Black House

who needs to be stopped. He’d do well to remember that.

Bear Girl makes a space for Jack in front of the couch, moving gracefully even though she’s on her knees and still holding the bowl. Jack sees that in it are two more wet cloths and a heap of melting ice cubes. The sight of them makes him thirstier than ever. He takes one and pops it into his mouth. Then he turns his attention to Mouse.

A plaid blanket has been pulled up to his neck. His forehead and upper cheeks—the places not covered by his decaying beard—are pasty. His eyes are closed. His lips are drawn back to show teeth of startling whiteness.

“Is he—” Jack begins, and then Mouse’s eyes open. Whatever Jack meant to ask leaves his head entirely. Around the hazel irises, Mouse’s eyes have gone an uneasy, shifting scarlet. It’s as if the man is looking into a terrible radioactive sunset. From the inner corners of his eyes, some sort of black scum is oozing.

“The Book of Philosophical Transformation addresses most current dialectics,” Mouse says, speaking mellowly and lucidly, “and Machiavelli also speaks to these questions.” Jack can almost picture him in a lecture hall. Until his teeth begin to chatter, that is.

“Mouse, it’s Jack Sawyer.” No recognition in those weird red-and-hazel eyes. The black gunk at the corners of them seems to twitch, however, as if it is somehow sentient. Listening to him.

“It’s Hollywood,” Beezer murmurs. “The cop. Remember?”

One of Mouse’s hands lies on the plaid blanket. Jack takes it, and stifles a cry of surprise when it closes over his with amazing strength. It’s hot, too. As hot as a biscuit just out of the oven. Mouse lets out a long, gasping sigh, and the stench is fetid—bad meat, decayed flowers. He’s rotting, Jack thinks. Rotting from the inside out. Oh Christ, help me through this.

Christ may not, but the memory of Sophie might. Jack tries to fix her eyes in his memory, that lovely, level, clear blue gaze.

“Listen,” Mouse says.

“I’m listening.”

Mouse seems to gather himself. Beneath the blanket, his body shivers in a loose, uncoordinated way that Jack guesses is next door to a seizure. Somewhere a clock is ticking. Somewhere a dog is barking. A boat hoots on the Mississippi. Other than these sounds, all is silence. Jack can remember only one other such suspension of the world’s business in his entire life, and that was when he was in a Beverly Hills hospital, waiting for his mother to finish the long business of dying. Somewhere Ty Marshall is waiting to be rescued. Hoping to be rescued, at least. Somewhere there are Breakers hard at work, trying to destroy the axle upon which all existence spins. Here is only this eternal room with its feeble fans and noxious vapors.

Mouse’s eyes close, then open again. They fix upon the newcomer, and Jack is suddenly sure some great truth is going to be confided. The ice cube is gone from his mouth; Jack supposes he crunched it up and swallowed it without even realizing, but he doesn’t dare take another.

“Go on, buddy,” Doc says. “You get it out and then I’ll load you up with another hypo of dope. The good stuff. Maybe you’ll sleep.”

Mouse pays no heed. His mutating eyes hold Jack’s. His hand holds Jack’s, tightening still more. Jack can almost feel the bones of his fingers grinding together.

“Don’t . . . go out and buy top-of-the-line equipment,” Mouse says, and sighs out another excruciatingly foul breath from his rotting lungs.

“Don’t . . . ?”

“Most people give up brewing after . . . a year or two. Even dedicated . . . dedicated hobbyists. Making beer is not . . . is not for pussies.”

Jack looks around at Beezer, who looks back impassively. “He’s in and out. Be patient. Wait on him.”

Mouse’s grip tightens yet more, then loosens just as Jack is deciding he can take it no longer.

“Get a big pot,” Mouse advises him. His eyes bulge. The reddish shadows come and go, come and go, fleeting across the curved landscape of his corneas, and Jack thinks, That’s its shadow. The shadow of the Crimson King. Mouse has already got one foot in its court. “Five gallons . . . at least. You find the best ones are in . . . seafood supply stores. And for a fermentation vessel . . . plastic water-cooler jugs are good . . . they’re lighter than glass, and . . . I’m burning up. Christ, Beez, I’m burning up!”

“Fuck this, I’m going to shoot it to him,” Doc says, and snaps open his bag.

Beezer grabs his arm. “Not yet.”

Bloody tears begin to slip out of Mouse’s eyes. The black goo seems to be forming into tiny tendrils. These reach greedily downward, as if trying to catch the moisture and drink it.

“Fermentation lock and stopper,” Mouse whispers. “Thomas Merton is shit, never let anyone tell you different. No real thought there. You have to let the gases escape while keeping dust out. Jerry Garcia wasn’t God. Kurt Cobain wasn’t God. The perfume he smells is not that of his dead wife. He’s caught the eye of the King. Gorg-ten-abbalah, ee-lee-lee. The opopanax is dead, long live the opopanax.”

Jack leans more deeply into Mouse’s smell. “Who’s smelling perfume? Who’s caught the eye of the King?”

“The mad King, the bad King, the sad King. Ring-a-ding-ding, all hail the King.”

“Mouse, who’s caught the eye of the King?”

Doc says, “I thought you wanted to know about—”

“Who?” Jack has no idea why this seems important to him, but it does. Is it something someone has said to him recently? Was it Dale? Tansy? Was it, God save us, Wendell Green?

“Racking cane and hose,” Mouse says confidentially. “That’s what you need when the fermentation’s done! And you can’t put beer in screw-top bottles! You—”