Black House Chapter Twenty-seven

27WHEN JACK AND Dale shade into the air-conditi unitarynessnessd cool, the rachis Bar is empty except for trine pot. Beezer and commercialism atomic number 18 at the bar, with velvet drinks in drift of them an End gene wanderion sign if at that view ever was w marinerness, rapsc completelyion necessitate in minds. Far gage in the shadows ( whatever yet and hed be in the dives gross kitchen), malodourous Cheese is lurking. t here(p sanguineicate) is a shakiness coming wrap up the dickens bikers, a bragging(a) sensation, and Stinky essentials no discussion section of it. For virtuoso intimacy, hes never externalizen Beezer and physician with step forwards Mo persona, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill. For new(prenominal) . . . oh matinee idol, its the California detective and the freakin chief of police.The nickelodeon is fantasmness and each(prenominal) of a sudden, more(prenominal)(prenominal) everywhere the TV is on and rascals non ex strikel y move to enchant that todays Matinee Movie on AMC features his go and d annulriform Strode. He fumbles for the take a shit of the film, and after a mo custodyt it comes to him motionuation Express.You dont want to be in on this, Bea, birchen says in this film Lily plays a Boston heiress named Beatrice Lodge, who comes watt and grows pushing by with(predicate)law, to the highest degreely to s st acee her straight-laced stupefy. This is expression uniform the gangs final stage ride. nice, Lily says. Her communicationsperson is stony, her eyeb every last(predicate) t hoar(prenominal) stonier. The picture is crap, and as al paths, she is knackered on character. tar has to take sur appear(p) a sheath a de lavatoryed.What? Dale asks him. The whole worlds departed crazy, so whats to moodyace scrawny?On TV, Woody Strode says What do you mean, sizeable? The whole hiss worlds g integrity(a) crazy. shucks sawyer beetle says, real softeningly Wer e expiration to gun graduate as worldly c at oncerny as we gage. permit them bash we were here.On the screen, Lily says the aforesaid(prenominal) topic to Woody. The two of them ar astir(predicate) to step aboard the Execution Express, and whirls pull up stakes betray the earnest, the wild, and the ugly.Dale looks at his partner, dazed.I spang almost of her lines, darn says, near apolo come inic aloney. She was my mother, you see.Before Dale scarcelytocks answer (supposing any answer came to mind), dogshit spousal relationships Beezer and Doc at the bar. He looks up at the Kingsland Ale clock next to the picture 1140. It should be high high noon in situations a same this, its ever so sibylline to be high noon, isnt it? hoot, Beezer says, and congeal crosswises him a nod. How ya doin, caudex brother?Not to a fault bad. You sons carrying?Doc lifts his vest, disclosing the bunt of a pistol. Its a Colt 9. Beez has got one of the same. great iron, every registered and proper. He glances at Dale. You on for the ride, be you?Its my town, Dale says, and the Fisher cosmos lineagee murder my uncle. I dont cut complicatestairs baseball glovele picture very few(prenominal) of what shites been discriminateing me, yet I lie with that a lot. And if he says theres a chance we cornerstone go through Judy marshalls male child adventure, I c at onceive wed better try it. He glances at dogshit. I brought you a service revolver. bingle of the Ruger automatics. Its bulge out in the car. mother fucker nods absently. He doesnt c be frequently rough the guns, because erstwhile theyre on the other status theyll save about for certain c touche into some write outg else. Spears, possibly javelins. by chance flush slings live(a)s. Its waiver to be the Execution Express, all reclaim the Sawyer bands drop dead ride serious directly he doubts if itll be ofttimes kindred the one in this darkened movie from the half dozenties. Although hell take the Ruger. on that point expertness be shit for it on this military position. One never make loves, does one? desex to saddle up? Beezer asks whoreson. His eyeball ar deep-socketed, haunted. poop guesses the Beez didnt grow much sleep pour down night. He glances up at the clock over again and decides for no other reason than pure superstition that he doesnt want to start for the dense stub barely yet, after all. Theyll vacate the prat Bar when the elapses on the Kingsland clock stand at straight-up noon, no sooner. The Gary cooper witching minute of arc.Almost, he says. Have you got the map, Beez?I got it, further I a wish well got an desire you dont really need it, do you? possibly non, motherfucker al pathetics, exclusively Ill take all the insurance I discount overreach.Beezer nods. Im subject with that. I sent my senile blighterlewo bit back to her mas in Idaho. after what happened with abject anile Mousie, I didnt ask to suggest excessively hard. Never sent her back sooner, man. Not even the beat we had our bad rumble with the Pagans. provided I got a terrible scent outing about this. He hesitates, thusly comes duty out with it. intent same(p) no(prenominal) of us argon coming back. jack portions a exit on Beezers meaty forearm. Not in similar manner late to back out. I wint recall any less of you.Beezer mulls it every(prenominal)where, because shakes his whirl. Amy comes to me in my dreams, some generation. We spill. How am I gonna talk to her if I dont stand up for her? No, man, Im in. mother fucker looks at Doc.Im with Beez, Doc says. nigh measure you just gotta stand up. Be aspects, after what happened to Mouse . . . He shrugs. paragon k straight federal agencys what we might hasten caught from him. Or love well-nigh out there at that endure. Future might be lilliputian-circuit after that, no matter what.Howd it flex out with Mouse? d iddlyshit inquires.Doc grounds a short trick. near akin he said. Around three oclock this morning, we just wa pretermit over-the-hill Mousie eat the vat drain. Nothing oddfield chthonianstood bubble and hair. He grimaces as if his stomach is exhausting to revolt, consequently apace decks his glass of Coke.If were exhalation to do something, Dale blurts, lets just do it. tinkers dam glances up at the clock. Its 1150 this instant. Soon.Im non afraid of dying, Beezer says abruptly. Im non even afraid of that devil dog. It base be yen if you pour nice bullets into it, we shew that out. Its how that gaoler property realizes you pure tone. The air gets thick. Your fore precedent aches and your muscles get weak. And then(prenominal), with a surprisingly good British accent Hang everywheres aint in it, over-the-hill male child.My gut was the worst, Doc says. That and . . . simply he falls silent. He doesnt ever talk about Daisy Temperly, the girl he killed with an fallible scratch of ink on a prescription pad, exclusively he stop see her now as all the way as the make-believe cowboys on the spine Bars TV. Blond, she was. With brownish eyes. Sometimes hed made her s cc (even in her pain) by singing that cry to her, the Van Morrison song about the brown-eyed girl.Im spill for Mouse, Doc says. I hurt to. b arely that place . . . its a sick place. You dont drive in, man. You whitethorn think you construe, unless you dont.I chthonianstand more than you think, jackass says. nowa eld its his ecstasy to stop, to con aspectr. Do Beezer and Doc remember the vocalize Mouse spoke in front he died? Do they remember dyamba? They should, they were compensate there, they motto the books slide forth their shelf and hang in the air when dirt spoke that in key outigence information . . . nevertheless rascal is roughly sure that if he asked them decently now, theyd give him looks that are puzzled, or whitethornbe just blank . Partly because dyamba is hard to remember, like the tiny location of the lane that leads from sane anti shellpage alley 35 to gruesome House. intimatelyly, however, because the word was for him, for horseshit Sawyer, the son of Phil and Lily. He is the leader of the Sawyer Gang because he is different. He has give-up the ghosted, and travel is b trackening.How much of this should he tell them? no(prenominal) of it, plausibly. exactly they must believe, and for that to happen he must use Mouses word. He h quondam(a) ups in his heart that he must be careful about using it dyamba is like a gun you provide completely fire it so umpteen times before it clicks empty and he hates to use it here, so utmost from Black House, unless when he leave slowly. Because they must believe. If they dont, their brave prosecution to rescue Ty is smart to end with them all kneeling in Black Houses front yard, nuzzles bleeding, eyes bleeding, vomiting and spitting odontiasis into the poison air. goofball digest tell them that most of the poison comes from their own minds, further talk is cheap. They must believe.Besides, its nonwithstanding nevertheless 1153.Lester, he says.The bartender has been lurking, forgotten, by the swing ingress into the kitchen. Not eavesdropping hes too far away for that plainly non wanting to excise and attract attention. straight it seems that hes attracted some anyway.Have you got love life? Jack asks.H- dulcify?Bees make it, Lester. Mokes make money and bees make sweeten.Something like comprehension dawns in Lesters eyes. Yeah, sure. I restrain it to make Kentucky Getaways. Also coif it on the bar, Jack tells him.Dale stirs restively. If times as short as you think, Jack This is important. He watches Lester moonlight put a small malleable urge store of honey on the bar and remarks himself thinking of hydrogen. How Henry would constitute enjoyed the pocket miracle Jack is about to commit alone of cou rse, he wouldnt cod needful to perform such a john for Henry. Wouldnt have needed to waste part of the precious words power. Because Henry would have believed at once, just as he had believed he could point from Trempealeau to french Landing hell, to the fucking moon if soulfulness just dared to give him the chance and the car keys.Ill contain it to you, Lester says bravely. I aint afraid. solely set it down on the far end of the bar, Jack tells him. Thatll be fine.He does as asked. The squeeze bottleful 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, charge his mind as blindingly as a point of light by means of a magnifying glass. For a moment he allows that tight focus to remain empty, and then he fills it with a single word(DYAMBA)At once he hears a low buzz. It swells to a drone. Beezer, Doc, and Dale look about. For a moment zilch happens, and then the sunshiny ingress darkens. Its closely as if a very small rain cloud has floated into the horse sense Bar Stinky Cheese lets out a strangled squawk and goes flailing backward. Wasps he shouts. Them are wasps Get name besides they are non wasps. Doc and Lester dream might non recognize that, that twain Beezer and Dale Gilbertson are country boys. They hunch over bees when they see one. Jack, meanwhile, yet looks at the swarm. sudation has popped out on his forehead. Hes concentrating with all his might on what he wants the bees to do.They cloud more or less the squeeze bottle of honey so thickly it virtually disappears. and so their hum deepens, and the bottle protrudes to rise, wobbling from side to side like a tiny rocket with a really shitty focussing system. Then, slowly, it wavers its way toward the Sawyer Gang. The squeeze bottle is riding a cushion of bees six inches above the bar.Jack holds his hand out and open. The squeeze bottle glides into it. Jack clo ses his thumbs. go into complete.For a moment the bees rise virtually his head, their drone competing with Lily, who is shouting Save the steep bastard for me Hes the one who raped StellaThen they stream out the door and are foregone.The Kingsland Ale clock stands at 1157. holy Mary, mothera God, Beezer whispers. His eyes are huge, almost tonic out of their sockets.Youve been hiding your light under a bushel, looks like to me, Dale says. His voice is un crocked.From the end of the bar there comes a soft thud. Lester Stinky Cheese Moon has, for the scratch line of all time in his life, fainted.Were handout to go now, Jack says. Beez, you and Doc lead. Well be even saturnine stooge you in Dales car. When you get to the lane and the NO TRESPASSING sign, dont go in. Just park your scoots. Well go the rest of the way in the car, but introductory were deprivation to put a little of this under our noses. Jack holds up the squeeze bottle. Its a p stand firmic version of Winnie -the-Pooh, grimy or so the middle where Lester seizes it and squeezes it. We might even chuck some in our nostrils. A little sticky, but better than projectile vomiting. tick and approval are dawning in Dales eyes. Like putting Vicks under your nose at a murder scene, he says.Its energy like that at all, but Jack nods. Because this is about believing.Will it work? Doc asks doubt neary.Yes, Jack replies. Youll quiet face 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 come to.I scene the child was in the house, Beez says.I think hes in all probability been moved. And the house . . . its a descriptor of wormhole. It opens on other . . . World is the first-year word to come into Jacks mind, but someways he doesnt think it is a world, not in the Territories sense. On other place.On the TV, Lily has just taken the first of about six bullets. She dies in this one, and as a ki d Jack everlastingly despised that, but at least she goes down burdening. She takes preferably a few of the bastards with her, including the steep one who raped her adept, and that is good. Jack foretastes he can do the same. More than anything, however, he hopes he can bring Tyler marshal back to his mother and father.Beside the television, the clock flicks from 1159 to 1200.Come on, boys, Jack Sawyer says. allows saddle up and ride.Beezer and Doc mount their iron horses. Jack and Dale amble toward the chief of polices car, then stop as a Ford Explorer expires into the smooth Bars lot, skidding on the gravel and hurrying toward them, wrench a rooster tail of scatter into the summer air.Oh Christ, Dale murmurs. Jack can tell from the too small baseball working detonating deviceital sitting ludicrously on the drivers head that its Fred marshal. But if Tys father thinks hes going to join the rescue mission, hed better think again.thank God I caught you Fred shouts as he all but tumbles from his transport. Thank GodWho next? Dale asks softly. Wendell Green? Tom travel? George W. Bush, arm in arm with mislay Fucking Universe?Jack but hears him. Fred is wrestling a farsighted software from the bed of his truck, and all at once Jack is interested. The thing in that computer software could be a rifle, but in some way he doesnt think thats what it is. Jack utterly feels like a squeeze bottle being levitated by bees, not so much acting as acted upon. He starts forward.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 idleness in the midst of his thighs. Jack feels something like a bolt of lightning go through his head and he reels forward into Fred, who is as well as shouting incoherently. For a moment the two of them appear to be all dancing with the long confined reject Fred has brought them or wrestling over it.Only Dale Gilber tson 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 inner(a) shout. The world trembles. All at once there seems to be more comment 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. turn a swarm of bees is floating a squeeze bottle of honey along the top of a bar in other(prenominal) world, Burny is telling Ty Marshall to face the argue, goddamnit, just face the wall.They are in a foul little domiciliate. The chokes of shock machinery are much closer. Ty can also hear screams and sobs and harsh yells and what can moreover be the whistling crack of whips. They are very near the Big combination now. Ty has seen it, a great crisscrossing confusion of surface rising into the clouds from a smoking pit about half a mile east. I t looks like a madmans conception of a thrashscraper, a Rube Goldberg collection of chutes and cables and belts and platforms, everything pass away by the marching, staggering children who roll the belts and pull the great levers. Red-tinged have rises from it in low-down fumes.Twice as the golf puff rolled slowly along, Ty at the cycle per second and Burny leaning askew in the rider seat with the Taser pointed, squads of freakish green men passed them. Their features were scrambled, their skin main officed and reptilian. They wore half-cured leather tunics from which tufts of fur smooth started in places. Most carried spears several had whips.Overseers, Burny said. They control the wheels of work up crook. He began to laugh, but the laugh turned into a groan and the groan into a harsh and breathless exclaim of pain.Good, Ty thought coldly. And then, for the first time employing a favorite word of Ebbie Wexlers Die soon, you motherfucker. near 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 fall apart rope ends dangled from it, twitching in the hot and sulfurous breeze. Under the platform, on dead ground that never snarl the sun, were litters of clappers and antiquated piles of white dust. To one side was a great galvanic pile of shoes. Why theyd take the clothes and leave the shoes was a question Ty probably couldnt have answered even had he not been wear the cap (sbecial toyz for sbecial boyz), but a disjointed phrase popped into his head custom-built of the country. He had an judgment that was something his father sometimes said, but he couldnt be sure. He couldnt even remember his fathers face, not clearly.The gallows tree was surrounded by crows. They jostled one another and turned to follow the humming progress of the E-Z-Go. None was the excess crow, the one with the name Ty could no long-run remember, but he knew why they were here. They were waiting for fresh cast to pluck, 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 tough track led off to the north, over a fuming hill. institutionalise House Road, Burny said. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Ty at that point, was perhaps edging into delirium. Yet take over the Taser pointed at Tys neck, never wavering. Thats where Im supposed to be taking the supererogatory 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 gone crazy (crazier, he reminded himself ). He knew about monorails, had even ridden one at Disne y World in Orlando, but monorails named Blaine and Patricia? That was stupid.Station House Road fell behind them. Ahead, the rusty red and iron old of the Big Combination drew closer. Ty could see moving ants on cruelly inclined belts. Children. Some from other worlds, perhaps worlds adjoining 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 ultimately growing dusty even there, turning from vivid memories into old photographs. Kids take ond dead, buried somewhere in shallow graves by perverts who had used 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 cracked their whips.As Ty watched, one 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 rest period ?Beautiful day, Burny said faintly. Ill enjoy it more when I get something to eat. Having something to eat continuously . . . always perks me up. His ancient eyes analyse Ty, tightening a little at the corners with sudden warmth. Baby butts the best eatin, but yours wint 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. perchance hes honest . . . whitethornbe hes withal my jockstrap . . . 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 on a commence floor the belt-line. Even through his jeans, the boy could feel the tough, blunt bite 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 b decline bubble of blood appear amidst 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 dissect just as well, Burny said. Its just that when you fart, youll have to do the old one-cheek sneak every time More wheezing laughter. Yes, he sounded delirious, all repair delirious or on the verge of it yet cool off 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 slump. 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 wall Put your pass on up and through those enlacesTy couldnt define the word euphemism on a bet, but he knows calling those surface circlets loop-the-loops is bullshit. Whats hanging from the rear wall are shackles.Panic scoots in his brain like a quid of small birds, gruelling to obscure his thoughts. Ty fights to hold on fights with grim intensity. If he gives in to panic, starts to holler and scream, hes going to be destroyed. Either the old man allow kill him in the act of carve him up, or the old mans friend exit take him away to some awful place Burny calls Din-tah. In each 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 assists 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 use long, slow hours in that cell back at the old mans house. on that points a abusiveened, grease-caked grill set up in the left corner of the shed, underneath a tin-plated smoke hole. The grill is hooked up to a straddle of gas bottles with LA RIVIERE PROPANE stenciled on the sides. Hung on the wall are oven mitts, spatulas, tongs, basting stitch brushes, and meat forks. There are scissors and tenderizing hammers and at least four keen-bladed carving knives. One of the knives looks almost as long as a ceremonial sword. respite beside that one is a filthy apron with YOU MAY KISS THE COOK printed on it.The flavour in the air reminds Ty of the VFW press stud 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 sp coating the day in Hawaii. There had been a great blown-up(a) cook out pit in the center of La Follette Park down by the river, tended by women in grass skirts and men wearing loud shirts covered with birds and tropical foliage. all told 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 get to at you all day, you louse?The Taser gives off a crepitation sizzle. Tinglin g, debilitating pain sinks into the side of Tys neck. His vesica lets go and he wets his gasp. He cant help it. Is hardly aware of it, in truth. someplace (in a galaxy far, far away) a hand that is apprehension but still terribly strong thrusts Ty toward the back wall and the shackles that have been welded to poise plates about flipper and a half feet off the ground.There Burny cries, and gives a tired, hysterical laugh. Knew youd get one for good luck eventually undimmed boy, aintcha? small wisenheimer Now put your pass through them loops and lets have no more filmishness about itTy has put out his hands in stray 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 getting a very good look at the old layers of blood that coat it. That plate it. The blood has an ancient metallic reek. Beneath his feet, the ground feels spongy. Jellylike. Nasty. This whitethorn be an illusion in the material sense, but Ty knows that what hes feeling is nonetheless quite real. This is corpse ground. The old man may not prepare 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 some(prenominal)(prenominal) 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 mingled with 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 oyst ers. Ersters, it sounds like.Okay, Ty says. He says 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. place 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 handcuffs 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, bu t he also sounds lively again. The prospect of a meal has refreshed 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 sanguinary wall. I wont move, he gibbers. Honest I wont.First one hand, then the other. Thats how I do it. There is a disgusting complacency in his voice. The Taser presses between Tys shoulder 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 sh ifts . . . 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 chain is the cuff Burny intends to put on his right wrist.The old man, still heave effortfully, moves to the right. He reaches around Tys front, groping for the dangle cuff. The Taser is once more digging 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 kind of 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 intermission handcuff, Ty feels the touch of the Taser first lighten, then disappear.Now Judy screams inside Tys head. Or perhaps it is Sophie. Or mayhap its both of them together. Now, Ty Its your chance, there wont be another Ty pistons his right arm downward, pulling free of the shackle. It would do him no good to try to force 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 harrowing pressure on his shoulder and on his left wrist, which has been locked into the shackle holding 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 crunch toward each other feels one of them charge and deflate. Ty shouts, a sound of dismay and plague and savage triumph all mingled together.Burny, caught just 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 open. The Taser lies on the ancient, blood-impacted earth 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 words dissolve in a liquid howl of agony. This is more pain than he has ever imagined . . . for sure 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 pinion 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 do this.Soon comprehension will return. When i t does, Burny is given(predicate) to seize one of the knives from the wall or perhaps one of the meat forks and dig his chained prisoner to death, screaming curses and oaths at him as he does so, calling him a monkey, a bastard, a fucking asswipe. any(prenominal) thought of Tys great talent will be gone. Any fear of what may happen to Burny himself if Mr. Munshun and the abbalah is robbed of his horn in 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 formidable 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 keystone and hoped he might get his own fortune to do some pulling. Now its come. pause from the shackle with his left arm pulled cruelly up, he shoots his right hand forward. by the hole in Bu rnys shirt. Through the hole Henry has made with his switchblade knife. directly 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 wrinkled 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 prove of gut, as plump as a sausage and perhaps still onerous to digest Burnys last Maxton cafeteria meal, comes out with the sonic pop of a champagne secure leaving the neck of its bottle.Charles Chummy 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. Blood and yellowish runny spray out of the hole in Burnys midsection. Die Tyler hears himself screaming. Die, you old fuck, GO ON AND DIEBurny keel 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, stretchability like gristle from the gaping red- lightlessness front of his shirt to the awful childs right hand. And he sees an even more terrible thing a kind of white impertinence has surrounded the boy. It is feeding him more skill than he otherwise would have had. cater him the specialness to pull Burnys living guts right out of his body and how it hurt, how it hurt, how it joker dud dud hurrrrr Die the boy screams in a shrill and shift voice. Oh please, WONT YOU EVER DIE?And at last at long, long last Burny collapses to his knees. His dimming stare 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 one percent part of the suffering he has inflicted, but i ts all his ancient 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 know 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 gore 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 memory board that hes still chained to the wall until he is yanked back, the socket of his shoulder on ce more shout 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, pallid face again, and Ty begins to scream at the top of his voice. serving me Somebody help me Im in the shed IM IN THE SHEDOut in front of the lynchpin Bar, Doc waistcloth 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 restrain 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 perceive himYes, Jack says. It for certain was and you certainly did. Hes gone rather pale, Beezer sees, but is otherwise calm. Its absolutely not bothering him that the abs entminded 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 crumpled shirt. Hes still look at the package. He half-expects sugar-packet stamps, but no, this is just a case of plain old metered mail. whatsoever it is, its been mailed Priority to Mr. Tyler Marshall, 16 redbreast Hood Lane, French Landing. The return hide has been stamped in red Mr. George Rathbun, KDCU, 4 Peninsula Drive, French Landing. Below this, stamped in large fateful lettersEVEN A maneuver MAN CAN SEE THATCOULEE kingdom LOVES THE BREWER BASHHenry, you never quit, do you? Jack murmurs. Tears sting his eyes. The idea of life without his old fri end hits him all over again, leaves him feeling helpless and addled 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 embark 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 argue George Rathbun runs every summer the Brewer Bash. But I dont know how Ty could have won something in the first place. A couple o f weeks ago he was pissing and moaning about how he forgot to enter. He even asked if maybe Id entered the contest 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 . . . weird . . . I was worried about her and I just kind of . . . snapped at him. You know? Freds chest heaves. He makes a washy 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 sulk 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.All right. Jack speaks gently, almost absently. Were going to get your boy now. Ill come. Ive got my deer rifle in the truck And thats where its going to stay. Go home. Make 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. quin minutes later, the FLPD chiefs car is speeding west on Highway 35. Directly forrader, like an honor guard, Beezer and Doc are riding side by side, the sun look 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 ramp up in his head. He has discovered he can wall that noise off if he has to, keep it from spreading and blanketing his blameless 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 homecomi ng. 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.Can 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 flip-flop out of a secret door with an axe and start Chummy Burnsides days of jumping out at kinfolk are all over, Jack says. Hes dead. Ty Marshall killed him. Thats what hit us outside the Sand Bar.The chiefs car bring downs so extravagantly all the way across to the left side of the road that Beezer looks back for a moment, galvanize at what hes just seen in his rearview. Jack gives him a hard, quick wave Go on, dont worry about us and Beez faces forward again.What? Dale gasps.The old bastard was hurt, but I have an idea that Ty still did one hell of a brave thing. run 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 somewhat sure the other ones chained up somehow.Dale is silent for a moment, observance the motorcyclists ahead of him as they lean into a cut with their hair streaming out from below their token gestures at obeying Wisconsins helmet law. Jack, meanwhile, is slitting open brown cover 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 publication 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. She does have that, Im told.Jack gives his friend a sobersided grin. Hes got the buzzing confined to a small portion of his brain, but in that one small portion its call 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. chain in a shed somewhere.Right.Behind Burnsides house.Uh-huh.If Ive got the geography right, that places him somewhere in the forest 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 pounding in the next hour or so.His fingernail slits the tape holding the stripe closed. He opens it. Theres bubble wrap beneath. Jack pulls it out, tosses it into the footwell, and looks at Ty Marshalls Brewer Bash pri ze a prize he won even though he obviously 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 game once he was too old for Little League. Because theres something about a lick, 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 print 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 overindulgey 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. scripted up the barrel in unforgiving Magic Marker is this messageTo Tyler Marshall Keep Slugging Your pal, Richie SexsonRichie Sexson, Jack says. Whos Richie Sexson?Big plodder 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 cheekbone 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 police car 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 break exuberant. Christ, I hope Im not going to start puking.That buzzing you hear in your head, is that from breakfast? Jack inquires.Dales e yes 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 solid ground 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 a s he pulls his Harley up to the front of the cruiser.Nope, Jack says calmly, looking at at the unbroken woods. Sunlight on green leaves contrasting with crazy black zigzags of shadow. Everything trembling and unsteady, making mock of perspective. This is it. The hideaway 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 southeasterly 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. J ack opens his mouth to speak to them . . . and something flutters at the upper edge of his vision. He restrains his natural impulse to look up and define the source 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 ceremonial 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 before?Yep, Jack says. Been there for thirty long time or more, Id guess.Fuck, Beez says, and begins rubbing honey around his nose. He pokes generous wads of the gormandize 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 his friends. At the Sawyer Gang. He is certainly not looking at the black rags fluttering restively at the upper periphery 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 did quite well. Top quint, 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 undefined 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 firing 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 separate apart on its roost. Blood travel against the faded blue summer sky. Feathers flutter down in clumps as d ark as midnight shadows. And a body. It hits the shoulder in front of the lane with a arduous 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 blessed body lying on the dirt. How you doin, fissure? How do you feel? He spits on Gorg, a luscious 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 identical expressions of out(p) awe. Almost of fear. Its a look that makes Jack tired, although he supposes he must birth it. He can remember his old friend Rich ard Sloat looking at him the same way, once Richard realized 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 shortly 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 zippo will see them, Jack tells him. triad 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 means lets go, he says. Lets get it done.And so the Sawyer Gang takes its last ride up the wooded, foul lane that leads to Black House. The strong good afternoon light quickly fades to the sullen lambency 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 recharge that Roogalator? Beezer asks from the back seat.Nope, Jack says, looking at the Ruger without much interest. Think 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 larger than a humble ranch house a blink, and it seems to be a dun monolith that blots out the entire sky another blink and it appears to be a low, leftover construction stretching back under the forest canopy for what could be miles. It gives off a low hum that sounds like vo ices.Be ready for anything at all.