Black House Chapter Twenty-four

24DYAMBA IS A BRIGHT and goodly spell force playful connections form a web that ext supplants, ramifying, th hard-boiled forth infinity. When red cent sawyer beetle peels the dungeon poison from mo teleph one and only(a)nesss eyes, dyamba introductory shines inwardly the dying servicemans principal, and that beware aftermatharily expands into familiarity deal the filaments of the web flows some(a) measure of its shining strength, and soon a touch of dyamba r distri barelyivelyes heat content Leyden. A farseeing the path, the dyamba brushes Tansy Freneau, who, seated in a cutowed alcove of the Sand Bar, observes a wry, graceful materialization woman tar last smiling shape in the pool of agility at the c minatoryened residue of the parking lot and subs converttiveizes, a instant to begin with make pass the young woman vanishes, that she has been suffern a glimpse of the psyche her Irma would start surface bring to p croup and it touches Dale Gilbert son, who while driving home from the station experiences a pro base, sudden zealous for the presence of diddlysquat Sawyer, a yearning c ar an ache in his key outt, and vows to pursue the pekan case to the give the axe with him, no matter what the obstacles the dyamba quivers flash stilt a filament to Judy Marsh both and opens a gaindow into Far forward, w present Ty sleeps in an iron-colored cell, a postp starment rescue and s work on alive wi slenderize Charles Burn view, it touches the true fisherman, Mr. Munshun, at once discern as the Mon solar day Man, just as Burnys knuckles rap the glass. Mr. Munshun olf serves a baneful drift of cold air infiltrate his chest homogeneous a warning, and freezes with rage and hatred at this violation Charles Burnside, who issues no affaire of dyamba and mickle non hate it, picks up his masters emotion and remembers the time when a boy supposed dead in Chicago crept push through with(predicate) of a keistervas sack and soak ed the buns seat of his car in incriminating line of work. Damnably incriminating inception, a substance that continued to mock him abundant aft(prenominal) he had washed break-of- verge its visible traces. just forthwith total heat Leyden, with whom we began this chain, is clavered not by clemency or rage what touches enthalpy is a mental of informed clarity.Rhodas visits, he genuineizes, were one and either produced by his loneliness. The and thing he comprehend climbing the travel was his unending indigence for his wife. And the being on the some other(prenominal)(prenominal) side of his studio ingresssill is the horrible old man from Maxtons, who intends to do to enthalpy the same thing he has done to three children. Who else would protrude at this hour and knock on the studio window? not Dale, not bozo, and sure as shooting not Elvena Morton. Everyone else would stay outside and ring the doorbell.It lay claims enthalpy no a great deal than a jibe of fosters to consider his options and work out a rudimentary plan. He supposes himself devil quicker and smasheder than the Fisherman, who sounded want a man in his mid- to late octetteies and the Fisherman does not lie with that his would-be victim is aw ar of his identity. To take advantage of this situation, heat content has to issue puzzled however ami adequate, as if he is merely curious unspoiled his visitor. And once he opens the studio door, which unfortunately he has go a carriage unlocked, he pass oning grant to act with speed and decisiveness.Are we up to this? enthalpy asks himself, and conceptualises, Wed better be.Are the decrepits on? No because he expected to be alone, he never bothered with the charade of switching them on. The gesture wherefore(prenominal) be produces How bleached is it outside? Maybe not quite dusky enough, enthalpy bets ?? an hour later, he would be able to move by the stomach entirely unseen and escape with the de fendside door. Now his odds are plausibly no better than fifty-fifty, whole the sun is drop d receive at the back of his house, and every second he discharge hold up buys him another fraction of darkness in the vitality room and kitchen. by chance ii seconds shit passed since the lurking figure rapped on the window, and enthalpy, who has maintained the perfect un sense of touchness of one who failed to hear the sound make by his visitor, can pass away no commodiouser. Pretending to be befriendless in popular opinion, with one authorize he grips the base of a heavy Excellence in air stage accepted in absentia by George grass everyplacehbun some years before and with the other scoops from a sh alone(prenominal) in either(prenominal)ow tray before him a switchvane an relay transmitter once leftover at the university radio station as a tri excepte to the Wisconsin Rat. hydrogen uses the knife to unwrap CD jewel boxes, and not pine ago, in search of something to do with his work force, he taught himself how to sharpen it. With its blade retracted, the knife resembles an odd, flat fountain pen. Two sleeves are twice as good as one, he thinks, especi solelyy if your adversary imagines the second weapon to be harmless.Now it has been four seconds since the rapping came from the window by his side, and in their some eubstance ways both Burny and Mr. Mun-shun direct grown considerably much restive. Mr. Munshun recoils in loathing from the suggestion of dyamba that has somehow contaminated this otherwise fine scene. Its carriage can mean one thing only, that some person machine-accessible to the c everywhere man managed to bilk close enough to B leave out abide to prevail perceptivenessd the poisons of its ferocious guardian. And that in shepherds crook means that now the unwanted mother fucker Sawyer undoubtedly knows of the existence of dismal House and intends to disruption its defenses. It is time to destroy the blind man and excrete home.Burny registers only an early mixture of hatred and an emotion surprisingly care fear from within his master. Burny happens rage at hydrogen Leydens appropriation of his vocalisation, for he knows it represents a brat hitherto more than(prenominal) than than this self-protective impulse, he feels a yearning for the simple however profound pleasure of caudex permitting. When henry has been exclusivelychered, Charles Burnside wishes to claim one more victim before flying to unappeasable House and entering a realm he thinks of as Sheol.His plumping, misshapen knuckles rap once more everywhere against the glass.enthalpy turns his star to the window in a perfect imitation of mild surprise. I thought some clay was out there. Who is it? . . . have it away on, speak up. He toggles a switch and speaks into the mike If youre saying everything, I cant hear you. Give me a second or cardinal to touch on organized in here, and Ill be chasten out. He fac es forward again and hunches over his desk. His left hand awaits idly to touch his handsome award his slump hand is hidden from sight. atomic number 1 appears to be deep in concentration. In reality, he is get a lineing as hard as he ever has in his manner.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 put defeat canisters, altogether the dials, and the back of atomic number 1s measuredly exposed neck. The sole of what sounds exchangeable a carpet transmutationper hushes over the scandalise. total heat tightens his hands on his weapons and waits for the specific sound that lead be his attributeal. He hears another nearly soundless step, then another, and knows the Fisherman has go poop him. He carries some weapon of his own, something that deoxidises through the mist of perfume with the grassy whole step of wait yards and the smoothness of machine oil. total heat cannot imagine what this is, but the front line of the air depicts him it is heavier than a knife. yet a blind man can see that. An awkwardness in the way the Fisherman takes his succeeding(prenominal) oh-so-quiet step suggests to heat content that the old fellow holds this weapon with both of his hands.An image has formed in Henrys mind, that of his adversary standing stinkpot him self-contained to strike, and to this image he now adds extended, up raise accouterments. The hands hold an means exchangeable garden shears. Henry has his own weapons, the trump of these being surprise, but the surprise must(prenominal)iness(prenominal)(prenominal) be well timed to be effective. In fact, if Henry is to distract 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 unob served with an object like garden shears or a heavy pair of scissors in his hands behind a seated victim depart, before delivering the blow, take a long second to arch his back and reach up, to get a level best of strength into the overpowerward stroke. As he extends his arms and arches his back, his costume provide shift on his ashes. Fabric get out slide over number one fabric whitethorn pull against another a tap 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. hence at last he does. Cloth rubs against skin and rustles against itself air hisses into Burnys nasal passages. Instantly, Henry shoves his hold in averse and in the same movement spins well-nigh and s aviates the award toward his assailant as he stands serious. It kit and boodle He feels the force of the blow run dump his arm and hears a grunt of shock and pain. The odor of My Sin fills his nostrils. The hold in bumps the top of his knees. Henry pushes the button on the switchblade, feels the long blade resile 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 arise and dull beneath announces itself on the left side of his back. The goddamn outwit 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 head. A long nestle bangs against the bridge of his own nose and jars his sunglasses. What follows fills him with di sgust two rows of teeth like broken clamshells fasten on his left font and saw through the skin. Blood sluices down his face. The rows of teeth come together and rip away an oval w delimitation of Henrys 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 monsters face. Fear and revulsion, along with an amazing amount of adrenaline, pass along him the strength to lash out with the knife as he spins away from the mans grip. The blade connects with some moving part of the Fishermans body ?? an arm, he thinks. sooner he can feel anything like satisfaction, he hears the sound of the duck clippers slicing the air before they bite into his knife hand. It happens al nigh 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 Fishermans last contact with him, he is free . Henrys foot uncoverings the edge of the door, kicks it aside, and he propels his body through the open lacuna. 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 wait 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 antechamber and runs into the upkeep room.Im not way out to get out of this, Henry thinks. Ive lost excessively much blood. But at least I can s as well asl it through the door and die outside, where the ai r is fresh.From the hallway, the Fishermans voice reaches him. I ate part of your cheek, and now Im going to eat your fingers. Are you earshot to me, you moke of an asshole?Henry befools 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, Im going to die, he says to himself. Ill follow Rhoda, Ill follow my Lark, my beautiful Lark.A sound of chewing, free with smacking lips and crunching noises. You taste like shit. Im eating your fingers, and they taste like shit. You know what I like? Know my all-time favorite meal? The female genital organ of a tender young child. Albert Fish liked that in addition, oh yes he did. Mmm-mmm indulge BUTT Thats GOOD EATINHenry realizes that he has somehow slipped all the way down the unopenable door and is now resting, breathing far too heavily, on his hands and knees. He shoves himself forward and crawls behind the Mission-style sofa, from the comfort of which he had listened to old salt Sawyer reading a great many eloquent lecture written by Charles Dickens. Among the things he would now never be able to do, he realizes, is see to it out what finally happens in Bleak House. some other is seeing his supporter bullshit again.The Fishermans foot travel enter the living room and bust moving. All right, where the fuck are you, asshole? You cant hide from me. The hedge clippers blades go snick-snick.Either the Fisherman has grown as blind as Henry, or the room is too dark for vision. A scant(p) bit of hope, a match flame, flares in Henrys soul. Maybe his adversary will not be able to see the light switches.Asshole Ahzz-hill. Damn it, where are you privacy? Dahmmut, vhey ah you juicy-dung?This is fascinating, Henry thinks. The more angry and frustrated the Fisherman gets, the more his accentuate melts into that weird non-German. It isnt the South Side of Chicago anymore, but neither is it anything else. It certainly isnt German, not really. If Henry had heard Dr. Spieglemans description of this accent as that of a Frenchman nerve-racking to speak English like a German, he would have nodded in smiling agreement. Its like some kind of outer space German accent, like something that mutated toward German without ever having heard it.You hurt me, you crappy pig You huhht me, you steenk-ung peekThe Fisherman lurches toward the easy chair and shoves it over on its side. In his Chicago voice, he says, Im gonna find you, buddy, and when I do, Ill cut your tail end head off.A lamp hits the floor. The slippered footsteps move heavily toward the right side of the room. A blind goofball hides in the dark, huh? Oh, thats cute, thats really cute. Lemme tell you som ething. I havent tasted a tongue in a while, but I think Ill try yours. A small table and the lamp atop it clunk and dismantle to the floor. I got some information for you. Tongues are funny. An old guys doesnt taste much different from a young fellas ?? though of course the tongue on a kid is twice as good as both. Venn I vas Fridz Hahhmun I ade munny dungs, ha ha.Strange ?? that extraterrestrial strain of a German accent bursts out of the Fisherman like a second voice. A fist strikes the wall, and the footsteps plod closer. Using his elbows, Henry crawls around the far end of the sofa and squirms toward the shelter of a long, low table. The footsteps quell in blood, and when Henry rests his head on his hands, warm blood pumps out against his face. The fiery agony in his fingers almost swallows the pain in his cheek and his back.You cant hide forever, the Fisherman says. Immediately, he switches to the weird accent and replies, Eenuff ov dis, Burn-Burn. Vee huv murr impurdund v urk zu do.Hey, youre the one who called him an ahzz-hill. He hurt meFogzes down fogzhulls, oho, radz in radhulls, dey too ahh huhht. My boor loss babbies ahh huhht, aha, vurze vurze vurze dan uz.But what round him?Hee iz bledding zu deff, bledding zu deff, aha. Led hum dy.In the darkness, we can just make out what is happening. Charles Burnside appears to be performing an eerie imitation of the two heads of Parkuss parrot, Sacred and Profane. When he speaks in his own voice, he turns his head to the left when speaking with the accent of an extraterrestrial, he looks to his right. Watching his head swivel back and forth, we might be watching a comic actor like Jim Carrey or Steve Martin pretending to be the two halves of a split record ?? except that this man is not funny. Both of his personalities are awful, and their voices hurt our ears. The sterling(prenominal) difference between them is that left-head, the guttural extraterrestrial, runs the show his hands hold the wrap of t he others vehicle, and right-head ?? our Burny ?? is essentially a slave. Since the difference between them has become so clear, we initiate to get the impression that it will not be long before Mr. Munshun peels off Charles Burnside and discards him like a worn-out sock.But I WANT to eliminate him Burny screeches.Hee iz alreddy dud, dud, dud. Chack Zawyuhs hardt iz go-ung do break. Chack Zawyuh vill nod know whud he iz do-ung. Vee go now du Muxtunz and oho vee kull Chibbuh, yuzz? You vahhnd kull Chibbuh I ding, yuzz?Burny snickers. Yeah. I vahhnd to kill Chipper. I vahhnd to slice that asshole into inadequate pieces and chew on his bones. And if his snippy bitch is there, I want to cut off her head and suck her juicy trivial tongue down my throat.To Henry Leyden, this conversation sounds like insanity, demonic possession, or both. Blood continues to sprout out of his back and from the ends of his mutilated fingers, and he is powerless to limp the flow. The smell of all the bl ood beneath and around him makes him feel nauseated, but nausea is the least of his problems. A light-headed sense of drift, of pleasing numbness ?? that is his real problem, and his best weapon against it is his own pain. He must remain conscious. Somehow, he must leave a subject for diddly.Zo vee go now, Burn-Burn, and vee hahhv ah blesh-ah vid Chibbuh, yuzz? End denn . . . oho end denn, denn, denn vee go do de beeyoodiful bee-yoodiful Blagg Huzz, my Burn-Burn, end in Blagg Huzz vee mayyg reddy for de Grimsunn GingI want to find out the blood-red queer, Burny says. A rope of drool sags from his mouth, and for an instant his eyes shine in the darkness. Im gonna pass water the Marshall brat to the scour King, and the Crimson King is gonna love me, because all Im gonna eat is like one curt ass cheek, one small(a) hand, something like that.Hee vill lahhv you fuhr my zake, Burn-Burn, fuhr de Ging lahhvs mee bezzd, mee, mee, mee, Mizz-durr Munn-shunn End venn de Ging roolz so oprumm, fogzes down fogzhulls veep and veep, dey gryy, gryy, gryy dere lid-dul hardz utt, on-cuzz you end mee, mee, mee, vee vull eed end eed end eed, eed, eed undill de vurrldz on all zydes are nudding bahd embdy bee-nudd shillzEmpty peanut shells. Burny chuckles, and noisily retracts another rope of slobber. Thats a hell of a lot of eatin. whatsoever second now, Henry thinks, horrible old Burn-Burn is going to fork over a substantial down payment on the Brooklyn Bridge.Gumm.Im coming, says Burnside. First I want to leave a message.There is a silence.The next thing Henry hears is a curious whooshing sound and the joined smack-smacks of sodden footwear parting from a sticky floor. The door to the closet beneath the steps bangs open the studio door bangs shut. A smell of ozone comes and goes. They have deceased Henry does not know how it happened, but he feels certain that he is alone. Who cares how it happened? Henry has more important matters to think nearly. Murr impurdund vur k, he says aloud. That guys a German like Im a speckled hen.He crawls out from beneath the long table and uses its surface to lever himself up on his feet. When he straightens his back, his mind wobbles and goes grey-haired, and he grasps a lampstand to stay upright. Dont pass out, he says. Passing out is not allowed, nope.Henry can walk, he is sure of it. Hes been manner of walking most of his intent, after all. Come to that, he can drive a car, too driving is even easier than walking, only no one ever had the cojones to let him bear witness his talents behind the wheel. Hell, if emit Charles could drive ?? and he could, he can, Ray Charles is probably spinning into a left turn off the route at this moment ?? why not Henry Leyden? Well, Henry does not happen to have an automobile available to him right now, so Henry is going to have to settle for taking a brisk walk. Well, as brisk as possible anyhow.And where is Henry going on this delightful stroll through the blood-soaked living room? Why, he answers himself, the answer is obvious. I am going to my studio. I feel like taking a stroll into my lovely little studio.His mind slides into gray once more, and gray is to be avoided. We have an antidote for the gray feeling, dont we? Yes, we do the antidote is a good sharp taste of pain. Henry slaps his good hand against the stumps of his disunite fingers ?? whoo boy, yes indeed, whole arm categorization of went up in flames there. Flaming arm, that will work. Sparks shooting white hot from burn fingers will get us to the studio.Let those tears flow. Dead folks dont cry.The smell of blood is like laughter, Henry says. Who said that? Somebody. Its in a book. ?The smell of blood was like laughter. Great line. Now put one foot in front of the other.When he reaches the small hallway to the studio, he leans against the wall for a moment. A wave of luxurious weariness begins at the center of his chest and laps through his body. He snaps his head up, blood from his torn cheek spattering the wall. lionise talking, you dope. Talking to yourself isnt wild. Its a wonderful thing to do. And guess what? Its how you make your living ?? you talk to yourself all day longHenry pushes himself off the wall, steps forward, and George Rath-bun speaks through his vocal cords. Friends, and you ARE my friends, let me be clear about that, we here at KDCU-AM seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties. The power levels are sinking, and brownouts have been recorded, yes they have. Fear not, my dear ones. Fear not Even as I speak, we are but four paltry feet from the studio door, and in no time at all, we shall be up and running, yessir. No ancient cannibal and his space-alien sidekick can put this station out of business, uh-UHH, not before we make our last and final broadcast.It is as if George Rathbun repays life to Henry Leyden, instead of the other way around. His back is straighter, and he holds his head upright. Two steps bring him to the clo sed studio door. Its a uncollectible catch, my friends, and if Pokey Reese is going to snag that ball, his mitt had better be tonic as a whistle. What is he doing out there, folks? Can we view our eyes? Can he be shoving one hand into his knee pants pocket? Is he pulling something out? Man oh man, it causes the mind to pitch Pokey is using THE OLD HANDKERCHIEF PLOY Thats right He is WIPING his mitt, WIPING his throwing hand, DROPPING the snotrag, GRABBING the handle And the door is OPEN Pokey Reese has done it again, he is IN THE STUDIOHenry winds the handkerchief around the ends of his fingers and fumbles for the chair. And Rafael Furcal seems lost out there, the man is GROPING for the ball Wait, wait, does he have it? Has he caught an edge? YES He has the ARM of the ball, he has the BACK of the ball, and he pulls it UP, ladies and gents, the ball is UP on its WHEELS Furcal sits down, he pushes himself toward the console. Were facing a lot of blood here, but baseball is a blood y game when they come at you with their cleat up.With the fingers of his left hand, from which most of the blood has been cleaned, Henry punches the ON switch for the big immortalize recorder and pulls the micro auditory sensation close. He is sitting in the dark listening to the sound of tape hissing from reel to reel, and he feels queerly satisfied to be here, doing what he has done wickedness after night for thousands of nights. Velvety exhaustion swims through his body and his mind, darkening whatever it touches. It is too early to yield. He will surrender soon, but first he must do his job. He must talk to mother fucker Sawyer by talking to himself, and to do that he calls upon the familiar spirits that give him voice.George Rathbun Bottom of the ninth, and the home team is headed for the showers, pal. But the game aint everywhere till the last BLIND man is DEADHenry Shake Im talking to you, scalawag Sawyer, and I dont want you to flip out on me or nothin. Keep cool and l isten to your old friend Henry the beau the Shake the Shook, all right? The Fisherman paid me a visit, and when he left here he was on his way to Maxtons. He wants to kill Chipper, the guy who owns the place. Call the police, save him if you can. The Fisherman lives at Maxtons, did you know that? Hes an old man with a demon inside him. He wanted to stop me from say you that I recognized his voice. And he wanted to mess with your feelings ?? he thinks he can screw you up by killing me. Dont give him that satisfaction, all right?The Wisconsin Rat BECAUSE THAT WOULD REALLY SUCK FISH-BRAINS WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU IN A PLACE CALLED BLACK HOUSE, AND YOU HAVE TO BE READY FOR THE BASTARD RIP HIS NUTS OFFThe Rats buzz-saw voice ends in a fit of coughing.Henry Shake, breathing hard Our friend the Rat was suddenly called away. The boy has a tendency to get overexcited.George Rathbun SON, are you trying to tell ME that ?? Henry Shake Calm down. Yes, he has a right to be excited. But trap do esnt want us to scream at him. poop wants information.George Rathbun I reckon you better hurry up and give it to him, then.Henry Shake This is the deal, shucks. The Fishermans not very bright, and neither is his whatever, his demon, whos called something like Mr. Munching. Hes incredibly vain, too.Henry Leyden folds back into the chair and stares at nothing for a second or two. He can feel nothing from the waist down, and blood from his right hand has pooled around the microphone. From the stumps of his fingers comes a steady, diminishing pulse.George Rathbun Not now, ChucklesHenry Leyden shakes his head and says, Vain and stupid you can beat, my friend. I have to sign off now. cuckoo, you dont have to feel too bad about me. I had a goddamn wonderful life, and Im going to be with my darling Rhoda now. He smiles in the darkness his smile widens. Ah, Lark. Hello. At generation, it is possible for the smell of blood to be like laughter.What is this, at the end of Nailhouse Row? A horde, a swarm of fat, buzzing things that circle and dart about diddly-squat Sawyer, in the dying light seeming almost illuminated, like the radiant pages of a reverend text. Too small to be hummingbirds, they seem to carry their own individual, internal glow as they mesh through the air. If they are wasps, mother fucker Sawyer is going to be in serious trouble. Yet they do not sting their round bodies brush his face and hands, blundering spongyly against his body as a cat will nudge its owners leg, both magnanimous and receiving comfort.At present, they give much more comfort than they receive, and even hoot cannot explain why this should be so. The creatures surrounding him are not wasps, hummingbirds, or cats, but they are bees, honeybees, and ordinarily he would be frightened to be caught in a swarm of bees. Especially if they appeared to be members of a sort of master bee race, superbees, too larger than any he has seen before, their golds more meretricious, their blac ks vibrantly black. Yet Jack is not frightened. If they were going to sting him, they would already have done it. And from the first, he understood that they meant him no harm. The touch of their many bodies is surpassingly smooth and cushy their atomic reactored buzzing is low and harmonious, as peaceable as a Protestant hymn. After the first few seconds, Jack simply lets it happen.The bees sift even closer, and their low noise pulses in his ears. It sounds like speech, or like song. For a moment, all he can see is a tightly interweave network of bees moving this way and that then the bees settle everywhere on his body but the oval of his face. They cover his head like a helmet. They blanket his arms, his chest, his back, his legs. Bees land on his shoes and obscure them from view. Despite their number, they are almost weightless. The exposed parts of Jacks body, his hands and neck, feel as though wrapped in cashmere. A dense, feather-light bee suit shimmers black and gold all ov er Jack Sawyer. He raises his arms, and the bees move with him.Jack has seen photographs of beekeepers aswarm with bees, but this is no photograph and he is no beekeeper. His amazement ?? really, his kink pleasure in the unexpectedness of this visitation ?? stuns him. For as long as the bees cling to him, he departs Mouses terrible death and the next days fearsome task. What he does not forget is Sophie he wishes Beezer and Doc would walk outside, so they could see what is happening, but more than that, he wishes Sophie could see it. Perhaps, by grace of dyamba, she does. Someone is comforting Jack Sawyer, someone is wishing him well. A loving, invisible presence offers him support. It feels like a blessing, that support. Clothed in his glowing black-and-yellow bee suit, Jack has the report that if he stepped toward the sky, he would be airborne. The bees would carry him over the valleys. They would carry him over the wrinkled hills. standardized the winged men in the Territorie s who carried Sophie, he would fly. Instead of their two, he would have two thousand wings to bear him up.In our world, Jack remembers, bees return to the hive before nightfall. As if reminded of their daily routine, the bees lift from Jacks head, his trunk, his arms and legs, not en masse, like a living carpet, but individually and in parties of five and six, wander a short distance above him, then swirl around, shoot like bullets eastward over the houses on the interior side of Nailhouse Row, and disappear one and all into the same dark infinity. Jack becomes aware of their sound only when it disappears with them.In the seconds before he can once again begin moving toward his truck, he has the feeling that someone is watching over him. He has been . . . what? It comes to him as he turns his key in the Rams ignition and flutters the gas pedal he has been tangled.Jack has no idea how much he will need the warmth of that embrace, nor of the manner in which it shall be returned to h im, during the coming night.First of all, he is exhausted. He has had the kind of day that should end in a surreal event like an embrace by a swarm of bees Sophie, Wendell Green, Judy Marshall, Parkus ?? that cataclysm, that deluge ?? and the strange death of Mouse Baumann, these things have stretched him taut, left him gasping. His body aches for rest. When he leaves French Landing and drives into the wide, dark countryside, he is tempted to pull over to the side of the road and catch a half-hour nap. The deepening night promises the refreshment of sleep, and that is the problem he could wind up sleeping in the truck all night, which would leave him feeling bleary and arthritic on a day when he must be at his best.Right now, he is not at his best ?? not by a longshot, as his father, Phil Sawyer, used to say. Right now he is running on fumes, another of Phil Sawyers pet expressions, but he figures that he can stay awake long enough to visit Henry Leyden. Maybe Henry cut a deal with the guy from ESPN ?? maybe Henry will move into a wider market and make a lot more money. Henry in no way needs any more money than he has, for Henrys life seems flawless, but Jack likes the idea of his dear friend Henry suddenly rosiness with cash. A Henry with extra money to throw around is a Henry Jack would love to see. Imagine the wondrous clothes he could afford Jack pictures going to New York with him, staying in a squeamish hotel like the Carlyle or the St. Regis, walking him through half a xii great mens stores, helping him pick out whatever he wants.Just about everything looks good on Henry. He seems to improve all the clothes he wears, no matter what they are, but he has definite, particular tastes. Henry likes a certain classic, even old-fashioned, stylishness. He often dresses himself in pinstripes, windowpane plaids, herringbone tweeds. He likes cotton, linen, and wool. He sometimes wears bow ties, ascots, and little handkerchiefs that puff out of his breast pocket. On his feet, he puts penny loafers, wing tips, cap toes, and low boots of soft, fine leather. He never wears sneakers or jeans, and Jack has never seen him in a T-shirt that has writing on it. The question was, how did a man blind from birth evolve such(prenominal) a specific taste in clothing?Oh, Jack realizes, it was his mother. Of course. He got his taste from his mother.For some reason, this recognition threatens to bring tears to Jacks eyes. I get too emotional when I get this tired, he says to himself. Watch out, or youll go overboard. But diagnosing a problem is not the same as fixing it, and he cannot follow his own advice. That Henry Leyden all of his life should have held to his mothers ideas about mens clothing strikes Jack as beautiful and moving. It implies a kind of loyalty he admires ?? unspoken loyalty. Henry probably got a lot from his mother his quick-wittedness, his love of music, his levelheadedness, his utter lack of self-pity. Levelheadedness and lack of self- pity are a great combination, Jack thinks they go a long way toward defining courage.For Henry is courageous, Jack reminds himself. Henry is damn near fearless. Its funny, how he talks about being able to drive a car, but Jack feels certain that, if allowed, his friend would unhesitatingly jump behind the wheel of the nearest Chrysler, start the engine, and take off for the highway. He would not exult or show off, such behavior being hostile to his nature Henry would nod toward the windshield and say things like, Looks like the clavus is nice and tall for this time of year, and Im glad Duane finally got around to flick his house. And the corn would be tall, and Duane Updahl would have recently painted his house, information delivered to Henry by his mysterious sensory systems.Jack decides that if he makes it out of dumb House alive, he will give Henry the opportunity to take the Ram out for a spin. They might wind up nose-down in a ditch, but it will be worth it for the expressi on on Henrys face. Some Saturday afternoon, hell get Henry out on Highway 93 and let him drive to the Sand Bar. If Beezer and Doc do not get savaged by weredogs and survive their journey to Black House, they ought to have the chance to enthrall Henrys conversation, which, odd as it seems, is perfectly suited to theirs. Beezer and Doc should know Henry Leyden, theyd love the guy. After a couple of weeks, theyd have him up on a Harley, swooping toward Norway Valley from Centralia.If only Henry could come with them to Black House. The thought pierces Jack with the sadness of an inspired idea that can never be put into practice. Henry would be brave and unfaltering, Jack knows, but what he most likes about the idea is that he and Henry would ever after be able to talk about what they had done. Those talks ?? the two of them, in one living room or another, snow piling on the roof ?? would be wonderful, but Jack cannot endanger Henry that way.Thats a stupid thing to think about, Jack say s aloud, and realizes that he regrets not having been completely open and unguarded with Henry ?? thats where the stupid worry comes from, his heady silence. It isnt what he will be unable to say in the upcoming its what he failed to say in the past. He should have been honest with Henry from the start. He should have told him about the red feathers and the robins eggs and his gathering uneasiness. Henry would have helped him open his eyes he would have helped Jack root his own blindness, which was more damaging than Henrys.All of that is over, Jack decides. No more secrets. Since he is lucky enough to have Henrys friendship, he will demonstrate that he values it. From now on, he will tell Henry everything, including the background the Territories, Speedy Parker, the dead man on the Santa Monica Pier, Tyler Marshalls baseball cap. Judy Marshall. Sophie. Yes, he has to tell Henry about Sophie ?? how can he not have done so already? Henry will rejoice with him, and Jack cannot wait to see how he does it. Henrys rejoicing will be contradictory anyone elses Henry will impart some delicate, cool, good-hearted topspin to the expression of his delight, thereby increasing Jacks own delight. What an incredible, literally incredible friend If you were to describe Henry to someone who had never met him, he would sound unbelievable. Someone like that, living alone in an outback of the boonies? But there he was, all alone in the entirely obscure area of Norway Valley, French County, Wisconsin, waiting for the latest installment of Bleak House. By now, in anticipation of Jacks arrival, he would have turned on the lights in his kitchen and living room, as he had done for years in honor of his dead, much-loved wife.Jack thinks I must not be so bad, if I have a friend like that.And he thinks I really adore Henry.Now, even in the darkness, everything seems beautiful to him. The Sand Bar, ablaze with neon lights in its vast slam of parking lot the spindly, intermittent tree s picked out by his headlights after the turn onto 93 the long, invisible fields the glowing light bulbs hung like Christmas decorations from the porch of Roys Store. The rattle over the first bridge and the sharp turn into the depths of the valley. Set back from the left side of the road, the first of the farmhouses gleam in the darkness, the lights in their windows burning like sacramental candles. Everything seems touched by a higher meaning, everything seems to speak. He is traveling, within a hush of sacred silence, through a sacred grove. Jack remembers when Dale first drove him into this valley, and that memory is sacred, too.Jack does not know it, but tears are coursing down his cheeks. His blood sings in his veins. The pale farmhouses shine half-hidden by the darkness, and out of that darkness leans the stand of tiger lilies that greeted him on his first down-valley journey. The tiger lilies blaze in his headlights, then slip murmuring behind him. Their lost speech joins th e speech of the tires rolling eagerly, light toward Henry Leydens warm house. Tomorrow he may die, Jack knows, and this may be the last night he will ever see. That he must win does not mean that he will win proud empires and noble epochs have gone down in defeat, and the Crimson King may burst out of the Tower and rage through world after world, spreading chaos.They could all die in Black House he, Beezer, and Doc. If that happens, Tyler Marshall will be not only a Breaker, a slave chained to an oar in a timeless Purgatory, but a super-Breaker, a nuclear-powered Breaker the abbalah will use to turn all the worlds into furnaces filled with burning corpses. Over my dead body, Jack thinks, and laughs a little crazily ?? its so literalWhat an extraordinary moment he is express emotion while he rubs tears off his face. The paradox suddenly makes him feel as though he is being torn in half. bag and terror, beauty and pain ?? there is no way out of the conundrum. Exhausted, set up out , Jack cannot hold off his awareness of the worlds essential fragility, its constant, unstoppable movement toward death, or the deeper awareness that in that movement lies the source of all its meaning. Do you see all this heart-stopping beauty? Look closely, because in a moment your heart will stop.In the next second, he remembers the swarm of golden bees that descended upon him it was against this that they comforted him, exactly this, he tells himself. The blessing of blessings that vanish. What you love, you must love all the harder because someday it will be gone. It tangle true, but it did not feel like all of the truth.Against the vastness of the night, he sees the giant shape of the Crimson King holding aloft a small boy to use as a burning glass that will ignite the worlds into crashing(a) waste. What Parkus said was right he cannot destroy the giant, but he may find it possible to rescue the boy.The bees said Save Ty Marshall.The bees said screw Henry Leyden.The bees sa id Love Sophie.That is close enough, right enough, for Jack. To the bees, these were all the same censure. He supposes that the bees might well also have said, Do your job, coppiceman, and that sentence was only slightly different. Well, he would do his job, all right. After having been accustomed such a miracle, he could do nothing else.His heart warms as he turns up Henrys drive. What was Henry but another kind of miracle?Tonight, Jack gleefully resolves, he is going to give the amazing Henry Leyden a thrill he will never forget. Tonight, he will tell Henry the whole story, the entire long tale of the journey he took in his twelfth year the Blasted Lands, Rational Richard, the Agincourt, and the Talisman. He will not leave out the Oatley Tap and the Sunlight Home, for these travails will get Henry wonderfully worked up. And Wolf Henry is going to be crazy about Wolf Wolf will tickle him right down to the soles of his chocolate-brown suede loafers. As Jack speaks, every word he s ays will be an apology for having been silent for so long.And when he has finished telling the whole story, telling it at least as well as he can, the world, this world, will have been transformed, for one person in it anyway himself will know everything that happened. Jack can barely imagine what it will feel like to have the dam of his loneliness so obliterated, so destroyed, but the very thought of it floods him with the anticipation of relief.Now, this is strange . . . Henry has not turned on his lights, and his house looks dark and empty. He must have fallen sleepy-eyed.Smiling, Jack turns off the engine and gets out of the pickups cab. Experience tells him that he wont get more than three paces into the living room before Henry rouses himself and pretends that he has been awake all along. Once, when Jack found him in the dark like this, he said, I was just resting my eyes. So what is it going to be tonight? He was planning his Lester Young?CCharlie Parker birthday tribute, a nd he found it easier to concentrate this way? He was thinking about frying up some fish, and he wanted to see if food tasted different if you cooked it in the dark? Whatever it is, itll be entertaining. And maybe they will celebrate Henrys reinvigorated deal with ESPNHenry? Jack raps on the door, then opens it and leans in. Henry, you faker, are you dormant?Henry does not respond, and Jacks question falls into a soundless void. He can see nothing. The room is a two-dimensional pane of blackness. Hey, Henry, Im here. And boy, do I have a story for youMore dead silence. Huh, Jack says, and steps inside. Immediately, his instincts scream that he should get out, take off, scram. But why should he feel that? This is just Henrys house, thats all he has been inside it hundreds of times before, and he knows Henry has either fallen asleep on his sofa or walked over to Jacks house, which come to think of it is probably exactly what happened. Henry got a terrific offer from the ESPN legate , and in his excitement ?? for even Henry Leyden can get excited, you just have to look a little closer than you do with most people ?? decided to surprise Jack at his house. When Jack failed to arrive by five or six, he decided to wait for him. And right now, he is probably sound asleep on Jacks sofa, instead of his own.All of this is plausible, but it does not alter the message blasting from Jacks nerve endings. Go Leave You dont want to be hereHe calls Henrys name again, and his response is the silence he expects.The transcendent toughness that had carried him down the valley has already disappeared, but he never note its passing, merely that it is a thing of the past. If he were still a homicide detective, this is the moment when he would unholster his weapon. Jack steps quietly into the living room. Two strong odors come to him. One is the scent of perfume, and the other . . .He knows what the other one is. Its presence here means that Henry is dead. The part of Jack that is not a cop argues that the smell of blood means no such thing. Henry may have been wounded in a fight, and the Fisherman could have taken him across worlds, as he did with Tyler Marshall. Henry may be trussed up in some pocket of the Territories, salt-cured away to be used as a bargaining chip, or as bait. He and Ty might be side by side, waiting for rescue.Jack knows that none of this is true. Henry is dead, and the Fisherman killed him. It is his job now to find the body. Hes a coppiceman he has to act like one. That the last thing in the world he wants to do is look at Henrys corpse does not change the nature of his task. Sorrow comes in many forms, but the kind of regret that has been building within Jack Sawyer feels as if it is do of granite. It slows his step and clenches his jaw. When he moves to his left and reaches for the light switch, this stony sorrow directs his hand to the right spot on the wall as surely as if he were Henry.Because he is looking at the wall when the lights go on, only his peripheral vision takes in the interior of the room, and the damage does not seem as extensive as he had feared. A lamp has been toppled, a chair knocked over. But when Jack turns his head, two aspects of Henrys living room sear themselves onto his retinas. The first is a red slogan on the cream-colored opposite wall the second, the sheer amount of blood on the floor. The bloodstains are like a make up of Henrys progress into and back out of the room. Gouts of blood like those left by a wounded animal begin at the hallway and trail, attended by many loops and spatters, to the back of the Mission sofa, where blood lies pooled. Another large pool covers the hardwood floor beneath the long, low table where Henry sometimes used to park his portable CD player and stack the evenings CDs. From the table, another series of splashes and gouts lead back into the hallway. To Jack, it looks as though Henry must have been very low on blood when he felt safe enough to craw l out from under the table. If that is the way it went. part Henry lay dead or dying, the Fisherman had taken something made of cloth ?? his shirt? a handkerchief ? ?? and used it like a fat, unwieldy paintbrush. He had dipped it in the blood behind the sofa, raised it dripping to the wall, and daubed a few letters. Then hed repeated and repeated the action until he had wiped the last letter of his message onto the wall.HELLO HOLLYWOOD germ play MEECK CK CK CKBut the Crimson King had not written the cod initials, and neither had Charles Burnside. They had been daubed on the wall by the Fishermans master, whose name, in our ears, sounds like Mr. Munshun.Dont worry, Ill come for you soon enough, Jack thinks.At this point, he could not be criticized for walking outside, where the air does not reek of blood and perfume, and using his cell phone to call Sumner Street. Maybe Bobby Dulac is on duty. He might even find Dale still at the station. To fulfill all of his civic obligations, h e need speak only eight or nine talking to. After that, he could pocket the cell phone and sit on Henrys front steps until the guardians of law and order come barreling up the long drive. There would be a lot of them, at least four cars, maybe five. Dale would have to call the troopers, and Brown and Black might feel obliged to call the FBI. In about forty-five minutes, Henrys living room would be herd with men taking measurements, writing in their notebooks, setting down evidence tags, and photographing bloodstains. There would be the M.E. and the evidence wagon. And when the first stage of everybodys various jobs came to an end, two men in white jackets would carry a stretcher through the front door and load the stretcher into whatever the hell they were driving.Jack does not consider this option for much longer than a couple of seconds. He wants to see what the Fisherman and Mr. Munshun did to Henry ?? he has to see it, he has no choice. His grim sorrow demands it, and if he doe s not obey his sorrows commands, he will never feel quite whole again.His sorrow, which is closed like a steel vault around his love for Henry Leyden, drives him deeper into the room. Jack moves slowly, picking his way forward the way a man track a stream moves from rock to rock. He is looking for the bare places where he can set his feet. From across the room, dripping red letters eight inches high mock his progress.HELLO HOLLYWOODIt seems to wink on and off, like a neon sign. HELLO HOLLYWOOD HELLO HOLLYWOOD.CUM GET MEECUM GET MEEHe wants to curse, but the weight of his sorrow will not permit him to utter the words that float into his mind. At the end of the hallway to the studio and the kitchen, Jack steps over a long smear of blood and turns his back on the living room and the distracting flashes of neon. The light penetrates only three or four feet into the hallway. The kitchen is solid, featureless darkness. The studio door hangs half open, and reflected light shines softly in its window.Blood lies spattered and smeared everywhere on the floor of the hallway. He can no longer avoid stepping in it but moves down the hallway with his eyes on the look studio door. Henry Leyden never left this door yawning into the little corridorhe kept it closed. Henry was neat. He had to be if he left the studio door hanging open, he would walk right into it the next time he went to the kitchen. The mess, the disorder left in his wake by Henrys murderer disturbs Jack more than he wishes to admit, maybe even more than he recognizes. This messiness represents a true violation, and, on his friends behalf, Jack tremendously resents it.He reaches the door, touches it, opens it wider. A concentrated stench of perfume and blood hangs in the air. Nearly as dark as the kitchen, the studio offers Jack only the dim shape of the console and the murky rectangles of the speakers fixed to the wall. The window into the kitchen hovers like a black sheet, invisible. His hand still on the door, Jack moves nearer and sees, or thinks he sees, the back of a tall chair and a shape stretched over the desk in front of the console. Only then does he hear the whup-whup-whup of tape hitting the end of a reel.Ohmygod, Jack says, all in one word, as if he had all along not been expecting something precisely like what is before him. With a terrible, insistent certainty, the sound of the tape drives home the fact that Henry is dead. Jacks sorrow overrides his chickenhearted desire to go outside and call every cop in the state of Wisconsin by compelling him to grope for the light switch. He cannot leave he must witness, as he did with Irma Freneau.His fingers brush against the down-ticked plastic switch and settle on it. Into the back of his throat rises a sour, brassy taste. He flicks the switch up, and light floods the studio.Henrys body leans out of the tall leather chair and over the desk, his hands on either side of his prize microphone, his face flattened on its left side. He is still wearing his dark glasses, but one of the thin metal bows is bent. At first, everything seems to have been painted red, for the nearly kindred coat of blood covering the desk has been dripping onto Henrys lap and the tops of his thighs for some time, and all the equipment has been sprayed with red. Part of Henrys cheek has been bitten off. He is missing two fingers from his right hand. To Jacks eyes, which have been taking an inventory as they register all the expand of the room, most of Henrys blood loss came from a wound in his back. Blood-soaked clothing conceals the injury, but as much blood lies pooled, dripping, at the back of the chair as covers the desk. Most of the blood on the floor came from the chair. The Fisherman must have sliced an internal organ, or severed an artery.Very little blood, apart from a fine mist over the controls, has hit the tape recorder. Jack can hardly remember how these machines work, but he has seen Henry change reels often enough to h ave a sense of what to do. He turns the recorder off and threads the end of the tape into the empty reel. Then he turns the machine on and pushes REWIND. The tape glides smoothly over the heads, spooling from one reel to the other.Did you make a tape for me, Henry? Jack asks. I bet you did, but I hope you didnt die telling me what I already know.The tape clicks to a stop. Jack pushes PLAY and holds his breath.In all his bull-necked, red-faced glory, George Rathbun booms from the speakers. Bottom of the ninth, and the home team is headed for the showers, pal. But the game aint OVER till the last BLIND man is DEADJack sags against the wall.Henry Shake enters the room and tells him to call Maxtons. The Wisconsin Rat sticks his head in and screams about Black House. The Sheik the Shake the Shook and George Rathbun have a short debate, which the Shake wins. It is too much for Jack he cannot stop his tears, and he does not bother to try. He lets them come. Henrys last performance moves hi m enormously. It is so bountiful, so pure ?? so purely Henry. Henry Leyden kept himself alive by calling on his alternate selves, and they did the job. They were a faithful crew, George and the Shake and the Rat, and they went down with the ship, not that they had much choice. Henry Leyden reappears, and in a voice that grows fainter with each phrase, says that Jack can beat vain and stupid. Henrys dying voice says he had a wonderful life. His voice drops to a whisper and utters three words filled to the brim with gratified surprise Ah, Lark. Hello. Jack can hear the smile in those words.Weeping, Jack staggers out of the studio. He wants to feed into a chair and cry until he has no more tears, but he cannot fail either himself or Henry so greatly. He moves down the hallway, wipes his eyes, and waits for the stony sorrow to help him deal with his grief. It will help him deal with Black House, too. The sorrow is not to be deterred or deflected it works like steel in his spine.The gho st of Henry Shake whispers Jack, this sorrow is never going to leave you. Are you down with that??? Wouldnt have it any other way.Just as long as you know. Wherever you go, whatever you do. Through every door. With every woman. If you have children, with your children. Youll hear it in all the music you listen to, youll see it in every book you read. It will be part of the food you eat. With you forever. In all the worlds. In Black House.?? I am it, and it is me.George Rathbuns whisper is twice as loud as the Sheik the Shake the Shooks Well, damnit, son, can I hear you say DYAMBA??? Dyamba.I reckon now you know why the bees embraced you. Dont you have a think call to make?Yes, he does. But he cannot bear to be in this blood-soaked house any longer he needs to be out in the warm summer night. Letting his feet land where they may, Jack walks across the ruined living room and passes through the doorway. His sorrow walks with him, for he is it and it is he. The enormous sky hangs far a bove him, pierced with stars. Out comes the devoted cell phone.And who answers the telephone at the French Landing Police billet? Arnold Flashlight Hrabowski, of course, with a new nickname and just reinstated as a member of the force. Jacks news puts Flashlight Hrabowski in a state of high agitation. What? Gosh Oh, no. Oh, who woulda believed it? Gee. Yeah, yessir. Ill take care of that right away, you bet.So while the origin Mad Hungarian tries to keep both his hands and voice from shake as he dials the chiefs home number and passes on Jacks two-sided message, Jack himself wanders away from the house, away from the drive and his pickup truck, away from anything that reminds him of human beings, and into a meadow filled with high, yellow-green grasses. His sorrow leads him, for his sorrow knows better than he what he needs.Above all, he needs rest. Sleep, if sleep is possible. A soft spot on level ground far from the coming tumult of red lights and sirens and furious, hyperact ive policemen. Far from all that desperation. A place where a man can lay his head and get a representative view of the local heavens. Half a mile down the fields, Jack comes to such a place between a cornfield and the unsmooth beginnings of the wooded hills. His sorrowing mind tells his sorrowing, exhausted body to lie down and make itself comfortable, and his body obeys. Overhead, the stars seem to vibrate and blur, though of course real stars in the familiar, real heavens do not act that way, so it must be an optical illusion. Jacks body stretches out, and the pad of grass and surface soil beneath his body seems to adjust itself around him, although this, too, must be an illusion, for everyone knows that in real life, the actual ground tends to be obdurate, inflexible, and stony. Jack Sawyers sorrowing mind tells his sorrowing ache of a body to fall asleep, and impossible as it may seem, fall asleep it does.Within minutes, Jack Sawyers sleeping body undergoes a subtle transforma tion. Its edges seem to soften, its colors ?? his wheaten hair, his light tan jacket, his soft brown shoes ?? grow paler. An odd translucency, a haziness or cloudiness, enters the process. It is as if we can peer through the cloudy, indistinct mass of his slow-breathing body to see the soft, crushed blades of grass that form its mattress. The longer we peer, the more clearly we can take in the grass beneath him, for his body is getting vaguer and vaguer. At last it is only a shimmer over the grass, and by the time the Jack- wrought pad of green has again straightened itself, the body that shaped it is long gone.