Black House

“Did you talk to him?” Rebecca asks. “Did you ask him what he was doing?”

“Miz Vilas, I don’t talk to cops unless it’s like you got no other choice, know what I mean? Cheetah, he never even saw me. The guy wouldn’t of said nothing anyhow. He had this expression on his face—it was like, Jeez, I hope I get to the crapper before I drop a load in my pants, that kind of expression.”

“Then he just drove away?”

“Just like that. Twenty minutes later, two other cops showed up.”

Rebecca raises both hands, closes her eyes, and presses her fingertips to her forehead, giving Pete Wexler an excellent opportunity, of which he does not fail to take full advantage, to admire the shape of her breasts underneath her blouse. It may not be as great as the view from the bottom of the ladder, but it’ll do, all right, yes it will. As far as Ebbie’s dad is concerned, a sight like Rebecca Vilas’s Hottentots pushing out against her dress is like a good fire on a cold night. They are bigger than you’d expect on a slender little thing like her, and you know what? When the arms go up, the Hottentots go up, too! Hey, if he had known she was going to put on a show like this, he would have told her about Cheetah and the bicycle as soon as it happened.

“All right, okay,” she says, still flattening the tips of her fingers against her head. She lifts her chin, raising her arms another few inches, and frowns in concentration, for a moment looking like a figure on a plinth.

Hoo-ray and hallelujah, Pete thinks. There’s a bright side to everything. If another little snotnose gets grabbed off the sidewalk tomorrow morning, it won’t be soon enough for me.

Rebecca says, “Okay, okay, okay,” opens her eyes, and lowers her arms. Pete Wexler is staring firmly at a point over her shoulder, his face blank with a false innocence she immediately comprehends. Good God, what a caveman. “It’s not as bad as I thought. In the first place, all you saw was a policeman picking up a bike. Maybe it was stolen. Maybe some other kid borrowed the bike, dumped it, and ran away. The cop could have been looking for it. Or the kid who owned the bike could have been hit by a car or something. And even if the worst did happen, I don’t see any way that it could hurt us. Maxton’s isn’t responsible for whatever goes on outside the grounds.”

She turns to Henry, who looks as though he wishes he were a hundred miles away. “Sorry, I know that sounded awfully cold. I’m as distressed about this Fisherman business as everyone else, what with those two poor kids and the missing girl. We’re all so upset we can hardly think straight. But I’d hate to see us dragged into the mess, don’t you see?”

“I see perfectly,” Henry says. “Being one of those blind men George Rathbun is always yelling about.”

“Hah!” Pete Wexler barks.

“And you agree with me, don’t you?”

“I’m a gentleman, I agree with everybody,” Henry says. “I agree with Pete that another child may well have been abducted by our local monster. Officer Cheetah, or whatever his name is, sounded too anxious to be just picking up a lost bicycle. And I agree with you that Maxton’s cannot be blamed for anything that happened.”

“Good,” Rebecca says.

“Unless, of course, someone here is involved in the murders of these children.”

“But that’s impossible!” Rebecca says. “Most of our male clients can’t even remember their own names.”

“A ten-year-old girl could take most of these feebs,” Pete says. “Even the ones who don’t have old-timer’s disease walk around covered in their own . . . you know.”

“You’re forgetting about the staff,” Henry says.

“Oh, now,” Rebecca says, momentarily rendered nearly wordless. “Come on. That’s . . . that’s a totally irresponsible thing to say.”

“True. It is. But if this goes on, nobody will be above suspicion. That’s my point.”

Pete Wexler feels a sudden chill—if the town clowns start grilling Maxton’s residents, his private amusements might come to light, and wouldn’t Wendell Green have a field day with that stuff? A gleaming new idea comes to him, and he brings it forth, hoping to impress Miz Vilas. “You know what? The cops should talk to that California guy, the big-time detective who nailed that Kinderling asshole two-three years ago. He lives around here somewhere, don’t he? Someone like that, he’s the guy we need on this. The cops here, they’re way outta their depth. That guy, he’s like a whaddayacallit, a goddamn resource.”

“Odd you should say that,” Henry says. “I couldn’t agree with you more. It is about time Jack Sawyer did his thing. I’ll work on him again.”

“You know him?” Rebecca asks.

“Oh, yes,” Henry says. “That I do. But isn’t it about time for me to do my own thing?”

“Soon. They’re all still outside.”

Rebecca leads him down the rest of the corridor and into the common room, where all three of them move across to the big platform. Henry’s microphone stands beside a table mounted with his speakers and turntable. With unnerving accuracy, Henry says, “Lot of space in here.”

“You can tell that?” she asks.

“Piece of cake,” Henry says. “We must be getting close now.”

“It’s right in front of you. Do you need any help?”

Henry extends one foot and taps the side of the flat. He glides a hand down the edge of the table, locates the mike stand, says, “Not at the moment, darlin’,” and steps neatly up onto the platform. Guided by touch, he moves to the back of the table and locates the turntable. “All is copacetic,” he says. “Pete, would you please put the record boxes on the table? The one on top goes here, and the other one right next to it.”

“What’s he like, your friend Jack?” Rebecca asks.

“An orphan of the storm. A pussycat, but an extremely difficult pussycat. I have to