Black House

"No!" Arnold shakes his head violently. "I just called my wife, that’s all." He looks imploringly at Jack. "The Fisherman talked to me, he told me where he put the girl’s body, and I wanted Paula to know. Honest, Holl —  Lieutenant Sawyer, I didn’t think she’d call anybody, I just wanted to tell her."

"Bad move, Arnold," Jack says. "You are going to tell the chief what you did, and you’re going to do it right now. Because Dale deserves to know what went wrong, and he shouldn’t have to blame himself. You like Dale, don’t you?"

"The chief ?" Arnold’s voice wobbles with respect for his chief. "Sure I do. He’s, he’s . . . he’s great. But isn’t he going to fire me?"

"That’s up to him, Arnold," Jack says. "If you ask me, you deserve it, but maybe you’ll get lucky."

The Mad Hungarian shuffles off toward Dale. Jack watches their conversation for a second, then walks past them to the side of the old store, where Beezer St. Pierre and Wendell Green face each other in unhappy silence.

"Hello, Mr. St. Pierre," he says. "And hello to you, Wendell."

"I’m lodging a complaint," Green says. "I’m covering the biggest story of my life, and this lout spoils a whole roll of film. You can’t treat the press that way; we have a right to photograph whatever the hell we like."

"I guess you woulda said you had a right to photograph my daughter’s dead body, too." Beezer glares at Jack. "This piece of shit paid Teddy and the other lunkheads to go nuts so nobody would notice him sneaking inside there. He took pictures of the girl."

Wendell jabs a finger at Jack’s chest. "He has no proof of that. But I’ll tell you something, Sawyer. I did get pictures of you. You were concealing evidence in the back of your truck, and I got you dead to rights. So think twice before you try to mess with me, because I’ll hang you out to dry."

A dangerous red mist seems to fill Jack’s head. "Were you going to sell photographs of that girl’s body?"

"What’s it to you?" An ugly smirk widens Wendell Green’s mouth. "You’re not exactly lily-white either, are you? Maybe we can do each other some good, huh?"

The red mist darkens and fills Jack’s eyes. "We can do each other some good?"

Standing beside Jack, Beezer St. Pierre clenches and unclenches his enormous fists. Beezer, Jack knows, catches his tone perfectly, but the vision of dollar signs has so gripped Wendell Green that he hears Jack’s threat as a straightforward question.

"You let me reload my camera and get the pictures I need, and I keep quiet about you."

Beezer lowers his head and balls his hands again.

"Tell you what. I’m a generous guy — maybe I could even cut you in, say ten percent of my total."

Jack would prefer to break his nose, but he contents himself with a hard punch to the reporter’s stomach. Green clutches his gut and folds in half, then falls to the ground. His face has turned a hectic pink, and he struggles for breath. His eyes register shock and disbelief.

"See, I’m a generous guy, too, Wendell. I probably saved you thousands of dollars in dental work, plus a broken jaw."

"Don’t forget the plastic surgery," says Beezer, grinding a fist into the palm of the other hand. He looks as if someone just stole his favorite dessert off the dinner table.

Wendell’s face has become a reddish shade of purple.

"For your information, Wendell, no matter what you think you saw, I am not concealing evidence. If anything I am revealing it, though I hardly expect you to understand."

Green manages to wheeze in something like a cubic inch of air.

"When your wind starts to come back, get out of here. Crawl, if you have to. Go back to your car and drive away. And for God’s sake, make it snappy, or our friend here is likely to put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life."

Slowly, Wendell Green gets to his knees, takes another noisy sip of oxygen, and levers himself semi-upright. He waggles one open hand at them, but his meaning is unclear. He could be telling Beezer and Jack to stay away from him, or that he will trouble them no further, or both. His trunk tilted over his belt, his hands pressed to his stomach, Green stumbles around the side of the building.

"I guess I oughta thank you," Beezer says. "You let me keep my promise to my old lady. But I have to say, Wendell Green is one guy I’d really like to deconstruct."

"Man," Jack says, "I wasn’t sure if I could get in before you did."

"It’s true, my restraint was crumbling."

Both men smile. "Beezer St. Pierre," Beezer says, and sticks out a hand.

"Jack Sawyer." Jack takes his hand and experiences no more than a second of pain.

"Are you gonna let the state guys do all the work, or will you keep going on your own?"

"What do you think?" Jack says.

"If you ever need any help, or you want reinforcements, all you have to do is ask. Because I do want to get this son of a bitch, and I figure you have a better chance of finding him than anyone else."

On the drive back to Norway Valley, Henry says, "Oh, Wendell took a picture of the body, all right. When you came out of the building and went to your truck, I heard someone take a couple of pictures, but I thought it might have been Dale. Then I heard it again when you and Dale were inside with Bobby Dulac, and I realized someone was taking a picture of me! Well, now, I say to myself, this must be Mr. Wendell Green, and I told him to come out from behind the wall. That’s when those people charged out, yelling and screaming. As soon as that happened, I heard Mr. Green trot around from the side, go into the building, and shoot a few pictures. Then he sneaked out and stood by the side of the building, which is where your friend Beezer caught up with him and took care of things. Beezer is a remarkable fellow, isn’t he?"