Black House

noticing a handful of johnny-clad patients who stare at him with expressions of puzzled, half-fearful wonder. They look at him as if at a vision who passes them in an envelope of light, some wonder as brilliant as it is mysterious.

Ten minutes later (long after Judy Marshall has walked composedly back to her room without professional help of any kind), the alarms cut off. An amplified voice—perhaps even Dr. Spiegleman’s own mother wouldn’t have recognized it as her boy’s—begins to blare from the overhead speakers. At this unexpected roar, patients who had pretty much calmed down begin to shriek and cry all over again. The old woman whose mistreatment so angered Jack Sawyer is crouched below the admissions counter with her hands over her head, muttering something about the Russians and Civil Defense.

“THE EMERGENCY IS OVER!” Spiegleman assures his cast and crew. “THERE IS NO FIRE! PLEASE REPORT TO THE COMMON ROOMS ON EACH FLOOR! THIS IS DR. SPIEGLEMAN, AND I REPEAT THAT THE EMERGENCY IS OVER!”

Here comes Wendell Green, weaving his way slowly toward the stairwell, rubbing his chin gently with one hand. He sees young Mr. Evans and offers him a helping hand. For a moment it looks as though Wendell may be pulled over himself, but then young Mr. Evans gets his buttocks against the wall and manages to gain his feet.

“THE EMERGENCY IS OVER! I REPEAT, THE EMERGENCY IS OVER! NURSES, ORDERLIES, AND DOCTORS, PLEASE ESCORT ALL PATIENTS TO THE COMMON ROOMS ON EACH FLOOR!”

Young Mr. Evans eyes the purple bruise rising on Wendell’s chin.

Wendell eyes the purple bruise rising on the temple of young Mr. Evans.

“Sawyer?” young Mr. Evans asks.

“Sawyer,” Wendell confirms.

“Bastard sucker punched me,” young Mr. Evans confides.

“Son of a bitch came up behind me,” Wendell says. “The Marshall woman. He had her down.” He lowers his voice. “He was getting ready to rape her.”

Young Mr. Evans’s whole manner says he is sorrowful but not surprised.

“Something ought to be done,” Wendell says.

“You got that right.”

“People ought to be told.” Gradually, the old fire returns to Wendell’s eyes. People will be told. By him! Because that is what he does, by God! He tells people!

“Yeah,” young Mr. Evans says. He doesn’t care as much as Wendell does—he lacks Wendell’s burning commitment—but there’s one person he will tell. One person who deserves to be comforted in her lonely hours, who has been left on her own Mount of Olives. One person who will drink up the knowledge of Jack Sawyer’s evil like the very waters of life.

“This kind of behavior cannot just be swept under the rug,” Wendell says.

“No way,” young Mr. Evans agrees. “No way, Jose.”

Jack has barely cleared the gates of French County Lutheran when his cell phone tweets. He thinks of pulling over to take the call, hears the sound of approaching fire engines, and decides for once to risk driving and talking at the same time. He wants to be out of the area before the local fire brigade shows up and slows him down.

He flips the little Nokia open. “Sawyer.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Beezer St. Pierre bellows. “Man, I been hittin’ redial so hard I damn near punched it off the phone!”

“I’ve been . . .” But there’s no way he can finish that, not and stay within shouting distance of the truth, that is. Or maybe there is. “I guess I got into one of those dead zones where the cell phone just doesn’t pick up—”

“Never mind the science lesson, chum. Get your ass over here right now. The actual address is 1 Nailhouse Row—it’s County Road Double-O just south of Chase. It’s the babyshit brown two-story on the corner.”

“I can find it,” Jack says, and steps down a little harder on the Ram’s gas pedal. “I’m on my way now.”

“What’s your twenty, man?”

“Still Arden, but I’m rolling. I can be there in maybe half an hour.”

“Fuck!” There is an alarming crash-rattle in Jack’s ear as somewhere on Nailhouse Row Beezer slams his fist against something. Probably the nearest wall. “The fuck’s wrong with you, man? Mouse is goin’ down, I mean fast. We’re doin’ our best—those of us who’re still here—but he is goin’ down.” Beezer is panting, and Jack thinks he’s trying not to cry. The thought of Armand St. Pierre in that particular state is alarming. Jack looks at the Ram’s speedometer, sees it’s touching seventy, and eases off a tad. He won’t help anybody by getting himself greased in a road wreck between Arden and Centralia.

“What do you mean ‘those of us who are still here’?”

“Never mind, just get your butt down here, if you want to talk to Mouse. And he sure wants to talk to you, because he keeps sayin’ your name.” Beezer lowers his voice. “When he ain’t just ravin’ his ass off, that is. Doc’s doing his best—me and Bear Girl, too—but we’re shovelin’ shit against the tide here.”

“Tell him to hold on,” Jack says.

“Fuck that, man—tell him yourself.”

There’s a rattling sound in Jack’s ear, the faint murmuring of voices. Then another voice, one which hardly sounds human, speaks in his ear. “Got to hurry . . . got to get over here, man. Thing . . . bit me. I can feel it in there. Like acid.”

“Hold on, Mouse,” Jack says. His fingers are dead white on the telephone. He wonders that the case doesn’t