Black House

ghee on a stigg. Who said that?”

He plays the 911: Kiss my scrote, you monkey.

He plays his memory: You’re no better’n a monkey on a stick.

Warmth on his face.

Heat? Light?

Both?

Henry pops out the 911 tape and sticks in the one Jack brought today.

Hello, Judy. Are you Judy today, or are you Sophie? The abbalah sends his best, and Gorg says “Caw-caw-caw!” [Husky, phlegmy laughter.] Ty says hello, too. Your little boy is very lonely . . .

When Tyler Marshall’s weeping, terrified voice booms through the speakers, Henry winces and fast- forwards.

Derr vill be morrr mur-derts.

The accent much thicker now, a burlesque, a joke, Katzenjammer Kids Meet the Wolfman, but somehow even more revealing because of that.

Der liddul chull-drun . . . havv-uz-ted like wheed. Like wheed. Havv-uz-ted like . . .

“Harvested like a monkey on a stick,” Henry says. “MUNG-ghee. HAVV-us-ted. Who are you, you son of a bitch?”

Back to the 911 tape.

There are whips in hell and chains in Sheol. But it’s almost vips in hell, almost chenz in Shayol.

Vips. Chenz. MUNG-ghee on a stick. A stigg.

“You’re no better’n—” Henry begins, and then, all at once, another line comes to him.

“Lady Magowan’s Nightmare.” That one’s good.

A bad nightmare of what? Vips in hell? Chenz in Shayol? Mung-ghees on sticks?

“My God,” Henry says softly. “Oh . . . my . . . God. The dance. He was at the dance.”

Now it all begins to fall into place. How stupid they have been! How criminally stupid! The boy’s bike . . . it had been right there. Right there, for Christ’s sake! They were all blind men, make them all umps.

“But he was so old,” Henry whispers. “And senile! How were we supposed to guess such a man could be the Fisherman?”

Other questions follow this one. If the Fisherman is a resident at Maxton Elder Care, for instance, where in God’s name could he have stashed Ty Marshall? And how is the bastard getting around French Landing? Does he have a car somewhere?

“Doesn’t matter,” Henry murmurs. “Not now, anyway. Who is he and where is he? Those are the things that matter.”

The warmth on his face—his mind’s first effort to locate the Fisherman’s voice in time and place—had been the spotlight, of course, Symphonic Stan’s spotlight, the pink of ripening berries. And some woman, some nice old woman—

Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?

—had asked him if he took requests. Only, before Stan could reply, a voice as flat and hard as two stones grinding together—

I was here first, old woman.

—had interrupted. Flat . . . and hard . . . and with that faint Germanic harshness that said South Side Chicago, probably second or even third generation. Not vass here first, not old vumman, but those telltale v’s had been lurking, hadn’t they? Ah yes.

“Mung-ghee,” Henry says, looking straight ahead. Looking straight at Charles Burnside, had he only known it. “Stigg. Havv-us-ted. Hasta la vista . . . baby.”

Was that what it came down to, in the end? A dotty old maniac who sounded a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Who was the woman? If he can remember her name, he can call Jack . . . or Dale, if Jack’s still not answering his phone . . . and put an end to French Landing’s bad dream.

Lady Magowan’s Nightmare. That one’s good.

“Nightmare,” Henry says, then adjusting his voice: “Nahht-mare.” Once again the mimicry is good. Certainly too good for the old codger standing outside the studio door. He is now scowling bitterly and gnashing the hedge clippers in front of the glass. How can the blindman in there sound so much like him? It’s not right; it’s completely improper. The old monster longs to cut the vocal cords right out