it was, Jack says to himself. I could have opened every door, drawer, and cabinet in the place, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t afraid that robins’ eggs were going to come spilling out of the refrigerator or the closet — it’s just that I didn’t want to take the chance of finding one of the blasted things. Show me a psychiatrist who says that’s neurotic, and I’ll show you a moron who doesn’t understand psychology. All the old-timers used to tell me that working homicide messed with your head. Hell, that’s why I retired in the first place!

What was I supposed to do, stay on the force until I ate my gun? You’re a smart guy, Henry Leyden, and I love you, but there are some things you don’t GET!

All right, he was going to Sumner Street. Everybody was yelling at him to do something, and that’s what he was doing. He’d say hello to Dale, greet the boys, sit down with this Fred Marshall, the solid citizen with a missing son, and give him the usual oatmeal about everything possible being done, blah blah, the FBI is working hand in glove with us on this one, and the bureau has the finest investigators in the world. That oatmeal. As far as Jack was concerned, his primary duty was to stroke Fred Marshall’s fur, as if to soothe the feelings of an injured cat; when Marshall had calmed down, Jack’s supposed obligation to the community — an obligation that existed entirely in the minds of others — would be fulfilled, freeing him to go back to the privacy he had earned. If Dale didn’t like it, he could take a running jump into the Mississippi; if Henry didn’t like it, Jack would refuse to read Bleak House and force him to listen instead to Lawrence Welk, Vaughn Monroe, or something equally excruciating. Bad Dixieland. Years ago, someone had given Jack a CD called Fats Manassas & His Muskrat All Stars Stompin’ the Ramble. Thirty seconds of Fats Manassas, and Henry would be begging for mercy.

This image makes Jack feel comfortable enough to prove that his hesitation before cupboards and drawers had been merely a temporary unwillingness, not phobic inability. Even while his attention was elsewhere, as it chiefly was, the shoved-in ashtray below the dash has mocked and taunted him since he first climbed into the pickup. A kind of sinister suggestiveness, an aura of latent malice, surrounds the ashtray’s flat little panel.

Does he fear that a small blue egg lurks behind the little panel?

Of course not. Nothing is in there but air and molded black plastic.

In that case, he can pull it out.

The buildings on the outskirts of French Landing glide past the pickup’s windows. Jack has reached almost the exact point at which Henry pulled the plug on Dirtysperm. Obviously he can open the ashtray. Nothing could be simpler. You just get your fingers under there and tug. Easiest thing in the world. He extends a hand. Before his fingers touch the panel, he snatches the hand back. Drops of perspiration glide down his forehead and lodge in his eyebrows.

"It isn’t a big deal," he says aloud. "You got some kind of problem here, Jacky-boy?"

Again, he extends his hand to the ashtray. Abruptly aware that he is paying more attention to the bottom of his dashboard than to the road, he glances up and cuts his speed by half. He refuses to hit his brakes. It’s just an ashtray, for God’s sake. His fingers meet the panel, then curl under its lip. Jack glances at the road once more. Then, with the decisivesness of a nurse ripping a strip of tape off a patient’s hairy abdomen, he yanks out the sliding tray. The lighter attachment, which he had unknowingly dislodged in his driveway that morning, bounces three inches into the air, greatly resembling, to Jack’s appalled eye, a flying black-and-silver egg.