Black House

pulling out of his lower abdomen as he does so. He is unaware of this or of anything else.

Carl Bierstone, also known as Charles Burnside, also known as “Chummy” Burnside, is dead.

For over thirty seconds, nothing moves. Tyler Marshall is alive but at first only hangs from the axis of his shackled left arm, still clutching a loop of Burny’s intestine in his right hand. Clutching it in a death grip. At last some sense of awareness informs his features. He gets his feet under him and scrambles upright, easing the all but intolerable pressure on the socket of his left shoulder. He suddenly becomes aware that his right arm is splashed with gore all the way to the biceps, and that he’s got a handful of dead man’s insides. He lets go of them and bolts for the door, not remembering that he’s still chained to the wall until he is yanked back, the socket of his shoulder once more bellowing with pain.

You’ve done well, the voice of Judy-Sophie whispers. But you have to get out of here, and quick.

Tears start to roll down his dirty, pallid face again, and Ty begins to scream at the top of his voice.

“Help me! Somebody help me! I’m in the shed! I’M IN THE SHED!”

Out in front of the Sand Bar, Doc stays where he is, with his scoot rumbling between his legs, but Beezer turns his off, levers the stand into place with one booted heel, and walks over to Jack, Dale, and Fred. Jack has taken charge of the wrapped object Ty’s father has brought them. Fred, meanwhile, has gotten hold of Jack’s shirt. Dale tries to restrain the man, but as far as Fred Marshall’s concerned, there are now only two people in the world: him and Hollywood Jack Sawyer.

“It was him, wasn’t it? It was Ty. That was my boy, I heard him!”

“Yes,” Jack says. “It certainly was and you certainly did.” He’s gone rather pale, Beezer sees, but is otherwise calm. It’s absolutely not bothering him that the missing boy’s father has yanked his shirt out of his pants. No, all Jack’s attention is on the wrapped package.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Dale asks plaintively. He looks at Beezer. “Do you know?”

“The kid’s in a shed somewhere,” Beezer says. “Am I right about that?”

“Yes,” Jack says. Fred abruptly lets go of Jack’s shirt and staggers backward, sobbing. Jack pays no attention to him and makes no effort to tuck in the tail of his crumpled shirt. He’s still looking at the package. He half-expects sugar-packet stamps, but no, this is just a case of plain old metered mail. Whatever it is, it’s been mailed Priority to Mr. Tyler Marshall, 16 Robin Hood Lane, French Landing. The return address has been stamped in red: Mr. George Rathbun, KDCU, 4 Peninsula Drive, French Landing. Below this, stamped in large black letters:

EVEN A BLIND MAN CAN SEE THAT COULEE COUNTRY LOVES THE BREWER BASH!

“Henry, you never quit, do you?” Jack murmurs. Tears sting his eyes. The idea of life without his old friend hits him all over again, leaves him feeling helpless and lost and stupid and hurt.

“What about Uncle Henry?” Dale asks. “Jack, Uncle Henry’s dead.”

Jack’s no longer so sure of that, somehow.

“Let’s go,” Beezer says. “We got to get that kid. He’s alive, but he ain’t safe. I got that clear as a bell. Let’s go for it. We can figure the rest out later.”

But Jack—who has not just heard Tyler’s shout but has, for a moment, seen through Tyler’s eyes—doesn’t have much to figure out. In fact, figuring out now comes down to only one thing. Ignoring both Beezer and Dale, he steps toward Ty’s weeping father.

“Fred.”

Fred goes on sobbing.

“Fred, if you ever want to see your boy again, you get hold of yourself right now and listen to me.”

Fred looks up, red eyes streaming. The ridiculously small baseball cap still perches on his head.

“What’s in this, Fred?”

“It must be a prize in that contest George Rathbun runs every summer—the Brewer Bash. But I don’t know how Ty could have won something in the first place. A couple of weeks ago he was pissing and moaning about how he forgot to enter. He even asked if maybe I’d entered the contest for him, and I kind of . . . well, I snapped at him.” Fresh tears begin running down Fred’s stubbly cheeks at the memory. “That was around the time Judy was getting . . . strange . . . I was worried about her and I just kind of . . . snapped at him. You know?” Fred’s chest heaves. He makes a watery hitching sound and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He wipes an arm across his eyes. “And Ty . . . all he said was, ‘That’s all right, Dad.’ He didn’t get mad at me, didn’t sulk or anything. Because that’s just the kind of boy he was. That he is.”

“How did you know to bring it to me?”

“Your friend called,” Fred says. “He told me the postman had brought something and I had to bring it to you here, right away. Before you left. He called you—”

“He called me Travelin’ Jack.”

Fred Marshall looks at him wonderingly. “That’s right.”

“All right.” Jack speaks gently, almost absently. “We’re going to get your boy now.”

“I’ll come. I’ve got my deer rifle in the truck—”

“And that’s where it’s going to stay. Go home. Make a place for him. Make a place for your wife. And let us do what we have to do.” Jack looks first at Dale, then at Beezer. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s roll.”

Five minutes later, the FLPD chief’s car is speeding west on Highway 35. Directly ahead, like an honor guard, Beezer and Doc are riding side by side, the sun gleaming on the chrome of their bikes. Trees in full summer leaf crowd close to the road on either side.

Jack can feel the buzzing that is Black House’s signature starting to ramp up in his head. He has discovered he