“Because you touched the Talisman. And although some of its power has left you over the years, much still remains.”
Jack thinks of the lilies Speedy left for him in Dale’s bathroom. How the smell lingered on his hands even after he had given the bouquet itself to Tansy. And he remembers how the Talisman looked in the murmuring darkness of the Queen’s Pavilion, rising brightly, changing everything before it finally vanished.
He thinks: It’s still changing everything.
“Parkus.” Is it the first time he’s called the other man—the other coppiceman—by that name? He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks it may be.
“Yes, Jack.”
“What’s left of the Talisman—is it enough? Enough for me to take on this Crimson King?”
Parkus looks shocked in spite of himself. “Never in your life, Jack. Never in any life. The abbalah would blow you out like a candle. But it may be enough for you to take on Mr. Munshun—to go into the furnace-lands and bring Tyler out.”
“There are machines,” Sophie says. She looks caught in some dark and unhappy dream. “Red machines and black machines, all lost in smoke. There are great belts and children without number upon them. They trudge and trudge, turning the belts that turn the machines. Down in the foxholes. Down in the ratholes where the sun never shines. Down in the great caverns where the furnace-lands lie.”
Jack is shaken to the bottom of his mind and spirit. He finds himself thinking of Dickens—not Bleak House but Oliver Twist. And, of course he thinks of his conversation with Transy Freneau. At least Irma’s not there, he thinks. Not in the furnace-lands, not she. She got dead, and a mean old man ate her leg. Tyler, though . . . Tyler . . .
“They trudge until their feet bleed,” he mutters. “And the way there . . . ?”
“I think you know it,” Parkus says. “When you find Black House, you’ll find your way to the furnace-lands . . . the machines . . . Mr. Munshun . . . and Tyler.”
“The boy is alive. You’re sure of that.”
“Yes.” Parkus and Sophie speak together.
“And where is Burnside now? That information might speed things up a bit.”
“I don’t know,” Parkus says.
“Christ, if you know who he was—”
“That was the fingerprints,” Parkus says. “The fingerprints on the telephone. Your first real idea about the case. The Wisconsin State Police got the Bierstone name back from the FBI’s VICAP database. You have the Burnside name. That should be enough.”
Wisconsin State Police, FBI, VICAP, database: these terms come out in good old American English, and in this place they sound unpleasant and foreign to Jack’s ear.
“How do you know all that?”
“I have my sources in your world; I keep my ear to the ground. As you know from personal experience. And surely you’re cop enough to do the rest on your own.”
“Judy thinks you have a friend who can help,” Sophie says unexpectedly.
“Dale? Dale Gilbertson?” Jack finds this a little hard to believe, but he supposes Dale may have uncovered something.
“I don’t know the name. Judy thinks he’s like many here in Faraway. A man who sees much because he sees nothing.”
Not Dale, after all. It’s Henry she’s talking about.
Parkus rises to his feet. The heads of the parrot come up, revealing four bright eyes. Sacred and Profane flutters up to his shoulder and settles there. “I think our palaver is done,” Parkus says. “It must be done. Are you ready to go back, my friend?”
“Yes. And I suppose I better take Green, little as I want to. I don’t think he’d last long here.”
“As you say.”
Jack and Sophie, still holding hands, are halfway up the rise when Jack realizes Parkus is still standing in the speaking circle with his parrot on his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”
Parkus shakes his head. “We go different ways now, Jack. I may see you again.”
If I survive, Jack thinks. If any of us survive.
“Meantime, go your course. And be true.”
Sophie drops another deep curtsey. “Sai.”
Parkus nods to her and gives Jack Sawyer a little salute. Jack turns and leads Sophie back to the ruined hospital tent, wondering if he will ever see Speedy Parker again.
Wendell Green—ace reporter, fearless investigator, explicator of good and evil to the great unwashed—sits in his former place, holding the crumpled foolscap in one hand and the batteries in the other. He has resumed muttering, and barely looks up when Sophie and Jack approach.
“You’ll do your best, won’t you?” Sophie asks. “For her.”
“And for you,” Jack says. “Listen to me, now. If this were to end with all of us still standing . . . and if I were to come back here . . .” He finds he can say no more. He’s appalled at his temerity. This is a queen, after all. A queen. And he’s . . . what? Trying to ask her for a date?
“Perhaps,” she says, looking at him with her steady blue eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Is it a perhaps you want?” he asks softly.
“Yes.”
He bends and brushes his lips over hers. It’s brief, barely a kiss at all. It is also the best kiss of his life.
“I feel like fainting,” she tells him when he straightens up again.
“Don’t joke with me, Sophie.”
She takes his hand and presses it against the underswell of her left breast. He can feel her heart pounding. “Is this a joke? If she were to run faster, she’d catch her feet and fall.” She lets him go, but he holds his hand where it is a moment longer, palm curved against that springing warmth.
“I’d come with you if I could,” she says.
“I know that.”
He looks at her, knowing if he doesn’t get moving now, right away, he never will. It’s wanting not to leave her, but that’s not all. The truth is that he’s never been more frightened in his life. He searches for something mundane to bring him back to earth—to slow the pounding of his own heart—and finds the perfect object in the muttering creature that is Wendell Green. He drops to one knee. “Are you ready, big boy? Want to take a trip on the mighty Mississip’?”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” And then, in a nearly poetic rush: “Fucking Hollywood asshole!”
“Believe me, if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. And I plan to wash my hands just as soon as I get the chance.”
He looks up at Sophie and sees all the Judy in her. All the beauty in her. “I love you,” he says.
Before she can reply, he seizes Wendell’s hand, closes his eyes, and flips.
22
THIS TIME THERE’S something that isn’t quite silence: a lovely white rushing he has heard once before. In the summer of 1997, Jack went up way north to Vacaville with an LAPD skydiving club called the P.F. Flyers. It was a dare, one of those stupid things you got yourself into as a result of too many beers too late at night and then couldn’t get yourself out of again. Not with any grace. Which was to say, not without looking like a chickenshit. He expected to be frightened; instead, he was exalted. Yet he had never done it again, and now he knows why: he had come too close to remembering, and some frightened part of him must have known it. It was the sound before you pulled the ripcord—that lonely white rushing of the wind past your ears. Nothing else to hear but the soft, rapid beat of your heart and—maybe—the click in your ears as you swallowed saliva that was in free fall, just like the rest of you.
Pull the ripcord, Jack, he thinks. Time to pull the ripcord, or the landing’s going to be awfully damn hard.
Now there’s a new sound, low at first but quickly swelling to a tooth-rattling bray. Fire alarm, he thinks, and then: No, it’s a symphony of fire alarms. At the same moment, Wendell Green’s hand is snatched out of his grip. He hears a faint, squawking cry as his fellow sky diver is swept away, and then there’s a smell—
Honeysuckle—
No, it’s her hair—
—and Jack gasps against a weight on his chest and his diaphragm, a feeling that the wind has been knocked out of him. There are hands on him, one on his shoulder, the other at the small of his back. Hair tickling his cheek. The sound of alarms. The sound of people yelling in confusion. Running footfalls that clack and echo.
“jack jack jack are you all right”
“Ask a queen for a date, get knocked into the middle of next week,” he mutters. Why is it so dark? Has he been blinded? Is he ready for that intellectually rewarding and financially remunerative job as an ump at Miller Park?