Black House

till I cry! Come on, you guys! Jack! Jack, I want you!”

From behind them, one of the other cops calls, “Dale! You want me to grab this creep?”

“Leave him alone!” Dale shouts, and bulls his way inside. It’s not until the door is closed behind him and he’s in the lower hall with Jack, Tom, and Bobby that Dale realizes how certain he was that Beezer would simply snatch the old man away from him. And then crack his neck like a chicken bone.

“Dale?” Debbi Anderson calls uncertainly from halfway down the stairs. “Is everything all right?”

Dale looks at Jack, who still has his arms crossed over his chest and is still smiling his little smile. “I think it is,” Dale says. “For now.”

Twenty minutes later, Jack and Henry (the latter gentleman retrieved from the truck and still reet-petite) sit in Dale’s office. Beyond the closed door, the ready room roars with conversation and laughter: almost every cop on the FLPD force is out there, and it sounds like a goddamn New Year’s Eve party. There are occasional shouts and smacking sounds that can only be relieved boys (and girls) in blue high-fiving each other. In a little while Dale will put a stop to that shit, but for now he’s content to let them go ahead. He understands how they feel, even though he no longer feels that way himself.

George Potter has been printed and stuck in a cell upstairs to think things over. Brown and Black of the State Police are on their way. For now, that is enough. As for triumph . . . well, something about his friend’s smile and his faraway eyes have put triumph on hold.

“I didn’t think you were going to give Beezer his moment,” Jack says. “It’s a good thing you did. There might have been trouble right here in River City if you’d tried to face him down.”

“I suppose I have a better idea tonight of how he feels,” Dale replies. “I lost track of my own kid tonight, and it scared the living shit out of me.”

“David?” Henry cries, leaning forward. “Is David okay?”

“Yeah, Uncle Henry, Dave’s fine.”

Dale returns his gaze to the man who now lives in his father’s house. He’s remembering the first time Jack ever laid eyes on Thornberg Kinderling. Dale had at that point known Jack only nine days—long enough to form some favorable opinions, but not long enough to realize how really extraordinary Jack Sawyer was. That was the day Janna Massengale at the Taproom told Jack about the trick Kinderling did when he was getting squiffy, that little trick of pinching his nostrils shut with his palm turned out to the world.

They had just arrived back at the police station from interviewing Janna, Dale in his personal unit that day, and he’d touched Jack on the shoulder just as Jack was about to get out of the car. “Speak a name, see the face it belongs to before suppertime, that’s what my mother used to say.” He pointed down to Second Street, where a broad-shouldered bald fellow had just come out of News ’n Notions, a newspaper under his arm and a fresh deck of smokes in his hand. “That’s Thornberg Kinderling, his very own self.”

Jack had bent forward without speaking, looking with the sharpest (and perhaps the most merciless) eyes Dale had ever seen in his life.

“Do you want to approach him?” Dale had asked.

“No. Hush.”

And Jack simply sat with one leg in Dale’s car and one out of it, not moving, eyes narrowed. So far as Dale could tell, he didn’t even breathe. Jack watched Kinderling open his cigarettes, tap one out, put it in his mouth, and light it. He watched Kinderling glance at the headline of the Herald and then saunter to his own car, an all-wheel-drive Subaru. Watched him get in. Watched him drive away. And by that time, Dale realized he was holding his own breath.

“Well?” he’d asked when the Kinderling-mobile was gone. “What do you think?”

And Jack had said, “I think he’s the guy.”

Only Dale had known better. Even then he had known better. Jack was saying I think only because he and Chief Dale Gilbertson of French Landing, Wisconsin, were still on short terms, getting-to- know-you, getting-to-work-with-you terms. What he had meant was I know. And although that was impossible, Dale had quite believed him.

Now, sitting in his office with Jack directly across the desk from him—his reluctant but scarily gifted deputy— Dale asks, “What do you think? Did he do it?”

“Come on, Dale, how can I—”

“Don’t waste my time, Jack, because those assholes from WSP are going to be here any minute and they’ll take Potter heigh-ho over the hills. You knew it was Kinderling the second you looked at him, and you were halfway down the block. You were close enough to Potter when I brought him in to count the hairs in his nose. So what do you think?”

Jack is quick, at least; spares him the suspense and just administers the chop. “No,” he says. “Not Potter. Potter’s not the Fisherman.”

Dale has known that Jack believes this—knew it from his face outside—but hearing it is still an unhappy thump. He sits back, disappointed.

“Deduction or intuition?” Henry asks.

“Both,” Jack says. “And stop looking like I plugged your mother, Dale. You may still have the key to this thing.”

“Railsback?”

Jack makes a seesawing gesture with one hand—maybe, maybe not, it says. “Railsback probably saw what the Fisherman wanted him to see . . . although the single slipper is intriguing, and I want to ask Railsback about it. But if Mr. One-Slipper was the Fisherman, why would he lead Railsback—and us—to Potter?”

“To get us off his trail,” Dale says.

“Oh, have we been on it?” Jack asks politely, and when neither of them answers: “But say he