Black House (Page 68)

Now the steaks, rare, are transported to the plates, the mushrooms arrayed around them, and the enormous wooden salad bowl installed on the center of the table. Henry pronounces the meal delicious, takes a sip of his wine, and says, "If you still won’t talk about your trouble, whatever it is, you’d better at least tell me what happened at the station. I suppose there’s very little doubt that another child was snatched."

"Next to none, I’m sorry to say. It’s a boy named Tyler Marshall. His father’s name is Fred Marshall, and he works out at Goltz’s. Do you know him?"

"Been a long time since I bought a combine," Henry says.

"The first thing that struck me was that Fred Marshall was a very nice guy," Jack says, and goes on to recount, in great detail and leaving nothing out, the evening’s events and revelations, except for one matter, that of his third, his unspoken, thought.

"You actually asked to visit Marshall’s wife? In the mental wing at French County Lutheran?"

"Yes, I did," Jack says. "I’m going there tomorrow."

"I don’t get it." Henry eats by hunting the food with his knife, spearing it with his fork, and measuring off a narrow strip of steak. "Why would you want to see the mother?"

"Because one way or another I think she’s involved," Jack says.

"Oh, come off it. The boy’s own mother?"

"I’m not saying she’s the Fisherman, because of course she isn’t. But according to her husband, Judy Marshall’s behavior started to change before Amy St. Pierre disappeared. She got worse and worse as the murders went on, and on the day her son vanished, she flipped out completely. Her husband had to have her committed."

"Wouldn’t you say she had an excellent reason to break down?"

"She flipped out before anyone told her about her son. Her husband thinks she has ESP! He said she saw the murders in advance, she knew the Fisherman was on the way. And she knew her son was gone before they found the bike — when Fred Marshall came home, he found her tearing at the walls and talking nonsense. Completely out of control."

"You hear about lots of cases where a mother is suddenly aware of some threat or injury to her child. A pyschic bond. Sounds like mumbo jumbo, but I guess it happens."

"I don’t believe in ESP, and I don’t believe in coincidence."

"So what are you saying?"

"Judy Marshall knows something, and whatever she knows is a real showstopper. Fred can’t see it — he’s much too close — and Dale can’t see it, either. You should have heard him talk about her."

"So what is she supposed to know?"

"I think she may know the doer. I think it has to be someone close to her. Whoever he is, she knows his name, and it’s driving her crazy."

Henry frowns and uses his inchworm technique to entrap another piece of steak. "So you’re going to the hospital to open her up," he finally says.

"Yes. Basically."

A mysterious silence follows this statement. Henry quietly whittles away at the meat, chews what he whittles, and washes it down with Jordan cabernet.

"How did your deejay gig go? Was it okay?"

"It was a thing of beauty. All the adorable old swingers cut loose on the dance floor, even the ones in wheelchairs. One guy sort of rubbed me the wrong way. He was rude to a woman named Alice, and he asked me to play ‘Lady Magowan’s Nightmare,’ which doesn’t exist, as you probably know — "

"It’s ‘Lady Magowan’s Dream.’ Woody Herman."

"Good boy. The thing was, he had this terrible voice. It sounded like something out of hell! Anyhow, I didn’t have the Woody Herman record, and he asked for the Bunny Berigan ‘I Can’t Get Started.’ Which happened to be Rhoda’s favorite record. What with my goofy ear hallucinations and all, it shook me up. I don’t know why."

For a few minutes they concentrate on their plates.

Jack says, "What do you think, Henry?"

Henry tilts his head, auditing an inner voice. Scowling, he sets down his fork. The inner voice continues to demand his attention. He adjusts his shades and faces Jack. "In spite of everything you say, you still think like a cop."

Jack bridles at the suspicion that Henry is not paying him a compliment. "What do you mean by that?"

"Cops see differently than people who aren’t cops. When a cop looks at someone, he wonders what he’s guilty of. The possibility of innocence never enters his mind. To a longtime cop, a guy who’s put in ten years or more, everyone who isn’t a cop is guilty. Only most of them haven’t been caught yet."

Henry has described the mind-set of dozens of men Jack once worked with. "Henry, how do you know about that?"

"I can see it in their eyes," Henry says. "That’s the way policemen approach the world. You are a policeman."

Jack blurts out, "I am a coppiceman." Appalled, he blushes. "Sorry, that stupid phrase has been running around and around in my head, and it just popped out."

"Why don’t we clear the dishes and start on Bleak House?"

When their few dishes have been stacked beside the sink, Jack takes the book from the far side of the table and follows Henry toward the living room, pausing on the way to glance, as he always does, at his friend’s studio. A door with a large glass insert opens into a small, soundproofed chamber bristling with electronic equipment: the microphone and turntable back from Maxton’s and reinstalled before Henry’s well-padded, swiveling chair; a disc changer and matching digital-analog converter mount, close at hand, beside a mixing board and a massive tape recorder adjacent to the other, larger window, which looks into the kitchen. When Henry had been planning the studio, Rhoda requested the windows, because, she’d said, she wanted to be able to see him at work. There isn’t a wire in sight. The entire studio has the disciplined neatness of the captain’s quarters on a ship.