In the common room, the old folks sit transfixed by Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music. Alice Weathers is actually crying with happiness — Music is her all-time favorite movie. Singin' in the Rain comes close, but close never won the cigar. Among those MEC inmates who are ambulatory, only Burny is missing . . . except no one here misses him at all. Burny is deep in sleep. The spirit that now controls him — the demon, we might as well say — has its own agenda in French Landing, and it has used Burny roughly over these last few weeks (not that Burny's complaining; he is a very willing accomplice).
On Norway Valley Road, Jack Sawyer is just pulling his Dodge Ram into Henry Leyden's driveway. The fog out here is thinner, but it still turns the truck's headlamps into soft coronas. Tonight he will recommence Bleak House at chapter 7 ("The Ghost's Walk") and hopefully reach the end of chapter 8 ("Covering a Multitude of Sins"). But before Dickens, he has promised to listen to the Wisconsin Rat's latest candidate for hot rotation, a number called "Gimme Back My Dog" by Slob-berbone.
"Every five years or so, another great rock-'n'-roll song comes break-dancing out of the woodwork," Henry has told him over the phone, and Jack's damned if he can't hear the Rat screaming around the edges of his friend's voice, popping wheelies out there on the edge of darkness. "This is a great rock-'n'-roll song."
"If you say so," Jack replies dubiously. His idea of a great rock-'n'-roll song is "Runaround Sue," by Dion.
At 16 Robin Hood Lane (that sweet little Cape Cod honey of a home), Fred Marshall is down on his hands and knees, wearing a pair of green rubber gloves and washing the floor. He's still got Tyler's baseball cap balanced on his head, and he's weeping.
Out at the Holiday Trailer Park, the Crow Gorg is dripping poison into the porches of Tansy Freneau's ears.
In the sturdy brick house on Herman Street where he lives with the beautiful Sarah and the equally beautiful David, Dale Gilbertson is just getting ready to head back to the office, his movements slightly slowed by two helpings of chicken pot pie and a dish of bread pudding. When the telephone rings, he is not terribly surprised. He's had that feeling, after all. His caller is Debbi Anderson, and from her first word he knows that something has popped.
He listens, nodding, asking an occasional question. His wife stands in the kitchen doorway, watching him with worried eyes. Dale bends and jots on the pad beside the phone. Sarah walks over and reads two names: Andy Railsback and M. Fine.
"You've still got Railsback on the line?" he asks.
"Yes, on hold — "
"Patch me in."
"Dale, I don't know if I know how to do that." Debbi sounds uncharacteristically flustered. Dale closes his eyes a moment, reminds himself that this isn't her usual job.
"Ernie's not there yet?"
"No."
"Who is?"
"Bobby Dulac . . . I think Dit might be in the shower . . ."
"Put Bobby on," Dale says, and is relieved when Bobby is able to patch him quickly and painlessly through to Andy Railsback in Morty Fine's office. The two men have been upstairs to room 314, and one look at the Polaroids scattered on the floor of George Potter's closet has been enough for Morty. He's now as pale as Andy himself. Maybe paler.
Outside the police station, Ernie Therriault and Reginald "Doc" Amberson meet in the parking lot. Doc has just arrived on his old (but perfectly maintained) Harley Fat Boy. They exchange amiable greetings in the fog. Ernie Therriault is another cop — sort of — but relax: he's the last one we'll have to meet (well, there is an FBI agent running around here someplace, but never mind him right now; he's in Madison, and he's a fool).
Ernie is a trim sixty-five, retired from full-time police duty for almost twelve years, and still four times the cop Arnold Hrabowski will ever be. He supplements his pension by doing night dispatch at the FLPD (he doesn't sleep so well these days, thanks to a cranky prostate) and pulling private security time at First Bank of Wisconsin on Fridays, when the Wells Fargo people come at two and the Brinks people at four.
Doc looks every inch the Hells Angel, with his long black-and-gray beard (which he sometimes braids with ribbons in the style of the pirate Edward Teach), and he brews beer for a living, but the two men get along very well. For one thing, they recognize each other's intelligence. Ernie doesn't know if Doc really is a doctor, but he could be. Maybe at one point he was.
"Anything changed?" Doc asks.
"Not that I know of, my friend," Ernie says. One of the Five comes by every night, in turn, to check. Tonight Doc's got the duty.
"Mind if I walk in with you?"
"Nope," Ernie said. "Just as long as you respect the rule."
Doc nods. Some of the other Fives can be pissy about the rule (especially Sonny, who's pissy about lots of stuff ), but Doc abides by it: one cup of coffee or five minutes, whichever comes first, then down the road you go. Ernie, who saw plenty of real Hells Angels when he was a cop in Phoenix back in the seventies, appreciates how deeply patient Beezer St. Pierre and his crew have been. But of course, they are not Hells Angels, or Pagans, or Beasts on Bikes, or any of that nonsense. Ernie doesn't know exactly what they are, but he knows that they listen to Beezer, and he suspects that Beezer's patience is growing thin. Ernie knows his would be by now.
"Well, then, come on in," Ernie says, clapping the big man on the shoulder. "Let's see what's shaking."