"I'll do it," Doodles says. Her cheeks gleam with tears. "I'll take her in Teddy's truck, and if he don't give me the keys, I'll knock him down. I — "
And that's when the chant starts again, this time from back in the crowd: "Bring him out! Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman! Bring out the Fisherman!" For a moment it's a solo job, and then a few other hesitant voices begin to join in and lend harmony.
Still standing with his back against the bricks, Beezer St. Pierre says: "Ah, shit. Here we go again."
Jack forbade Dale to come out into the parking lot with him, saying that the sight of Dale's uniform might set off the crowd. He didn't mention the little bouquet of flowers he was holding, and Dale barely noticed them; he was too terrified of losing Potter to Wisconsin's first lynching of the new millennium. He followed Jack downstairs, however, and has now commandeered the peephole in the door by right of seniority.
The rest of the FLPD is still upstairs, looking out of the ready-room windows. Henry has ordered Bobby Dulac to give him a running play-by-play. Even in his current state of worry about Jack (Henry thinks there's at least a 40 percent chance the mob will either trample him or tear him apart), Henry is amused and flattered to realize that Bobby is doing George Rathbun without even realizing it.
"Okay, Hollywood's out there . . . he approaches the woman . . . no sign of fear . . . the rest of them are quiet . . . Jack and the woman appear to be talking . . . and holy jeezum, he's givin' her a bouquet of flowers! What a ploy!"
"Ploy" is one of George Rathbun's favorite sports terms, as in The Brew Crew's hit-and-run ploy failed yet again last night at Miller Park.
"She's turnin' away!" Bobby yells jubilantly. He grabs Henry's shoulder and shakes it. "Hot damn, I think it's over! I think Jack turned her off!"
"Even a blind man could see he turned her off," Henry says.
"Just in time, too," Bobby says. "Here's Channel Five and there's another truck with one of those big orange poles on it . . . Fox-Milwaukee, I think . . . and — "
"Bring him out!" a voice outside begins yelling. It sounds cheated and indignant. "Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman!"
"Oh nooo!" Bobby says, even now sounding like George Rathbun, telling his morning-after audience how another Badger rally had started to fizzle. "Not nowwww, not with the TV here! That's — "
"Bring out the Fisherman!"
Henry already knows who that is. Even through two layers of chicken-wire-reinforced glass, that high, yapping cry is impossible to mistake.
Wendell Green understands his job — don't ever make the mistake of thinking he doesn't. His job is to report the news, to analyze the news, to sometimes photojournalize the news. His job is not to make the news. But tonight he can't help it. This is the second time in the last twelve hours that a career maker of a story has been extended to his grasping, pleading hands, only to be snatched away at the last second.
"Bring him out!" Wendell bawls. The raw strength in his voice surprises, then thrills him "Give us the killer! Give us the Fisherman!"
The sound of other voices joining in with his provides an incredible rush. It is, as his old college roommate used to say, a real zipper buster.
Wendell takes a step forward, his chest swelling, his cheeks reddening, his confidence building. He's vaguely aware that the Action News Five truck is rolling slowly toward him through the crowd. Soon there will be 10-k's and 5-k's shining through the fog; soon there will be TV cameras rolling tape by their harsh light. So what? If the woman in the blood-spattered sweatshirt was in the end too chicken to stand up for her own kid, Wendell will do it for her! Wendell Green, shining exemplar of civic responsibility! Wendell Green, leader of the people!
He begins to pump his camera up and down. It's exhilarating. Like being back in college! At a Skynyrd concert! Stoned! It's like —
There is a huge flash in front of Wendell Green's eyes. Then the lights go out. All of them.
"ARNIE HIT HIM WITH HIS FLASHLIGHT!" Bobby is screaming.
He grabs Dale's blind uncle by the shoulders and whirls him in a delirious circle. A thick aroma of Aqua Velva descends toward Henry, who knows Bobby's going to kiss him on both cheeks, French style, a second before Bobby actually does this. And when Bobby's narration resumes, he sounds as transported as George Rathbun on those rare occasions when the local sports teams actually buck the odds and grab the gold.
"Can you believe it, the Mad Hungarian hit him with his ever-lovin' flashlight and . . . GREEN'S DOWN! THE FUCKIN' HUNGARIAN HAS PUT EVERYONE'S FAVORITE ASSHOLE REPORTER ON THE MAT! WAY TO GO, HRABOWSKI!"
All around them, cops are cheering at the tops of their lungs. Debbi Anderson starts chanting "We Are the Champions," and other voices quickly lend support.
These are strange days in French Landing, Henry thinks. He stands with his hands in his pockets, smiling, listening to the bedlam. There's no lie in the smile; he's happy. But he's also uneasy in his heart. Afraid for Jack.