Black House (31 page)

Jack steps through the warped, doorless doorway into the thickening stench. Outside, he can hear Dale instructing Tom to send Pam Stevens and Danny Tcheda back down to the end of the access road as soon as they arrive, where they will serve as passport control.

The interior of Ed’s Eats will probably be bright by afternoon, but now it is shadowy, lit mostly by crazed, crisscrossing rays of sun. Galaxies of dust spin lazily through them. Jack steps carefully, wishing he had a flashlight, not wanting to go back and get one from the cruiser until he’s taken care of the foot. (He thinks of this as “redeployment.”) There are human tracks through the dust, trash, and drifts of old gray feathers. The tracks are man-sized. Weaving in and out of them are a dog’s pawprints. Off to his left, Jack spies a neat little pile of droppings. He steps around the rusty remains of an overturned gas grill and follows both sets of tracks around the filthy counter. Outside, the second French Landing cruiser is rolling up. In here, in this darker world, the sound of the flies has become a soft roar and the stench . . . the
stench
.
.
.

Jack fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and places it over his nose as he follows the tracks into the kitchen. Here the pawprints multiply and the human footprints disappear completely. Jack thinks grimly of the circle of beaten-down grass he made in the field of that other world, a circle with no path of beaten-down grass leading to it.

Lying against the far wall near a pool of dried blood is what remains of Irma Freneau. The mop of her filthy strawberry-blond hair mercifully obscures her face. Above her on a rusty piece of tin that probably once served as a heat shield for the deep-fat fryers, two words have been written with what Jack feels sure was a black Sharpie marker:

Hello boys

“Ah,
fuck,
” Dale Gilbertson says from almost directly behind him, and Jack nearly screams.

Outside, the snafu starts almost immediately.

Halfway back down the access road, Danny and Pam (not in the least disappointed to have been assigned guard duty once they have actually seen the slumped ruin of Ed’s and smelled the aroma drifting from it) nearly have a head-on with an old International Harvester pickup that is bucketing toward Ed’s at a good forty miles an hour. Luckily, Pam swings the cruiser to the right and the driver of the pickup—Teddy Runkleman—swings left. The vehicles miss each other by inches and swerve into the grass on either side of this poor excuse for a road. The pickup’s rusty bumper thumps against a small birch.

Pam and Danny get out of their unit, hearts pumping, adrenaline spurting. Four men come spilling out of the pickup’s cab like clowns out of the little car in the circus. Mrs. Morton would recognize them all as regulars at Roy’s Store. Layabouts, she would call them.

“What in the name of God are you
doing
?” Danny Tcheda roars. His hand drops to the butt of his gun and then falls away a bit reluctantly. He’s getting a headache.

The men (Runkleman is the only one the officers know by name, although between them they recognize the faces of the other three) are goggle-eyed with excitement.

“How many ja find?” one of them spits. Pam can actually see the spittle spraying out in the morning air, a sight she could have done without. “How many’d the bastid kill?”

Pam and Danny exchange a single dismayed look. And before they can reply, holy God, here comes an old Chevrolet Bel Air with another four or five men inside it. No, one of them is a woman. They pull up and spill out, also like clowns from the little car.

But we’re the real clowns,
Pam thinks.
Us.

Pam and Danny are surrounded by eight semihysterical men and one semihysterical woman, all of them throwing questions.

“Hell, I’m going up there and see for myself!” Teddy Runkleman shouts, almost jubilantly, and Danny realizes the situation is on the verge of spinning out of control. If these fools get the rest of the way up the access road, Dale will first tear him a new asshole and then salt it down.

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, ALL OF YOU!”
he bawls, and actually draws his gun. It’s a first for him, and he hates the weight of it in his hand—these are ordinary people, after all, not bad guys—but it gets their attention.

“This is a crime scene,” Pam says, finally able to speak in a normal tone of voice. They mutter and look at one another; worst fears confirmed. She steps to the driver of the Chevrolet. “Who are you, sir? A Saknessum? You look like a Saknessum.”

“Freddy,” he admits.

“Well, you get back in your vehicle, Freddy Saknessum, and the rest of you who came with him also get in, and you back the hell right out of here. Don’t bother trying to turn around, you’ll just get stuck.”

“But—” the woman begins. Pam thinks she’s a Sanger, a clan of fools if ever there was one.

“Stow it and go,” Pam tells her.

“And you right behind him,” Danny tells Teddy Runkleman. He just hopes to Christ no more will come along, or they’ll end up trying to manage a parade in reverse. He doesn’t know how the news got out, and at this moment can’t afford to care. “Unless you want a summons for interfering with a police investigation. That can get you five years.” He has no idea if there is such a charge, but it gets them moving even better than the sight of his pistol.

The Chevrolet backs out, rear end wagging from side to side like a dog’s tail. Runkleman’s pickup goes next, with two of the men standing up in back and peering over the cab, trying to catch sight of the old restaurant’s roof, at least. Their curiosity lends them a look of unpleasant vacuity. The P.D. unit comes last, herding the old car and older truck like a corgi herding sheep, roof-rack lights now pulsing. Pam is forced to ride mostly on the brake, and as she drives she lets loose a low-pitched stream of words her mother never taught her.

“Do you kiss your kids good-night with that mouth?” Danny asks, not without admiration.

“Shut up,” she says. Then: “You got any aspirin?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Danny says.

They get back out to the main road just in time. Three more vehicles are coming from the direction of French Landing, two from the direction of Centralia and Arden. A siren rises in the warming air. Another cruiser, the third in what was supposed to be an unobtrusive line, is coming along, passing the lookie-loos from town.

“Oh man.” Danny sounds close to tears. “Oh man, oh man, oh man. It’s gonna be a carnival, and I bet the staties
still
don’t know. They’ll have kittens.
Dale
is gonna have kittens.”

“It’ll be all right,” Pam says. “Calm down. We’ll just pull across the road and park. Also stick your gun back in the fucking holster.”

“Yes, Mother.” He stows his piece as Pam swings across the access road, pulling back to let the third cruiser through, then pulling forward again to block the way. “Yeah, maybe we caught it in time to put a lid on it.”

“Course we did.”

They relax a little. Both of them have forgotten the old stretch of road that runs between Ed’s and Goltz’s, but there are plenty of folks in town who know about it. Beezer St. Pierre and his boys, for instance. And while Wendell Green does not, guys like him always seem able to find the back way. They’ve got an instinct for it.

11

B
EEZER’S JOURNEY BEGAN
with Myrtle Harrington, the loving wife of Michael Harrington, whispering down the telephone line to Richie Bumstead, on whom she has an industrial-strength crush in spite of his having been married to her second-best friend, Glad, who dropped down dead in her kitchen at the amazing age of thirty-one. For his part, Richie Bumstead has had enough macaroni-tuna casseroles and whisper-voiced phone calls from Myrtle to last him through two more lifetimes, but this is one set of whispers he’s glad, even oddly relieved, to listen to, because he drives a truck for the Kingsland Brewing Company and has come to know Beezer St. Pierre and the rest of the boys, at least a little bit.

At first, Richie thought the Thunder Five was a bunch of hoodlums, those big guys with scraggly shoulder-length hair and foaming beards roaring through town on their Harleys, but one Friday he happened to be standing alongside the one called Mouse in the pay-window line, and Mouse looked down at him and said something funny about how working for love never made the paycheck look bigger, and they got into a conversation that made Richie Bumstead’s head spin. Two nights later he saw Beezer St. Pierre and the one called Doc shooting the breeze in the yard when he came off-shift, and after he got his rig locked down for the night he went over and got into another conversation that made him feel like he’d walked into a combination of a raunchy blues bar and a
Jeopardy!
championship. These guys—Beezer, Mouse, Doc, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill—looked like rockin’, stompin’, red-eyed violence, but they were
smart.
Beezer, it turned out, was head brewmaster in Kingsland Ale’s special-projects division, and the other guys were just under him. They had all gone to
college.
They were interested in making great beer and having a good time, and Richie sort of wished he could get a bike and let it all hang out like them, but a long Saturday afternoon and evening at the Sand Bar proved that the line between a high old time and utter abandon was too fine for him. He didn’t have the stamina to put away two pitchers of Kingsland, play a decent game of pool, drink two more pitchers while talking about the influences of Sherwood Anderson and Gertrude Stein on the young Hemingway, get into some serious head-butting, put down another couple of pitchers, emerge clearheaded enough to go barrel-assing through the countryside, pick up a couple of experimental Madison girls, smoke a lot of high-grade shit, and romp until dawn. You have to respect people who can do that and still hold down good jobs.

As far as Richie is concerned, he has a
duty
to tell Beezer that the police have finally learned the whereabouts of Irma Freneau’s body. That busybody Myrtle said it was a secret Richie has to keep to himself, but he’s pretty sure that right after Myrtle gave him the news, she called four or five other people. Those people will call their best friends, and in no time at all half of French Landing is going to be heading over on 35 to be in on the action. Beezer has a better right to be there than most, doesn’t he?

Less than thirty seconds after getting rid of Myrtle Harrington, Richie Bumstead looks up Beezer St. Pierre in the directory and dials the number.

“Richie, I sure hope you aren’t shitting me,” Beezer says.

“He called in, yeah?” Beezer wants Richie to repeat it. “That worthless piece of shit in the DARE car, the Mad Hungarian? . . . And he said the girl was
where
?”

“Fuck, the whole town is gonna be out there,” Beezer says. “But thanks, man, thanks a lot. I owe you.” In the instant before the receiver slams down, Richie thinks he hears Beezer start to say something else that gets dissolved in a scalding rush of emotion.

And in the little house on Nailhouse Row, Beezer St. Pierre swipes tears into his beard, gently moves the telephone a few inches back on the table, and turns to face Bear Girl, his common-law spouse, his old lady, Amy’s mother, whose real name is Susan Osgood, and who is staring up at him from beneath her thick blond bangs, one finger holding her place in a book.

“It’s the Freneau girl,” he says. “I gotta go.”

“Go,” Bear Girl tells him. “Take the cell phone and call me as soon as you can.”

“Yeah,” he says, and plucks the cell phone from its charger and rams it into a front pocket of his jeans. Instead of moving to the door, he thrusts a hand into the huge red-brown tangle of his beard and absentmindedly combs it with his fingers. His feet are rooted to the floor; his eyes have lost focus. “The Fisherman called 911,” he says. “Can you believe this shit? They couldn’t find the Freneau girl by themselves, they needed
him
to tell them where to find her body.”

“Listen to me,” Bear Girl says, and gets up and travels the space between them far more quickly than she seems to. She snuggles her compact little body into his massive bulk, and Beezer inhales a chestful of her clean, soothing scent, a combination of soap and fresh bread. “When you and the boys get out there, it’s going to be up to you to keep them in line. So you have to keep
yourself
in line, Beezer. No matter how angry you are, you can’t go nuts and start beating on people. Cops especially.”

“I suppose you think I shouldn’t go.”

“You have to. I just don’t want you to wind up in jail.”

“Hey,” he says, “I’m a brewer, not a brawler.”

“Don’t forget it,” she says, and pats him on the back. “Are you going to call them?”

“Street telephone.” Beezer walks to the door, bends down to pick up his helmet, and marches out. Sweat slides down his forehead and crawls through his beard. Two strides bring him to his motorcycle. He puts one hand on the saddle, wipes his forehead, and bellows, “THE FUCKING FISHERMAN TOLD THAT FUCKING HUNGARIAN COP WHERE TO FIND IRMA FRENEAU’S BODY. WHO’S COMING WITH ME?”

On both sides of Nailhouse Row, bearded heads pop out of windows and loud voices shout “Wait Up!” “Holy Shit!” and “Yo!” Four vast men in leather jackets, jeans, and boots come barreling out of four front doors. Beezer almost has to smile—he loves these guys, but sometimes they remind him of cartoon characters. Even before they reach him, he starts explaining about Richie Bumstead and the 911 call, and by the time he finishes, Mouse, Doc, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill are on their bikes and waiting for the signal.

“But this here’s the deal,” Beezer says. “Two things. We’re going out there for Amy and Irma Freneau and Johnny Irkenham, not for ourselves. We want to make sure everything gets done the right way, and we’re not gonna bust anybody’s head open, not unless they ask for it. You got that?”

The others rumble, mumble, and grumble, apparently in assent. Four tangled beards wag up and down.

“And number two, when we
do
bust open somebody’s head, it’s gonna be the Fisherman’s. Because we have put up with enough crap around here, and now I am pretty damn sure it’s our turn to hunt down the fucking bastard who killed my little girl—” Beezer’s voice catches in his throat, and he raises his fist before continuing. “And dumped this other little girl in that fucking shack out on 35. Because I am going to get my hands on that fucking fuckhead, and when I do, I am gonna get RIGHTEOUS on his ass!”

His boys, his crew, his posse shake their fists in the air and bellow. Five motorcycles surge noisily into life. “We’ll take a look at the place from the highway and double back to the road behind Goltz’s,” Beezer shouts, and charges down the road and uphill on Chase Street with the others in his slipstream.

Through the middle of town they roll, Beezer in the lead, Mouse and Sonny practically on his tailpipe, Doc and the Kaiser right behind, their beards flowing in the wind. The thunder of their bikes rattles the windows in Schmitt’s Allsorts and sends starlings flapping up from the marquee of the Agincourt Theater. Hanging over the bars of his Harley, Beezer looks a little bit like King Kong getting set to rip apart a jungle gym. Once they get past the 7-Eleven, Kaiser and Doc move up alongside Sonny and Mouse and take up the entire width of the highway. People driving west on 35 look at the figures charging toward them and swerve onto the shoulder; drivers who see them in their rearview mirrors drift to the side of the road, stick their arms out of their windows, and wave them on.

As they near Centralia, Beezer passes about twice as many cars as really ought to be traveling down a country highway on a weekend morning. The situation is even worse than he figured it would be: Dale Gilbertson is bound to have a couple of cops blocking traffic turning in from 35, but two cops couldn’t handle more than ten or twelve ghouls dead set on seeing, really
seeing,
the Fisherman’s handiwork. French Landing doesn’t have enough cops to keep a lid on all the screwballs homing in on Ed’s Eats. Beezer curses, picturing himself losing control, turning a bunch of twisted Fisherman geeks into tent pegs. Losing control is exactly what he cannot afford to do, not if he expects any cooperation from Dale Gilbertson and his flunkies.

Beezer leads his companions around a crapped-out old red Toyota and is visited by an idea so perfect that he forgets to strike unreasoning terror into the beater’s driver by looking him in the eye and snarling, “I make Kingsland Ale, the best beer in the world, you dimwit cur.” He has done this to two drivers this morning, and neither one let him down. The people who earn this treatment by either lousy driving or the possession of a truly ugly vehicle imagine that he is threatening them with some grotesque form of sexual assault, and they freeze like rabbits, they stiffen right up. Jolly good fun, as the citizens of Emerald City sang in
The Wizard of Oz.
The idea that has distracted Beezer from his harmless pleasures possesses the simplicity of most valid inspirations.
The best way to get cooperation is to give it.
He knows exactly how to soften up Dale Gilbertson: the answer is putting on a baseball cap, grabbing its car keys, and heading out the door—the answer lies all around him.

One small part of that answer sits behind the wheel of the red Toyota just being overtaken by Beezer and his jolly crew. Wendell Green earned the mock rebuke he failed to receive on both of the conventional grounds. His little car may not have been ugly to begin with, but by now it is so disfigured by multiple dents and scrapes that it resembles a rolling sneer; and Green drives with an unyielding arrogance he thinks of as “dash.” He zooms through yellow lights, changes lanes recklessly, and tailgates as a means of intimidation. Of course, he blasts his horn at the slightest provocation. Wendell is a menace. The way he handles his car perfectly expresses his character, being inconsiderate, thoughtless, and riddled with grandiosity. At the moment, he is driving even worse than usual, because as he tries to overtake every other vehicle on the road, most of his concentration is focused on the pocket tape recorder he holds up to his mouth and the golden words his equally golden voice pours into the precious machine. (Wendell often regrets the shortsightedness of the local radio stations in devoting so much air time to fools like George Rathbun and Henry Shake, when they could move up to a new level simply by letting him give an ongoing commentary on the news for an hour or so every day.) Ah, the delicious combination of Wendell’s words and Wendell’s voice—Edward R. Murrow in his heyday never sounded so eloquent, so resonant.

Here is what he is saying:
This morning I joined a virtual caravan of the shocked, the grieving, and the merely curious in a mournful pilgrimage winding eastward along bucolic Highway 35. Not for the first time, this journalist was struck, and struck deeply, by the immense contrast between the loveliness and peace of the Coulee Country’s landscape and the ugliness and savagery one deranged human being has wrought in its unsuspecting bosom. New paragraph.

The news had spread like wildfire. Neighbor called neighbor, friend called friend. According to a morning 911 call to the French Landing police station, the mutilated body of little Irma Freneau lies within the ruins of a former ice-cream parlor and café called Ed’s Eats and Dawgs. And who had placed the call? Surely, some dutiful citizen. Not at all, ladies and gentlemen, not at all
.
.
.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is frontline reportage, this is the news being written
while it happens,
a concept that cannot but murmur “Pulitzer Prize” to an experienced journalist. The scoop had come to Wendell Green by way of his barber, Roy Royal, who heard it from his wife, Tillie Royal, who had been clued in by Myrtle Harrington herself, and Wendell Green has done his duty to his readers: he grabbed his tape recorder and his camera and ran out to his nasty little vehicle without pausing to telephone his editors at the
Herald.
He doesn’t need a photographer; he can take all the photographs he needs with that dependable old Nikon F2A on the passenger seat. A seamless blend of words and pictures—a penetrating examination of the new century’s most hideous crime—a thoughtful exploration into the nature of evil—a compassionate portrayal of one community’s suffering—an unsparing exposé of one police department’s ineptitude—

With all this going on in his mind as his mellifluous words drip one by one into the microphone of his upheld cassette recorder, is it any wonder that Wendell Green fails to hear the sound of motorcycles, or to take in the presence of the Thunder Five in any way, until he happens to glance sideways in search of the perfect phrase? Glance sideways he does, and with a spurt of panic observes, no more than two feet to his left, Beezer St. Pierre astride his roaring Harley, apparently singing, to judge from his own moving lips singing huh?

Can’t be, nope. In Wendell’s experience, Beezer St. Pierre is far more likely to be cursing like a navvy in a waterfront brawl. When, after the death of Amy St. Pierre, Wendell, who was merely obeying the ancient rules of his trade, dropped in at 1 Nailhouse Row, and inquired of the grieving father how it felt to know that his daughter had been slaughtered like a pig and partially eaten by a monster in human form, Beezer had gripped the innocent newshound by the throat, unleashed a torrent of obscenities, and concluded by bellowing that if he should ever see Mr. Green again, he would tear off his head and use the stump as a sexual orifice.