by Stephen King
Tansy stops, the noose still held up. “Bring him out,” she says. Her voice is louder than it should be, as if some doctor has cunningly hidden an amplifying gadget in her throat. “Bring him out. Give us the killer!”
Doodles joins in. “Bring him out!”
And Teddy. “Give us the killer!”
And Freddy. “Bring him out! Give us the killer!”
And then the rest. It could almost be the sound track of George Rathbun’s Badger Barrage, only instead of “Block that kick!” or “On Wisconsin!” they are screaming, “BRING HIM OUT! GIVE US THE KILLER!”
“They’re gonna take him,” Beezer murmurs. He turns to his troops, his eyes both fierce and frightened. Sweat stands out on his broad forehead in large perfect drops. “When she’s got ’em pumped up to high, she’ll come and they’ll be right on her ass. Don’t run, don’t even unfold your arms. And when they grab you, let it happen. If you want to see daylight tomorrow, let it happen.”
The crowd stands knee-deep in fog like spoiled skim milk, chanting, “BRING HIM OUT! GIVE US THE KILLER!”
Wendell Green is chanting right along with them, but that doesn’t keep him from continuing to take pictures.
Because shit, this is the story of a lifetime.
From the door behind Beezer, there’s a click. Yeah, they locked it, he thinks. Thanks, you whores.
But it’s the latch, not the lock. The door opens. Jack Sawyer steps out. He walks past Beezer without looking or reacting as Beez mutters, “Hey, man, I wouldn’t go near her.”
Jack advances slowly but not hesitantly into the no-man’s-land between the building and the mob with the woman standing at its head, Lady Liberty with the upraised hangman’s noose instead of a torch in her hand. In his simple gray collarless shirt and dark pants, Jack looks like a cavalier from some old romantic tale advancing to propose marriage. The flowers he holds in his own hand add to this impression. These tiny white blooms are what Speedy left for him beside the sink in Dale’s bathroom, a cluster of impossibly fragrant white blossoms.
They are lilies of the vale, and they are from the Territories. Speedy left him no explanation about how to use them, but Jack needs none.
The crowd falls silent. Only Tansy, lost in the world Gorg has made for her, continues to chant: “Bring him out! Give us the killer!” She doesn’t stop until Jack is directly in front of her, and he doesn’t kid himself that it’s his handsome face or dashing figure that ends the too loud repetition. It is the smell of the flowers, their sweet and vibrant smell the exact opposite of the meaty stench that hung over Ed’s Eats.
Her eyes clear … a little, at least.
“Bring him out,” she says to Jack. Almost a question.
“No,” he says, and the word is filled with heartbreaking tenderness. “No, dear.”
Behind them, Doodles Sanger suddenly thinks of her father for the first time in maybe twenty years and begins to weep.
“Bring him out,” Tansy pleads. Now her own eyes are filling. “Bring out the monster who killed my pretty baby.”
“If I had him, maybe I would,” Jack says. “Maybe I would at that.” Although he knows better. “But the guy we’ve got’s not the guy you want. He’s not the one.”
“But Gorg said—”
Here is a word he knows. One of the words Judy Marshall tried to eat. Jack, not in the Territories but not entirely in this world right now either, reaches forward and plucks the feather from her belt. “Did Gorg give you this?”
“Yes—”
Jack lets it drop, then steps on it. For a moment he thinks—knows—that he feels it buzzing angrily beneath the sole of his shoe, like a half-crushed wasp. Then it stills. “Gorg lies, Tansy. Whatever Gorg is, he lies. The man in there is not the one.”
Tansy lets out a great wail and drops the rope. Behind her, the crowd sighs.
Jack puts his arm around her and again he thinks of George Potter’s painful dignity; he thinks of all the lost, struggling along without a single clean Territories dawn to light their way. He hugs her to him, smelling sweat and grief and madness and coffee brandy.
In her ear, Jack whispers: “I’ll catch him for you, Tansy.”
She stiffens. “You …”
“Yes.”
“You … promise?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not the one?”
“No, dear.”
“You swear?”
Jack hands her the lilies and says, “On my mother’s name.”
She lowers her nose to the flowers and inhales deeply. When her head comes up again, Jack sees that the danger has left her, but not the insanity. She’s one of the lost ones now. Something has gotten to her. Maybe if the Fisherman is caught, it will leave her. Jack would like to believe that.
“Someone needs to take this lady home,” Jack says. He speaks in a mild, conversational voice, but it still carries to the crowd. “She’s very tired and full of sadness.”
“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.
Afraid for all of them, really.
“That was good work, man,” Beezer tells Jack. “I mean, balls to the wall.”
Jack nods. “Thanks.”
“I’m not going to ask you again if that was the guy. You say he’s not, he’s not. But anything we can do to help you find the right one, you just call us.”
The other members of the Thunder Five rumble assent; Kaiser Bill gives Jack a friendly bop on the shoulder. It will probably leave a bruise.
“Thanks,” Jack says again.
Before he can knock on the door, it’s opened. Dale grabs him and gives him a crushing embrace. When their chests touch, Jack can feel Dale’s heart beating hard and fast.
“You saved my ass,” Dale says into his ear. “Anything I can do—”
“You can do something, all right,” Jack says, pulling him inside. “I saw another cop car behind the news trucks. Couldn’t tell for sure, but I think this one was blue.”
“Oh-oh,” Dale says.
“Oh-oh is right. I need at least twenty minutes with Potter. It might not get us anything, but it might get us a lot. Can you hold off Brown and Black for twenty minutes?”
Dale gives his friend a grim little smile. “I’ll see you get half an hour. Minimum.”
“That’s great. And the 911 tape of the Fisherman’s call, do you still have that?”
“It went with the rest of the evidence we were holding after Brown and Black took the case. A trooper picked it up this afternoon.”
“Dale, no!”
“Easy, big boy. I’ve got a cassette copy, safe in my desk.”
Jack pats his chest. “Don’t scare me that way.”
“Sorry,” Dale says, thinking, Seeing you out there, I wouldn’t have guessed you were afraid of anything.
Halfway up the stairs, Jack remembers Speedy telling him he could use what had been left in the bathroom twice … but he has given the flowers to Tansy Freneau. Shit. Then he cups his hands over his nose, inhales, and smiles.
Maybe he still has them after all.
17
GEORGE POTTER is sitting on the bunk in the third holding cell down a short corridor that smells of piss and disinfectant. He’s looking out the window at the parking lot, which has lately been the scene of so much excitement and which is still full of milling people. He doesn’t turn at the sound of Jack’s approaching footfalls.
As he walks, Jack passes two signs. ONE CALL MEANS ONE CALL, reads the first. A.A. MEETINGS MON. AT 7 P.M., N.A. MEETINGS THURS. AT 8 P.M., reads the second. There’s a dusty drinking fountain and an ancient fire extinguisher, which some wit has labeled LAUGHING GAS.
Jack reaches the bars of the cell and raps on one with his house key. Potter at last turns away from the window. Jack, still in that state of hyperawareness that he now recognizes as a kind of Territorial residue, knows the essential truth of the man at a single look. It’s in the sunken eyes and the dark hollows beneath them; it’s in the sallow cheeks and the slightly hollowed temples with their delicate nestles of veins; it’s in the too sharp prominence of the nose.
“Hello, Mr. Potter,” he says. “I want to talk to you, and we have to make it fast.”
“They wanted me,” Potter remarks.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should have let ’em take me. Another three-four months, I’m out of the race anyway.”
In his breast pocket is the Mag-card Dale has given him, and Jack uses it to unlock the cell door. There’s a harsh buzzing as it trundles back on its short track. When Jack removes the key, the buzzing stops. Downstairs in the ready room, an amber light marked H.C. 3 will now be glowing.
Jack comes in and sits down on the end of the bunk. He has put his key ring away, not wanting the metallic smell to corrupt the scent of lilies. “Where have you got it?”
Without asking how Jack knows, Potter raises one large gnarled hand—a carpenter’s hand—and touches his midsection. Then he lets it drop. “Started in the gut. That was five years ago. I took the pills and the shots like a good boy. La Riviere, that was. That stuff … man, I was throwing up ever’where. Corners and just about ever’where. Once I threw up in my own bed and didn’t even know it. Woke up the next morning with puke drying on my chest. You know anything about that, son?”
“My mother had cancer,” Jack says quietly. “When I was twelve. Then it went away.”
“She get five years?”
“More.”
“Lucky,” Potter says. “Got her in the end, though, didn’t it?”
Jack nods.
Potter nods back. They’re not quite friends yet, but it’s edging that way. It’s how Jack works, always has been.
“That shit gets in and waits,” Potter tells him. “My theory is that it never goes away, not really. Anyway, shots is done. Pills is done, too. Except for the ones that kill the pain. I come here for the finish.”
“Why?” This is not a thing Jack needs to know, and time is short, but it’s his technique, and he won’t abandon what works just because there are a couple of State Police jarheads downstairs waiting to take his boy. Dale will have to hold them off, that’s all.
“Seems like a nice enough little town. And I like the river. I go down ever’ day. Like to watch the sun on the water. Sometimes I think of all the jobs I did—Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois—and then sometimes I don’t think about much of anything. Sometimes I just sit there on the bank and feel at peace.”
“What was your line of work, Mr. Potter?”
“Started out as a carpenter, just like Jesus. Progressed to builder, then got too big for my britches. When that happens to a builder, he usually goes around calling himself a contractor. I made three-four million dollars, had a Cadillac, had a young woman who hauled my ashes Friday nights. Nice young woman. No trouble. Then I lost it all. Only thing I missed was the Cadillac. It had a smoother ride than the woman. Then I got my bad news and come here.”
He looks at Jack.
> “You know what I think sometimes? That French Landing’s close to a better world, one where things look and smell better. Maybe where people act better. I don’t go around with folks—I’m not a friendly type person—but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. I got this idea in my head that it’s not too late to be decent. You think I’m crazy?”
“No,” Jack tells him. “That’s pretty much why I came here myself. I’ll tell you how it is for me. You know how if you put a thin blanket over a window, the sun will still shine through?”
George Potter looks at him with eyes that are suddenly alight. Jack doesn’t even have to finish the thought, which is good. He has found the wavelength—he almost always does, it’s his gift—and now it’s time to get down to business.
“You do know,” Potter says simply.
Jack nods. “You know why you’re here?”
“They think I killed that lady’s kid.” Potter nods toward the window. “The one out there that was holdin’ up the noose. I didn’t. That’s what I know.”
“Okay, that’s a start. Listen to me, now.”
Very quickly, Jack lays out the chain of events that has brought Potter to this cell. Potter’s brow furrows as Jack speaks, and his big hands knot together.
“Railsback!” he says at last. “I shoulda known! Nosy goddamn old man, always askin’ questions, always askin’ do you want to play cards or maybe shoot some pool or, I dunno, play Parcheesi, for Christ’s sake! All so he can ask questions. Goddamn nosey parker …”
There’s more in this vein, and Jack lets him go on with it for a while. Cancer or no cancer, this old fellow has been ripped out of his ordinary routine without much mercy, and needs to vent a little. If Jack cuts him off to save time, he’ll lose it instead. It’s hard to be patient (how is Dale holding those two assholes off? Jack doesn’t even want to know), but patience is necessary. When Potter begins to widen the scope of his attack, however (Morty Fine comes in for some abuse, as does Andy Railsback’s pal Irv Throneberry), Jack steps in.
“The point is, Mr. Potter, that Railsback followed someone to your room. No, that’s the wrong way to put it. Railsback was led to your room.”
