"No," he says, speaking very clearly. "I can smell flowers . . . and rug shampoo . . . and fried onions from last night. Very faint but still there. The nose knows."
All true enough. But the smell had been there. It's gone now because she's gone, but she will be back. And suddenly he wants her to come. If he's frightened, surely it's the unknown he's frightened of, right? Only that and nothing more. He doesn't want to be alone here, with nothing for company but the memory of that rancid dream.
And the tapes.
He has to listen to the tapes. He promised Jack.
Henry gets shakily to his feet and makes his way to the living-room control panel. This time he's greeted by the voice of Henry Shake, a mellow fellow if ever there was one.
"Hey there, all you hoppin' cats and boppin' kitties, at the tone it's seven-fourteen P.M., Bulova Watch Time. Outside the temp is a very cool seventy-five degrees, and here in the Make-Believe Ballroom it's a very nifty seventy degrees. So why not get off your money, grab your honey, and make a little magic?"
Seven-fourteen! When was the last time he fell asleep for almost three hours in the daytime? For that matter, when was the last time he had a dream in which he could see? The answer to that second question, so far as he can remember, is never.
Where was that lane?
What was the thing behind him?
What was the place ahead of him, for that matter?
"Doesn't matter," Henry tells the empty room — if it is empty. "It was a dream, that's all. The tapes, on the other hand . . ."
He doesn't want to listen to them, has never wanted to listen to anything any less in his life (with the possible exception of Chicago singing "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?"), but he has to. If it might save Ty Marshall's life, or the life of even one other child, he must.
Slowly, dreading every step, Henry Leyden makes his blind way to his studio, where two cassettes wait for him on the soundboard.
"In heaven there is no beer," Mouse sings in a toneless, droning voice.
His cheeks are now covered with ugly red patches, and his nose seems to be sinking sideways into his face, like an atoll after an undersea earthquake.
"That's why we drink it here. And when . . . we're gone . . . from here . . . our friends will be drinking all the beer."
It's been like this for hours now: philosophical nuggets, instructions for the beginning beer-making enthusiast, snatches of song. The light coming through the blankets over the windows has dimmed appreciably.
Mouse pauses, his eyes closed. Then he starts another ditty.
"Hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer . . . if one of those bottles should happen to fall . . ."
"I have to go," Jack says. He's hung in there as well as he can, convinced that Mouse is going to give him something, but he can wait no longer. Somewhere, Ty Marshall is waiting for him.
"Hold on," Doc says. He rummages in his bag and comes out with a hypodermic needle. He raises it in the dimness and taps the glass barrel with a fingernail.
"What's that?"
Doc gives Jack and Beezer a brief, grim smile. "Speed," he says, and injects it into Mouse's arm.
For a moment there's nothing. Then, as Jack is opening his mouth again to tell them he has to go, Mouse's eyes snap wide. They are now entirely red — a bright and bleeding red. Yet when they turn in his direction, Jack knows that Mouse is seeing him. Maybe really seeing him for the first time since he got here.
Bear Girl flees the room, trailing a single diminishing phrase behind her: "No more no more no more no more — "
"Fuck," Mouse says in a rusty voice. "Fuck, I'm f**ked. Ain't I?"
Beezer touches the top of his friend's head briefly but tenderly. "Yeah, man. I think you are. Can you help us out?"
"Bit me once. Just once, and now . . . now . . ." His hideous red gaze turns to Doc. "Can barely see you. Fuckin' eyes are all weird."
"You're going down," Doc says. "Ain't gonna lie to you, man."
"Not yet I ain't," Mouse says. "Gimme something to write on. To draw a map on. Quick. Dunno what you shot me with, Doc, but the stuff from the dog's stronger. I ain't gonna be compos long. Quick!"
Beezer feels around at the foot of the couch and comes up with a trade-sized paperback. Given the heavy shit on the bookcases, Jack could almost laugh — the book is The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Beezer tears off the back cover and hands it to Mouse with the blank side up.