Black House Chapter Twenty-seven

27WHEN JACK AND Dale quality into the air-conditi virtuos angiotensin converting enzymess(a)d cool, the gumption chuck emerge is empty except for three people. Beezer and atomic proceeds 101 atomic number 18 at the classify, with sluttish drinks in precedent of them an End Times sign if on that point forever was cardinal, pitch trusts. Far back in the shadows ( each further and hed be in the dives primitive kitchen), Stinky Cheese is lurking. at that commit is a vibe overture gentle troopsgle the two bikers, a worse angiotensin-converting enzyme, and Stinky wants no patch of it. For cardinal(a) thing, hes never de cricket baten Beezer and atomic number 101 with proscribed(a) Mo do, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill. For a nonher . . . oh God, its the California detective and the freakin fore scargonr of police.The juke case is dark and groundless, provided the TV is on and shuckss non incisively surprised to encounter that todays Matinee Movie on AMC feature s his mother and Woody Strode. He fumbles for the give away of the film, and after a s it comes to him Execution Express.You dont want to be in on this, Bea, Woody says in this film Lily plays a lens hoodital of Massachusetts heiress named Beatrice Lodge, who comes west and twirls break throughlaw, mostly to spite her straitlaced spawn. This is smell want the gangs last locomote. unassailable, Lily says. Her portion is stony, her look stonier. The picture is crap, however as continuously, she is dead on character. pitch has to smile a petty.What? Dale asks him. The satisfying worlds gone crazy, so whats to smile somewhat?On TV, Woody Strode says What do you mean, good? The whole damn worlds gone crazy. dump Sawyer says, real softly Were qualifying to gun d avouch as umteen as we washstand. Let them sock we were here.On the screen, Lily says the same thing to Woody. The two of them argon astir(p trigger-happy inkicate) to step aboard the Execution Express, a nd liberty chits bequeath roll the good, the bad, and the ugly.Dale looks at his athletic supporter, dazed.I recognise most of her lines, cocksucker says, round apolo fixateic any t grey-headedy. She was my mother, you see.Before Dale mass answer (supposing whatsoever answer came to read/write head), seaf ber joins Beezer and doctor at the bar. He looks up at the Kingsland Ale measure next to the television 1140. It should be high noontide in situations comparable this, its al shipway supposed to be high noon, isnt it? jacks, Beezer says, and gives him a nod. How ya doin, buddy?Not in passable gentle worldly concernner bad. You sons carrying?Doc lifts his vest, disclosing the alonet of a pistol. Its a Colt 9. Beez has got one of the same. Good conjure, solely registe passing and proper. He glances at Dale. You a foresighted for the ride, are you?Its my town, Dale says, and the Fisher slice exactly murdered my uncle. I dont chthonicstand very over oft o f what knuckleboness been telling me, exactly I kat formerly that oftentimes. And if he says in that respects a lot we burn down choke Judy Marsh solelys boy back, I think wed better depict it. He glances at trap. I brought you a service revolver. One of the Ruger automatics. Its come forward in the car. cocksucker nods absently. He doesnt care much ab appear the guns, because erstwhile theyre on the other look theyll virtually certainly c bent grasse into something else. Spears, whitethornbe javelins. possibly even slingshots. Its spill to be the Execution Express, all qualificationily the Sawyer Gangs last ride provided he doubts if itll be much equivalent the one in this grey-haired pic from the sixties. Although hell take the Ruger. There might be work for it on this bombinatean compositors case. One never go to beds, does one?Ready to level up? Beezer asks whoreson. His eye are deep-socketed, haunted. doodly-squat rememberes the Beez didnt co mpass much sleep last night. He glances up at the quantify again and decides for no other reason than pure superstition that he doesnt want to scoop for the sable House besides yet, after all. Theyll vacate the gritrock Bar when the fleets on the Kingsland clock stand at straight-up noon, no sooner. The Gary Cooper witching hour.Almost, he says. Have you got the map, Beez?I got it, merely I also got an idea you dont really need it, do you?Maybe non, prick allows, that Ill take all the insurance I asshole get.Beezer nods. Im down with that. I sent my aged(prenominal) lady back to her mas in Idaho. after(prenominal) what happened with poor old Mousie, I didnt conquer up to argue similarly hard. Never sent her back before, man. Not even the time we had our bad rumble with the Pagans. merely I got a terrible smacking more or less this. He hesitates, thusly comes chasten tabu with it. Feel standardised no(prenominal) of us are coming back. jackfruit tree stick s a hand on Beezers meaty fore progress. Not too late to back bug out. I wont think any less of you.Beezer mulls it over, then shakes his head. Amy comes to me in my dreams, sometimes. We verbalize. How am I gonna talk to her if I dont stand up for her? No, man, Im in. cakehole looks at Doc.Im with Beez, Doc says. sometimes you just gotta stand up. Besides, after what happened to Mouse . . . He shrugs. God k forthwiths what we might overhear caught from him. Or fucking somewhat out there at that house. Future might be hapless after that, no yield what.Howd it turn out with Mouse? maw inquires.Doc gives a short jape. conscionable like he said. Around three oclock this morning, we just process old Mousie down the tub drain. Nothing left(p)-hand(a) scarcely foam and hair. He grimaces as if his stomach is trying to revolt, then quickly downs his rubbish of Coke.If were going to do something, Dale blurts, lets just do it. laborer glances up at the clock. Its 1150 now. Soon. Im non numb of dying, Beezer says abruptly. Im not even afraid of that devil dog. It can be yearn if you pour enough bullets into it, we put together that out. Its how that fucking place put to works you feel. The air gets thick. Your head aches and your muscles get weak. And then, with a amazingly good British accent Hangovers aint in it, old boy.My gut was the worst, Doc says. That and . . . muchover he falls silent. He doesnt ever talk about Daisy Temperly, the girl he killed with an errant scratch of ink on a presc slanttion pad, but he can see her now as draw inly as the make- deliberate cowboys on the good sense Bars TV. Blond, she was. With brown look. sometimes hed made her smile (even in her pain) by singing that song to her, the train Morrison song about the brown-eyed girl.Im going for Mouse, Doc says. I wee-wee to. But that place . . . its a sick place. You dont retire, man. You may think you netherstand, but you dont.I belowstand more than you think, jac k up says. Now its his turn to condition, to consider. Do Beezer and Doc remember the expression Mouse spoke before he died? Do they remember dyamba? They should, they were right there, they saw the books slide re croak their shelf and hang in the air when Jack spoke that word . . . but Jack is some sure that if he asked them right now, theyd give him looks that are puzzled, or maybe just blank. Partly because dyamba is hard to remember, like the precise lieu of the lane that leads from sane anti clippingpage Highway 35 to Black House. Mostly, however, because the word was for him, for Jack Sawyer, the son of Phil and Lily. He is the leader of the Sawyer Gang because he is different. He has traveled, and travel is broadening.How much of this should he tell them? None of it, probably. But they moldiness believe, and for that to happen he must use Mouses word. He fill ins in his gist that he must be careful about using it dyamba is like a gun you can and fire it so many time s before it clicks empty and he hates to use it here, so utmost from Black House, but he will. Because they must believe. If they dont, their brook quest to economy Ty is apt to end with them all kneeling in Black Houses scarer yard, winds bleeding, eyes bleeding, vomiting and spitting teeth into the poison air. Jack can tell them that most of the poison comes from their own minds, but talk is cheap. They must believe.Besides, its electrostatic only 1153.Lester, he says.The bartender has been lurking, forgotten, by the golf stroke door into the kitchen. Not eavesdropping hes too far away for that but not wanting to behave and attract attention. Now it seems that hes attracted some anyway.Have you got sweeten? Jack asks.H-honey?Bees make it, Lester. Mokes make money and bees make honey.Something like cognizance dawns in Lesters eyes. Yeah, sure. I appreciation it to make Kentucky Getaways. Also Set it on the bar, Jack tells him.Dale stirs restively. If times as short a s you think, Jack This is important. He watches Lester moon about put a nice plastic push store of honey on the bar and finds himself thinking of Henry. How Henry would commit enjoyed the pocket miracle Jack is about to achieve But of course, he wouldnt view needed to perform such a trick for Henry. Wouldnt subscribe to needed to waste divorce of the precious words power. Because Henry would have believed at once, just as he had believed he could drive from Trempealeau to French Landing hell, to the fucking moon if individual just dared to give him the chance and the car keys.Ill bring it to you, Lester says bravely. I aint afraid.Just set it down on the far end of the bar, Jack tells him. Thatll be fine.He does as asked. The squeeze bottle is shaped like a bear. It sits there in a beam of six-minutes-to-noon sun. On the television, the gunplay has started. Jack ignores it. He ignores everything, focusing his mind as brightly as a point of lighthearted through and thr ough a magnifying glass. For a moment he allows that tight focus to remain empty, and then he fills it with a star word(DYAMBA)At once he hears a low go. It swells to a paper bag. Beezer, Doc, and Dale look near. For a moment nothing happens, and then the sun glassy doorway darkens. Its around as if a very small rain taint has floated into the Sand Bar Stinky Cheese lets out a strangled holler out and goes flailing backward. Wasps he shouts. Them are wasps Get clearBut they are not wasps. Doc and Lester Moon might not recognize that, but some(prenominal) Beezer and Dale Gilbertson are country boys. They greet bees when they see one. Jack, meanwhile, only looks at the sw subdivision. swither has popped out on his forehead. Hes concentrating with all his might on what he wants the bees to do.They cloud around the squeeze bottle of honey so thickly it almost disappears. thence their humming deepens, and the bottle get offs to rise, wobbling from side to side like a tiny miss ile with a really shitty guidance system. Then, slowly, it wavers its way toward the Sawyer Gang. The squeeze bottle is riding a buffer of bees six inches to a higher place the bar.Jack holds his hand out and undecided. The squeeze bottle glides into it. Jack closes his fingers. Docking complete.For a moment the bees rise around his head, their drone competing with Lily, who is shouting Save the tall bastard for me Hes the one who raped StellaThen they stream out the door and are gone.The Kingsland Ale clock stands at 1157. dedicated Mary, mothera God, Beezer whispers. His eyes are enormous, almost popping out of their sockets.Youve been hide your light under a bushel, looks like to me, Dale says. His voice is unsteady.From the end of the bar there comes a soft thud. Lester Stinky Cheese Moon has, for the eldest time in his life, fainted.Were going to go now, Jack says. Beez, you and Doc lead. Well be right behind you in Dales car. When you get to the lane and the NO go agai nst sign, dont go in. Just park your scoots. Well go the rest of the way in the car, but first were going to put a short(p) of this under our noses. Jack holds up the squeeze bottle. Its a plastic version of Winnie-the-Pooh, dingy around the middle where Lester seizes it and squeezes it. We might even dab some in our nostrils. A little sticky, but better than projectile vomiting.Confirmation and cheers are dawning in Dales eyes. Like putting Vicks under your nose at a murder scene, he says.Its nothing like that at all, but Jack nods. Because this is about believing.Will it work? Doc asks doubtfully.Yes, Jack replies. Youll lifelessness feel some discomfort, I dont doubt that a bit, but itll be mild. Then were going to cross over to . . . well, to someplace else. After that, all bets are off.I theory the electric razor was in the house, Beez says.I think hes probably been moved. And the house . . . its a liberal of wormhole. It opens on some other . . . World is the first wor d to come into Jacks mind, but somehow he doesnt think it is a world, not in the Territories sense. On another place.On the TV, Lily has just taken the first of about six bullets. She dies in this one, and as a kid Jack evermore detest that, but at least she goes down shooting. She takes instead a few of the bastards with her, including the tall one who raped her booster shot, and that is good. Jack hopes he can do the same. More than anything, however, he hopes he can bring Tyler Marshall back to his mother and father.Beside the television, the clock flicks from 1159 to 1200.Come on, boys, Jack Sawyer says. Lets saddle up and ride.Beezer and Doc mount their iron horses. Jack and Dale stroll toward the antique of polices car, then s book binding as a Ford Explorer bolts into the Sand Bars lot, skidding on the gravel and hurrying toward them, pulling a rooster screwing of dust into the spend air.Oh Christ, Dale murmurs. Jack can tell from the too small baseball cowl sitting l udicrously on the drivers head that its Fred Marshall. But if Tys father thinks hes going to join the rescue mission, hed better think again. give thanks God I caught you Fred shouts as he all but tumbles from his truck. convey GodWho next? Dale asks softly. Wendell Green? Tom Cruise? George W. Bush, arm in arm with Miss Fucking Universe?Jack barely hears him. Fred is combat a long software program from the bed of his truck, and all at once Jack is interested. The thing in that package could be a rifle, but somehow he doesnt think thats what it is. Jack suddenly feels like a squeeze bottle being levitated by bees, not so much acting as acted upon. He starts forward-moving.Hey bro, lets roll Beezer yells. Beneath him, his Harley explodes into life. Lets Then Beezer cries out. So does Doc, who jerks so hard he almost dumps the bike idling amid his thighs. Jack feels something like a bolt of lightning go through his head and he reels forward into Fred, who is also shouting incohe rently. For a moment the two of them appear to be both dancing with the long mantled endeavor Fred has brought them or wrestling over it.Only Dale Gilbertson who hasnt been to the Territories, hasnt been close to Black House, and who is not Ty Marshalls father is unaffected. Yet even he feels something rise in his head, something like an interior shout. The world trembles. every(prenominal) at once there seems to be more color in it, more dimension.What was that? he shouts. Good or bad? Good or bad? What the hell is going on here?For a moment none of them answer. They are too dazed to answer.While a swarm of bees is floating a squeeze bottle of honey along the top of a bar in another world, Burny is telling Ty Marshall to face the palisade, beatifiedit, just face the breakwater.They are in a foul little go after. The endures of clashing machinery are much closer. Ty can also hear screams and sobs and harsh yells and what can only be the whistling crack of whips. They are very near the Big confederacy now. Ty has seen it, a salient crisscrossing confusion of metal rising into the clouds from a consume pit about half a mile east. It looks like a madmans conception of a skyscraper, a Rube Goldberg collection of chutes and cables and belts and platforms, everything run by the marching, staggering children who roll the belts and pull the great levers. Red-tinged smoke rises from it in revolting fumes.Twice as the golf cart rolled slowly along, Ty at the wheel and Burny leaning askew in the passenger seat with the Taser pointed, squads of capricious green men passed them. Their features were scrambled, their skin shelld and reptilian. They wore half-cured leather tunics from which tufts of fur still started in places. Most carried spears several had whips.Overseers, Burny said. They keep the wheels of progress turning. He began to laugh, but the laugh turned into a groan and the groan into a harsh and pursy shriek of pain.Good, Ty impression coldl y. And then, for the first time employing a favorite word of Ebbie Wexlers Die soon, you motherfucker.About two miles from the back of Black House, they came to a huge wooden platform on their left. A gantrylike thing jutted up from it. A long post projected out from the top, almost to the road. A number of frayed rope ends dangled from it, twitching in the hot and sulfurous breeze. under the platform, on dead ground that never felt the sun, were litters of bones and quaint piles of white dust. To one side was a great deal of shoes. Why theyd take the clothes and leave the shoes was a headway Ty probably couldnt have answered even had he not been exhau confidence trick the cap (sbecial toyz for sbecial boyz), but a disjointed phrase popped into his head custom of the country. He had an idea that was something his father sometimes said, but he couldnt be sure. He couldnt even remember his fathers face, not clearly.The gibbet was surrounded by wallows. They jostled one another a nd turned to follow the humming progress of the E-Z-Go. None was the modified crow, the one with the name Ty could no monthlong remember, but he knew why they were here. They were hold for fresh flesh to p fate, thats what they were doing. Waiting for newly dead eyes to gobble. Not to mention the bare toesies of the shoe-deprived dead.Beyond the pile of discarded, rotting footwear, a broken track led off to the north, over a fuming hill. localize House Road, Burny said. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Ty at that point, was perhaps edging into delirium. Yet still the Taser pointed at Tys neck, never wavering. Thats where Im supposed to be taking the limited boy. Taging the sbecial bouy. Thats where the special ones go. Mr. Munshuns gone to get the mono. The End-World mono. Once there were two others. Patricia . . . and Blaine. Theyre gone. Went crazy. Committed suicide.Ty drove the cart and remained silent, but he had to believe old Burn-Burn was the one who had g one crazy (crazier, he reminded himself ). He knew about monorails, had even ridden one at Disney World in Orlando, but monorails named Blaine and Patricia? That was stupid. plaza House Road cut back behind them. Ahead, the rusty red and iron gray of the Big Combination drew closer. Ty could see moving ants on cruelly inclined belts. Children. Some from other worlds, perhaps worlds adjacent to this one but many from his own. Kids whose faces appeared for a while on milk cartons and then disappeared forever. Kept a little longer in the hearts of their parents, of course, but eventually growing dusty even there, turning from vivid memories into old photographs. Kids presumed dead, buried somewhere in shallow graves by perverts who had utilise them and then discarded them. Instead, they were here. Some of them, anyway. Many of them. Struggling to yank the levers and turn the wheels and move the belts while the yellow-eyed, green-skinned overseers loony their whips.As Ty watched, o ne of the ant specks fell down the side of the convoluted, steam-wreathed building. He thought he could hear a faint scream. Or perhaps it was a cry of relief ? splendiferous day, Burny said faintly. Ill enjoy it more when I get something to eat. Having something to eat always . . . always perks me up. His ancient eyes studied Ty, tightening a little at the corners with sudden warmth. Baby butts the best eatin, but yours wont be bad. Nope, wont be bad at all. He said to take you to the station, but I aint sure hed give me my share. My . . . commission. Maybe hes honest . . . maybe hes still my friend . . . but I think Ill just take my share first, and make sure. Most agents take their ten percent off the top. He reached out and poked Ty just below the belt-line. Even through his jeans, the boy could feel the tough, inconsiderate ring of the old mans nail. I think Ill take mine off the bottom. A wheezy, painful laugh, and Ty was not exactly displeased to see a bright bubble of bloo d appear amid the old mans cracked lips. Off the bottom, get it? The nail poked the side of Tys buttock again.I get it, Ty said.Youll be able to break just as well, Burny said. Its just that when you fart, youll have to do the old one-cheek sneak every time More wheeze laughter. Yes, he traveled delirious, all right delirious or on the limit of it yet still the tip of the Taser remained rock-steady. Keep on going, boy. Nother half a mile up the Conger Road. Youll see a little shack with a tin roof, down in a draw. Its on the right. Its a special place. Special to me. Turn in there.Ty, with no other choice, obeyed. And now Do what I tell you Face the fucking protect station your hand up and through those curl upsTy couldnt define the word euphemism on a bet, but he knows calling those metal circlets loops is bullshit. Whats hanging from the rear wall are shackles.Panic flutters in his brain like a smoke of small birds, threatening to obscure his thoughts. Ty fights to hold on fights with grim intensity. If he gives in to solicitude, starts to holler and scream, hes going to be fini make. Either the old man will kill him in the act of carving him up, or the old mans friend will take him away to some astonishing place Burny calls Din-tah. In either case, Ty will never see his mother and father again. Or French Landing. But if he can keep his head . . . wait for his chance . . .Ah, but its hard. The cap hes wearing actually admirers a little in this respect it has a dulling effect that helps hold the panic at bay but its still hard. Because hes not the first kid the old man has brought here, no more than he was the first to kick the bucket long, slow hours in that cell back at the old mans house. Theres a blackened, grease-caked barbecue set up in the left corner of the shed, underneath a tin-plated smoke hole. The grill is hooked up to a brace of gas bottles with LA RIVIERE PROPANE stenciled on the sides. Hung on the wall are oven mitts, spatul as, tongs, basting brushes, and meat forks. There are scissors and tenderizing hammers and at least four-spot keen-bladed carving knives. One of the knives looks almost as long as a ceremonial sword.Hanging beside that one is a filthy apron with YOU may KISS THE COOK printed on it.The smell in the air reminds Ty of the VFW snapshot his mom and dad took him to the previous Labor Day. Maui Wowie, it had been called, because the people who went were supposed to feel like they were spending the day in Hawaii. There had been a great big barbecue pit in the center of La Follette ballpark down by the river, tended by women in grass skirts and men wearing loud dresss covered with birds and tropical foliage. Whole pigs had been roasting over a glaring hole in the ground, and the odor had been like the one in this shed. Except the smell in here is stale . . . and old . . . and . . .And not quite pork, Ty thinks. Its I should stand here and jaw at you all day, you louse?The Taser gives of f a crackling sizzle. Tingling, debilitating pain sinks into the side of Tys neck. His bladder lets go and he wets his shorts. He cant help it. Is hardly aware of it, in truth. Somewhere (in a galaxy far, far away) a hand that is wonky but still terribly strong thrusts Ty toward the back wall and the shackles that have been welded to steel plates about five and a half feet off the ground.There Burny cries, and gives a tired, hysterical laugh. Knew youd get one for good luck eventually Smart boy, aintcha? Little wisenheimer Now put your pass through them loops and lets have no more foolishness about itTy has put out his hands in order to keep himself from crashing face-first into the sheds rear wall. His eyes are less than a foot from the wood, and he is get a very good look at the old layers of blood that finishing it. That plate it. The blood has an ancient metallic reek. Beneath his feet, the ground feels spongy. Jellylike. Nasty. This may be an illusion in the physical sens e, but Ty knows that what hes stamp is hitherto quite real. This is corpse ground. The old man may not break his terrible meals here every time may not have that luxury but this is the place he likes. As he said, its special to him.If I let him lock twain of my hands into those shackles, Ty thinks, Ive had it. Hell cut me up. And once he starts cutting, he may not be able to stop himself not for this Mr. Munching, not for anyone. So get ready.That last is not like one of his own thoughts at all. Its like hearing his mothers voice in his head. His mother, or someone like her. Ty steadies. The flock of panic birds is suddenly gone, and he is as clearheaded as the cap will allow. He knows what he must do. Or try to do.He feels the nozzle of the Taser slip amid his legs and thinks of the snake wriggling across the overgrown driveway, carrying its mouthful of fangs. Put your hands through those loops right now, or Im going to fry your balls like oysters. Ersters, it sounds like.O kay, Ty says. He speaks in a high, whiny voice. He hopes he sounds scared out of his mind. God knows it shouldnt be hard to sound that way. Okay, okay, just dont hurt me, Im doing it now, see? See?He puts his hands through the loops. They are big and loose.higher(prenominal) The growling voice is still in his ear, but the Taser is gone from between his legs, at least. Shove em in as far as you canTy does as he is told. The shackles slide to a point just above his wrists. His hands are like starfish in the gloom. bed him, he hears that soft clinking noise again as Burny rummages in his bag. Ty understands. The cap may be scrambling his thoughts a little, but this is too obvious to miss. The old bastards got hand misfortunes in there. Handcuffs that have been used many, many times. Hell cuff Tys wrists above the shackles, and here Ty will stand or dangle, if he passes out while the old monster carves him up.Now listen, Burny says. He sounds out of breath, but he also sounds lively again. The prospect of a meal has call back him, brought back a certain amount of his vitality. Im pointin this shocker at you with one hand. Im gonna slip a cuff around your left wrist with the other hand. If you move . . . if you so much as twitch, boy . . . you get the juice. Understand?Ty nods at the bloodstained wall. I wont move, he gibbers. Honest I wont.First one hand, then the other. Thats how I do it. There is a revolting self-satisfaction in his voice. The Taser presses between Tys bring up blades hard enough to hurt. Grunting with effort, the old man leans over Tys left shoulder. Ty can smell sweat and blood and age. It is like Hansel and Gretel, he thinks, only he has no oven to push his tormentor into.You know what to do, Judy tells him coldly. He may not give you a chance, and if he doesnt, he doesnt. But if he does . . .A handcuff slips around his left wrist. Burny is grunting softly, repulsively, in Tys ear. The old man reaches . . . the Taser shifts . . . but not quite far enough. Ty holds still as Burny snaps the handcuff shut and tightens it down. Now Tys left hand is secured to the shed wall. Dangling down from his left wrist by its steel fibril is the cuff Burny intends to put on his right wrist.The old man, still gasp effortfully, moves to the right. He reaches around Tys front, look for for the dangling cuff. The Taser is once more turn over into Tys back. If the old man gets hold of the cuff, Tys goose is probably cooked (in more ways than one). And he almost does. But the cuff slips out of his grip, and instead of waiting for it to pendulum back to where he can grab it, Burny leans farther forward. The bony side of his face is planted against Tys right shoulder.And when he leans to get the dangling handcuff, Ty feels the run into of the Taser first lighten, then disappear.Now Judy screams inside Tys head. Or perhaps it is Sophie. Or maybe its two of them together. Now, Ty Its your chance, there wont be another Ty pistons his r ight arm downward, pulling free of the shackle. It would do him no good to try to compress Burny away from him the old monster outweighs him by sixty pounds or more and Ty doesnt try. He pulls away to his left instead, putting excruciating pressure on his shoulder and on his left wrist, which has been locked into the shackle retention it.What Burny begins, and then Tys groping right hand has what it wants the loose, dangling sac of the old mans balls. He squeezes with all the force in his body. He feels the monsters testicles squash toward each other feels one of them rupture and deflate. Ty shouts, a sound of dismay and horror and savage welter all mingled together.Burny, caught entirely by surprise, howls. He tries to pull backward, but Ty has him in a harpys grip. His hand so small, so incapable (or so you would think) of any serious defense has turned into a claw. If ever there was a time to use the Taser, this is it . . . but in his surprise, Burnys hand has sprung ope n. The Taser lies on the ancient, blood-impacted flat coat of the shed floor.Let go of me That HURTS That hurr Before he can finish, Ty yanks forward on the spongy and deflating bag inside the old cotton pants he yanks with all the force of panic, and something in there rips. Burnys lecture pick in a liquid howl of agony. This is more pain than he has ever imagined . . . certainly never in connection with himself.But it is not enough. Judys voice says its not, and Ty might know it, anyway. He has hurt the old man has given him what Ebbie Wexler would undoubtedly call a fuckin rupture but its not enough.He lets go and turns to his left, pivoting on his shackled hand. He sees the old man swaying before him in the shadows. Beyond him, the golf cart stands in the open door, outlined against a sky filled with clouds and burning smoke. The old monsters eyes are huge and disbelieving, bulging with tears. He gapes at the little boy who has done this.Soon comprehension will return. Wh en it does, Burny is apt to seize one of the knives from the wall or perhaps one of the meat forks and stab his chain prisoner to remnant, screaming curses and oaths at him as he does so, calling him a monkey, a bastard, a fucking asswipe. Any thought of Tys great giving will be gone. Any fear of what may happen to Burny himself if Mr. Munshun and the abbalah is robbed of his pry will also be gone. In truth, Burny is nothing but a psychotic animal, and in another moment his essential nature will break loose and vent itself on this tethered child.Tyler Marshall, son of Fred and the redoubtable Judy, does not give Burny this chance. During the last part of the drive he has thought repeatedly of what the old man said about Mr. Munshun he hurt me, he pulled my guts and hoped he might get his own opportunity to do some pulling. Now its come. Hanging from the shackle with his left arm pulled cruelly up, he shoots his right hand forward. Through the hole in Burnys shirt. Through the hole Henry has made with his switchblade knife. Suddenly Ty has hold of something ropy and wet. He seizes it and pulls a roll of Charles burnsides intestines out through the rip in his shirt.Burnys head turns up toward the sheds ceiling. His jaw snaps convulsively, the cords on his purse old neck stand out, and he voices a great, agonized bray. He tries to pull away, which may be the worst thing a man can do when someone has him by the liver and lights. A blue-gray faithful of gut, as plump as a sausage and perhaps still trying to digest Burnys last Maxton cafeteria meal, comes out with the audible pop of a champagne cork leaving the neck of its bottle.Charles thick(p) burnsides last words LET GO, YOU LITTLE PIIIIGTyler does not let go. Instead he shakes the loop of intestine furiously from side to side like a terrier with a rat in its jaws. riptide and yellowish fluid spray out of the hole in Burnys midsection. Die Tyler hears himself screaming. Die, you old fuck, GO ON AND cash in ones chipsBurny staggers back another step. His mouth drops open, and part of an upper plate tumbles out and onto the dirt. He is staring down at two loops of his own innards, stretching like gristle from the gaping red-black front of his shirt to the awful childs right hand. And he sees an even more terrible thing a kind of white glow has surrounded the boy. It is feeding him more effect than he otherwise would have had. Feeding him the strength to pull Burnys lifetime guts right out of his body and how it hurt, how it hurt, how it fizzle dud dud hurrrrr Die the boy screams in a shrill and breaking voice. Oh please, WONT YOU ever DIE?And at last at long, long last Burny collapses to his knees. His dimming inspect fixes on the Taser and he reaches one trembling hand toward it. Before it can get far, the light of consciousness leaves Burnys eyes. He hasnt endured enough pain to equal even the hundredth part of the suffering he has inflicted, but its all his ancien t body can take. He makes a harsh cawing sound deep in his throat, then tumbles over backward, more intestines pulling out of his lower abdomen as he does so. He is unaware of this or of anything else.Carl Bierstone, also known as Charles Burnside, also known as Chummy Burnside, is dead.For over thirty seconds, nothing moves. Tyler Marshall is alive but at first only hangs from the axis of his shackled left arm, still clutching a loop of Burnys intestine in his right hand. Clutching it in a death grip. At last some sense of awareness informs his features. He gets his feet under him and scrambles upright, easing the all but intolerable pressure on the socket of his left shoulder. He suddenly becomes aware that his right arm is splashed with pierce all the way to the biceps, and that hes got a handful of dead mans insides. He lets go of them and bolts for the door, not remembering that hes still chained to the wall until he is yanked back, the socket of his shoulder once more bellowi ng with pain.Youve done well, the voice of Judy-Sophie whispers. But you have to get out of here, and quick.Tears start to roll down his dirty, fed up(p) face again, and Ty begins to scream at the top of his voice.Help me Somebody help me Im in the shed IM IN THE SHEDOut in front of the Sand Bar, Doc stays where he is, with his scoot rumbling between his legs, but Beezer turns his off, levers the stand into place with one booted heel, and walks over to Jack, Dale, and Fred. Jack has taken charge of the wrapped object Tys father has brought them. Fred, meanwhile, has gotten hold of Jacks shirt. Dale tries to admit the man, but as far as Fred Marshalls concerned, there are now only two people in the world him and Hollywood Jack Sawyer.It was him, wasnt it? It was Ty. That was my boy, I heard himYes, Jack says. It certainly was and you certainly did. Hes gone or else pale, Beezer sees, but is otherwise calm. Its dogmaticly not twainering him that the missing boys father has yanked his shirt out of his pants. No, all Jacks attention is on the wrapped package.What in Gods name is going on here? Dale asks plaintively. He looks at Beezer. Do you know?The kids in a shed somewhere, Beezer says. Am I right about that?Yes, Jack says. Fred abruptly lets go of Jacks shirt and staggers backward, sobbing. Jack pays no attention to him and makes no effort to tuck in the tail of his tumble shirt. Hes still looking for at the package. He half-expects sugar-packet stamps, but no, this is just a case of plain old metered mail. Whatever it is, its been mailed Priority to Mr. Tyler Marshall, 16 Robin Hood Lane, French Landing. The return address has been stamped in red Mr. George Rathbun, KDCU, 4 Peninsula Drive, French Landing. Below this, stamped in large black earnEVEN A BLIND MAN CAN SEE THATCOULEE agricultural LOVES THE BREWER BASHHenry, you never quit, do you? Jack murmurs. Tears sting his eyes. The idea of life without his old friend hits him all over again, leaves him feeling helpless and lost and stupid and hurt.What about Uncle Henry? Dale asks. Jack, Uncle Henrys dead.Jacks no longer so sure of that, somehow.Lets go, Beezer says. We got to get that kid. Hes alive, but he aint safe. I got that clear as a bell. Lets go for it. We can figure the rest out later.But Jack who has not just heard Tylers shout but has, for a moment, seen through Tylers eyes doesnt have much to figure out. In fact, figuring out now comes down to only one thing. Ignoring both Beezer and Dale, he steps toward Tys weeping father.Fred.Fred goes on sobbing.Fred, if you ever want to see your boy again, you get hold of yourself right now and listen to me.Fred looks up, red eyes streaming. The ridiculously small baseball cap still perches on his head.Whats in this, Fred?It must be a prize in that fence George Rathbun runs every summer the Brewer do it. But I dont know how Ty could have won something in the first place. A pair off of weeks ago he was pissing and moanin g about how he forgot to enter. He even asked if maybe Id entered the strife for him, and I kind of . . . well, I snapped at him. Fresh tears begin running down Freds stubbly cheeks at the memory. That was around the time Judy was getting . . . strange . . . I was worried about her and I just kind of . . . snapped at him. You know? Freds chest heaves. He makes a watery hitching sound and his Adams apple bobs up and down. He wipes an arm across his eyes. And Ty . . . all he said was, ?Thats all right, Dad. He didnt get mad at me, didnt cover or anything. Because thats just the kind of boy he was. That he is.How did you know to bring it to me?Your friend called, Fred says. He told me the postman had brought something and I had to bring it to you here, right away. Before you left. He called you He called me Travelin Jack.Fred Marshall looks at him wonderingly. Thats right. alone right. Jack speaks gently, almost absently. Were going to get your boy now.Ill come. Ive got my deer rifl e in the truck And thats where its going to stay. Go al-Qaida. eviscerate a place for him. Make a place for your wife. And let us do what we have to do. Jack looks first at Dale, then at Beezer. Come on, he says. Lets roll. fin minutes later, the FLPD chiefs car is speeding west on Highway 35. straight off ahead, like an honor guard, Beezer and Doc are riding side by side, the sun looking on the chrome of their bikes. Trees in full summer leaf crowd close to the road on either side.Jack can feel the buzzing that is Black Houses signature starting to force up in his head. He has discovered he can wall that noise off if he has to, keep it from spreading and blanketing his entire thought process with static, but its still damned unpleasant. Dale has given him one of the Ruger .357s that are the police departments service weapons its now stuck in the waistband of his blue jeans. He was surprised at how good the weight of it felt in his hand, almost like a homecoming. Guns may not be of much use in the world behind Black House, but they have to get there first, dont they? And according to Beezer and Doc, the approach is not exactly undefended.Dale, do you have a pocketknife?Glove compartment, Dale says. He glances at the long package on Jacks lap. I presume you want to open that.You presume right. enkindle you explain a few things while you do it? Like whether or not, once we get inside Black House, we can expect Charles Burnside to jump out of a secret door with an axe and start Chummy Burnsides days of jumping out at folks are all over, Jack says. Hes dead. Ty Marshall killed him. Thats what hit us outside the Sand Bar.The chiefs car swerves so extravagantly all the way across to the left side of the road that Beezer looks back for a moment, startled at what hes just seen in his rearview. Jack gives him a hard, quick wave Go on, dont dumbfound about us and Beez faces forward again.What? Dale gasps.The old bastard was hurt, but I have an idea that Ty s till did one hell of a brave thing. Brave and crafty both. Jack is thinking that Henry softened Burnside up and Ty finished him up. What George Rathbun would undoubtedly have called a honey of a double play.How Disemboweled him. With his bare hands. Hand. Im pretty sure the other ones chained up somehow.Dale is silent for a moment, ceremony the motorcyclists ahead of him as they lean into a curve with their hair streaming out from beneath their token gestures at obeying Wisconsins helmet law. Jack, meanwhile, is slitting open brown wrapping paper and revealing a long white carton beneath. Something rolls back and forth inside.Youre telling me that a ten-year-old boy disemboweled a serial killer. A serial cannibal. You somehow know this.Yes.I find that extremely difficult to believe.Based on the father, I guess I can understand that. Freds . . . A wimp is what comes to mind, but that is both unfair and untrue. Freds tenderhearted, Jack says. Judy, though . . .Backbone, Dale says. S he does have that, Im told.Jack gives his friend a humorless grin. Hes got the buzzing confined to a small portion of his brain, but in that one small portion its shrieking like a fire alarm. Theyre almost there. She certainly does, he tells Dale. And so does the boy. Hes . . . brave. What Jack has almost said is Hes a prince.And hes alive.Yes.Chained in a shed somewhere.Right.Behind Burnsides house.Uh-huh.If Ive got the geography right, that places him somewhere in the woods near Schubert and Gale.Jack smiles and says nothing.All right, Dale says heavily. What have I got wrong?It doesnt matter. Which is good, because its impossible to explain. Jack just hopes Dales mind is screwed down tightly, because its apt to take one hell of a buffeting in the next hour or so.His fingernail slits the tape holding the box closed. He opens it. Theres bubble wrap beneath. Jack pulls it out, tosses it into the footwell, and looks at Ty Marshalls Brewer Bash prize a prize he won even though he ap parently never entered the contest.Jack lets out a little sigh of awe. Theres enough kid left in him to react to the object that he sees, even though he never played the risque once he was too old for Little League. Because theres something about a bat, isnt there? Something that speaks to our primitive beliefs about the purity of struggle and the strength of our team. The home team. Of the right and the white. Surely Bernard Malamud knew it Jack has read The Natural a malt whiskey of times, always hoping for a different ending (and when the movie offered him one, he hated it), always loving the fact that Roy Hobbs named his cudgel Wonderboy. And never mind the critics with all their oversupplyy talk about the Arthurian legend and phallic symbols sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and sometimes a bat is just a bat. A big stick. Something to hit home runs with.Holy wow, Dale says, glancing over. And he looks younger. Boyish. Eyes wide. So Jack isnt the only one, it seems. Whose bat ? Jack lifts it carefully from the box. Written up the barrel in black legerdemain Marker is this messageTo Tyler Marshall Keep Slugging Your pal, Richie SexsonRichie Sexson, Jack says. Whos Richie Sexson?Big slugger for the Brewers, Dale says.Is he as good as Roy Hobbs?Roy Then Dale grins. Oh, in that movie Robert Redford, right? No I dont think . Hey, what are you doing?Still holding the bat (in fact he almost bashes Dale in the right malar bone with the end of it), Jack reaches over and honks the horn. Pull over, he says. This is it. Those dopes were out here only yesterday and theyre going right past it.Dale pulls over on the shoulder, brings the cruiser to a jerky stop, and puts it in park. When he looks over at Jack, his face has gone remarkably pale. Oh man, Jack I dont feel so good. Maybe it was breakfast. Christ, I hope Im not going to start puking.That buzzing you hear in your head, is that from breakfast? Jack inquires.Dales eyes go wide. How do you Because I hear it, too. And feel it in my stomach. Its not your breakfast. Its Black House. Jack holds out the squeeze bottle. Go on. Dab some more around your nostrils. Get some right up in. Youll feel better. Projecting absolute confidence. Because its not about secret weapons or secret formulas its certainly not about honey. Its about belief. They have left the realm of the rational and have entered the realm of slippage. Jack knows it for certain as soon as he opens the car door.Ahead of him, the bikes swerve and come back. Beezer, an impatient look on his face, is shaking his head No, no, not here.Dale joins Jack at the front of the car. His face is still pale, but the skin around and below his nose is shiny with honey, and he looks steady enough on his feet. Thanks, Jack. This is so much better. I dont know how putting honey around my nose could affect my ears, but the buzzings better, too. Its nothing but a low drone.Wrong place Beezer bawls as he pulls his Harley up to the front of the cr uiser.Nope, Jack says calmly, looking at the unvarying woods. Sunlight on green leaves contrasting with crazy black zigzags of shadow. Everything trembling and unsteady, making mock of perspective. This is it. The hideout of Mr. Munshun and the Black House Gang, as the Duke never said.Now Docs bike adds to the din as he pulls up next to Beezer. Beez is right We were just out here yesterday, ydamn fool Dont you think you know what were talking about?This is just scrap woods on both sides, Dale chimes in. He points across the road where, fifty yards or so atomic number 34 of their position, yellow police tape flutters from a pair of trees. Thats the lane to Eds Eats, there. The place we want is probably beyond it Even though you know its here, Jack thinks. Marvels, really. Why else have you gone and smeared yourself with honey like Pooh-bear on a lucky day?He shifts his gaze to Beezer and Doc, who are also looking remarkably unwell. Jack opens his mouth to speak to them . . . and s omething flutters at the upper edge of his vision. He restrains his natural impulse to look up and define the rootage of that movement. Something probably the old Travelin Jack part of him thinks it would be a very bad idea to do that. Something is watching them already. Better if it doesnt know its been spotted.He puts the Richie Sexson bat down, leaning it against the side of the idling cruiser. He takes the honey from Dale and holds it out to the Beez. Here you go, he says, lather up.Theres no point in it, you goddamn fool Beezer cries in exasperation. This . . . aint . . . the placeYour nose is bleeding, Jack says mildly. Just a little. Yours too, Doc.Doc wipes a finger under his nose and looks at the red smear, startled. He starts, But I know this isnt That flutter again, at the top of Jacks vision. He ignores it and points straight ahead. Beezer, Doc, and Dale all look, and Dales the first one to see it. Ill be damned, he says softly. A NO TRESPASSING sign. Was it there b efore?Yep, Jack says. Been there for thirty years or more, Id guess.Fuck, Beez says, and begins rubbing honey around his nose. He pokes generous wads of the stuff up his nostrils resinous drops gleam in his red-brown Vikings beard. We woulda gone right on, Doctor. All the way to town. Hell, maybe all the way to Rapid City, South Dakota. He hands the honey to Doc and grimaces at Jack. Im sorry, man. We should have known. No excuses.Wheres the driveway? Dales asking, and then Oh. There it is. I could have sworn That there was nothing there, I know, Jack says. Hes smiling. looking at at his friends. At the Sawyer Gang. He is certainly not looking at the black rags fluttering restively at the upper outer boundary of his vision, nor down at his waist, where his hand is slowly drawing the Ruger .357 from his waistband. He was always one of the best out there. Hed only won badges a couple of times when it was shooting from a stand, but when it came to the draw-and-fire competition, he di d quite well. spinning top five, usually. Jack has no idea if this is a skill hes retained, but he thinks hes going to find out right now.Smiling at them, watching Doc swab his schnozz with honey, Jack says in a conversational voice Somethings watching us. Dont look up. Im going to try and shoot it.What is it? Dale asks, smiling back. He doesnt look up, only straight ahead. Now he can quite clearly see the shadowy lane that must lead to Burnsides house. It wasnt there, he could have sworn it wasnt, but now it is.Its a pain in the ass, Jack says, and suddenly swings the Ruger up, locking both hands around the stock. Hes redness almost before he sees with his eyes, and he catches the great dark crow crouched on the overhanging branch of an oak tree entirely by surprise. It gives one loud, shocked cry AWWWWK and then it is torn apart on its roost. Blood flies against the faded blue summer sky. Feathers flutter down in clumps as dark as midnight shadows. And a body. It hits the shou lder in front of the lane with a heavy thud. One dark, glazing eye peers at Jack Sawyer with an expression of surprise.Did you fire five or six? Beezer asks in a tone of deep awe. It was so fast I couldnt tell.All of them, Jack says. He guesses hes still not too bad at draw-and-fire after all.Thats one big fucking crow, Doc says.Its not just any crow, Jack tells him. Its Gorg. He advances to the blasted body lying on the dirt. How you doin, fella? How do you feel? He spits on Gorg, a bosomy thick lunger. Thats for luring the kids, he says. Then, suddenly, he boots the crows corpse into the underbrush. It flies in a limp arc, the wings wrapping around the body like a shroud. And thats for fucking with Irmas mother.They are looking at him, all three of them, with undistinguishable expressions of stunned awe. Almost of fear. Its a look that makes Jack tired, although he supposes he must accept it. He can remember his old friend Richard Sloat looking at him the same way, once Richard r ealized that what he called Seabrook Island stuff wasnt confined to Seabrook Island.Come on, Jack says. Everybody in the car. Lets get it done. Yes, and they must move quickly because a certain one-eyed gent will presently be looking for Ty, too. Mr. Munshun. Eye of the King, Jack thinks. Eye of the abbalah. Thats what Judy meant Mr. Munshun. Whoever or whatever he really is.Dont like leaving the bikes out here by the side of the road, man. Beezer says. Anybody could come along and Nobody will see them, Jack tells him. Three or four cars have gone by since we parked, and no ones so much as looked over at us. And you know why.Weve already started to cross over, havent we? Doc asks. This is the edge of it. The border.Opopanax, Jack says. The word simply pops out.Huh?Jack picks up Tys Richie Sexson bat and gets in on the passenger side of the cruiser. It core lets go, he says. Lets get it done.And so the Sawyer Gang takes its last ride up the wooded, poisonous lane that leads to Black House. The strong afternoon light quickly fades to the sullen glow of an overcast November evening. In the close-pressing trees on either side, dark shapes twine and crawl and sometimes fly. They dont matter, much, Jack reckons they are only phantoms.You gonna reload that Roogalator? Beezer asks from the back seat.Nope, Jack says, looking at the Ruger without much interest. gauge its done its job.What should we be ready for? Dale asks in a thin voice.Anything, Jack replies. He favors Dale Gilbertson with a humorless grin. Ahead of them is a house that wont keep its shape but whirls and wavers in the most distressing way. Sometimes it seems no bigger than a humble ranch house a blink, and it seems to be a ragged monolith that blots out the entire sky another blink and it appears to be a low, uneven construction stretching back under the forest canopy for what could be miles. It gives off a low hum that sounds like voices.Be ready for anything at all.