"Look at the house, Hollywood," Doc murmurs.
Jack does. It's only a house, now — a three-story job that might once have been a respectable ranch but has fallen into disrepair over the years. To make matters worse, someone has slopped it with black paint from top to bottom and stem to stern — even the windows have been blurred with swipes of that paint. The overall effect is sad and eccentric, but by no means sinister. The house's slippery shifting shape has solidified, and with the abbalah's glammer departed, what remains is only the abandoned home of an old fellow who was pretty crazy and extremely dangerous. An old fellow to put beside such human monsters as Dahmer, Haarman, and Albert Fish. The leering, rampant evil that once inhabited this building has been dissipated, blown away, and what remains is as mundane as an old man mumbling in a cell on Death Row. There is something Jack must do to this wretched place — something the dying Mouse made him promise to do.
"Doc," Beezer says. "Look yonder."
A large dog — large but not monstrous — staggers slowly down the lane that leads back to Highway 35. It looks like a cross between a boxer and a Great Dane. The side of its head and one of its rear paws have been blown away.
"It's your devil dog," the Beez says.
Doc gapes. "What, that?"
"That," Beezer confirms. He draws his 9mm, meaning to put the thing out of its misery, but before he can, it collapses on its side, takes a single deep, shuddering breath, and then lies still. Beezer turns to Jack and Dale. "It's all a lot smaller with the machine turned off, isn't it?"
"I want to see my mother," Ty says quietly. "Please, may I?"
"Yes," Jack says. "Do you mind swinging by your house and picking up your father? I think he might like to go, too."
Tyler breaks into a tired grin. "Yes," he says. "Let's do that."
"You got it," Jack tells him.
Dale swings the car carefully around the yard and has reached the beginning of the lane when Ty calls out, "Look! Look, you guys! Here they come!"
Dale stops, peers in the rearview mirror, and whispers: "Oh, Jack. Holy Mother of God." He puts the cruiser in park and gets out. They all get out, looking back at Black House. Its shape remains ordinary, but it has not quite given up all of its magic after all, it seems. Somewhere a door — perhaps in the cellar or a bedroom or a dirty and neglected but otherwise perfectly ordinary kitchen — remains open. On this side is the Coulee Country; on the other is Conger Road, the smoking, newly stopped hulk of the Big Combination, and the Din-tah.
Bees are coming out onto the porch of Black House. Bees, and the children the bees are leading. They come in droves, laughing and crying and holding hands. Jack Sawyer has a brief, brilliant image of animals leaving Noah's Ark after the flood.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God," Dale whispers again. The yard is filling with laughing, crying, murmuring children.
Jack walks up to Beezer, who turns to him with a brilliant smile.
"After all the children come through, we have to close the door," Jack says. "For good."
"I know we do," says Beezer.
"You happen to have any brilliant ideas?"
"Well," Beezer says, "let me put it this way. If you promise me, and I mean promise me, not to ask any awkward questions or say anything about it later, before midnight tonight I might find it possible to lay my hands on a substantial quantity of something pretty damn effective."
"What? Dynamite?"
"Please," Beezer says. "Didn't I say effective?"
"You mean . . . ?"
Beezer smiles, and his eyes become slits.
"I'm glad you're on my side," Jack says. "See you back on the road before midnight. We'll have to sneak in, but I don't think we'll have any trouble."
"Sure won't have any on the way out," Beezer says.
Doc claps Dale on the shoulder. "I hope you've got some on-the-ball child-welfare organizations in this part of the world, Chiefy. I think you're going to need them."
"Holy . . ." Dale turns stricken eyes to Jack. "What am I going to do?"
Jack grins. "I think you better make a call to . . . what does Sarah call them? The Color Posse?"
A gleam of hope dawns in Dale Gilbertson's eyes. Or maybe it's incipient triumph. John P. Redding of the FBI, officers Perry Brown and Jeffrey Black of the Wisconsin State Police. He imagines this trio of bungholes faced with the appearance of a medieval children's crusade in western Wisconsin. Imagines the Dickensian piles of paperwork such an unheard-of event must certainly generate. It will keep them occupied for months or years. It may generate nervous breakdowns. Certainly it will give them something to think about other than Chief Dale Gilbert-son of French Landing.
"Jack," he says. "What exactly do you suggest?"
"In broad strokes," Jack says, "I suggest that they should get stuck with all the work and you should hog all the credit. How does that sound to you?"