"I'm down with that," Doc agrees. "You'll go out with a smile on your face."
"Doubt that, bro, but I'll give it a try."
Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. "When it's done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents that're in the garage. Stick me in the tub. I'm betting that by midnight, you'll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. I'd be careful, though. Don't . . . touch what's left."
Bear Girl bursts into tears.
"Don't cry, darlin'," Mouse says. "I'm gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?"
"Right here, buddy."
"You have a little service for me. Okay? Read a poem . . . the one by Auden . . . the one that always used to frost your balls . . ."
" ‘Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose,' " Beezer says. He's crying. "You got it, Mousie."
"Play some Dead . . . ‘Ripple,' maybe . . . and make sure you're full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there won't . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can."
Jack laughs at that. He can't help it. And this time it's his turn to catch the full force of Mouse's crimson eyes.
"Promise me you'll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop."
"Mouse, I'm not sure I can do that."
"You gotta. Go out there tonight, you won't have to worry about the devil dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . ." The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouse's beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. "The other things in those woods will eat you like candy."
"I think that's a chance I'll have to take," Jack says, frowning. "There's a little boy somewhere — "
"Safe," Mouse whispers.
Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure if he's heard Mouse right. And even if he has, can he trust what he's heard? Mouse has some powerful, evil poison working in him. So far he's been able to withstand it, to communicate in spite of it, but —
"Safe for a little while," Mouse says. "Not from everything . . . there's things that might still get him, I suppose . . . but for the time being he's safe from Mr. Munching. Is that his name? Munching?"
"Munshun, I think. How do you know it?"
Mouse favors Jack with a smile of surpassing eeriness. It is the smile of a dying sibyl. Once more he manages to touch his forehead, and Jack notes with horror that the man's fingers are now melting into one another and turning black from the nails down. "Got it up here, man. Got it alll up here. Told you that. And listen: it's better the kid should get eaten by some giant bug or rock crab over there . . . where he is . . . than that you should die trying to rescue him. If you do that, the abbalah will wind up with the kid for sure. That's what your . . . your friend says."
"What friend?" Doc asks suspiciously.
"Never mind," Mouse says. "Hollywood knows. Don'tcha, Holly-wood?"
Jack nods reluctantly. It's Speedy, of course. Or Parkus, if you prefer.
"Wait until tomorrow," Mouse says. "High noon, when the sun's strongest in both worlds. Promise."
At first Jack can say nothing. He's torn, in something close to agony.
"It'd be almost full dark before you could get back out Highway 35 anyway," Bear Girl says quietly.
"And there's bad shit in those woods, all right," Doc says. "Makes the stuff in that Blair Witch Project look f**kin' tame. I don't think you want to try it in the dark. Not unless you got a death wish, that is."
"When you're done . . ." Mouse whispers. "When you're done . . . if any of you are left . . . burn the place to the ground. That hole. That tomb. Burn it to the ground, do you hear me? Close the door."
"Yeah," Beezer says. "Heard and understood, buddy."
"Last thing," Mouse says. He's speaking directly to Jack now. "You may be able to find it . . . but I think I got something else you need. It's a word. It's powerful to you because of something you . . . you touched. Once a long time ago. I don't understand that part, but . . ."
"It's all right," Jack tells him. "I do. What's the word, Mouse?"
For a moment he doesn't think Mouse will, in the end, be able to tell him. Something is clearly struggling to keep him from saying the word, but in this struggle, Mouse comes out on top. It is, Jack thinks, very likely his life's last W.
"D'yamba," Mouse says. "Now you, Hollywood. You say it."
"D'yamba," Jack says, and a row of weighty paperbacks slides from one of the makeshift shelves at the foot of the couch. They hang there in the dimming air . . . hang . . . hang . . . and then drop to the floor with a crash.
Bear Girl voices a little scream.
"Don't forget it," Mouse says. "You're gonna need it."
"How? How am I going to need it?"