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 Gilbertson 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?”
Dale thinks about it. “Very fair,” he says. “What do you say we get this kiddo to his dad, then both of them up to Arden to see his mom?”
“Good,” Jack says. “I only wish Henry was here, too.”
“That makes us a pair,” Dale says, and slides back behind the wheel. A moment later, they are rolling up the lane.
“What about all those kids?” Ty asks, looking out through the back window. “Are you just going to leave them?”
“I’ll call WSP as soon as we’re back on the highway,” Dale says. “I think they should get on this right away, don’t you guys? And the Feebs, of course.”
“Right,” Beezer says.
“Fuckin’ A,” Doc says.
“An excellent administrative call,” Jack says, and sits Tyler down on his lap. “In the meantime they’ll be fine,” he says in the boy’s ear. “They’ve seen a lot worse than Wisconsin.”
Let us slip now from the driver’s window like the breeze we are and watch them go—four brave men and one brave child who will never be so young (or so innocent) again. Behind them, the now harmless and unmagicked yard of Black House is alive with children, their faces dirty, their eyes wide with wonder. English is a minority tongue here, and some of the languages being spoken will puzzle the world’s best linguists in the years ahead. This is the beginning of a worldwide sensation (Time’s cover story the following week will be “The Miracle Children from Nowhere”) and, as Dale has already surmised, a bureaucratic nightmare.
Still, they are safe. And our guys are safe, too. All of them came back in one piece from the other side, and surely we did not expect that; most quests of this type usually demand at least one sacrifice (a relatively minor character like Doc, for instance). All’s well that ends well. And this can be the end, if you want it to be; neither of the scribbling fellows who have brought you this far would deny you that. If you do choose to go on, never say you weren’t warned: you’re not going to like what happens next.
XXXXX DRUDGE REPORT XXXXX
FRENCH LANDING PD CHIEF REFUSES TO CANCEL PRESS CONFERENCE, CITES SUPPORT OF TOWN OFFICIALS; SOURCES CONFIRM CELEB L.A. COP WILL ATTEND; FBI, WISC S.P. EXPRESS STRONG DISAPPROVAL
**Exclusive**
One of them, Tyler Marshall, is from French Landing itself. Another, Josella Rakine, is from Bating, a small village in the south of England. A third is from Baghdad. All told, 17 of the so-called Miracle Children have been identified in the week since they were discovered walking along a rural highway (Rte 35) in western Wisconsin.
Yet these 17 are only the tip of the iceberg.
Sources close to the joint FBI/WSP (and now CIA?) investigation tell the Drudge Report that there are at least 750 children, far more than have been reported in the mainstream press. Who are they? Who took them, and to where? How did they get to the town of French Landing, which has been plagued by a serial killer (now reported deceased) in recent weeks? What part was played by Jack Sawyer, the Los Angeles detective who rose to stardom only to retire at age 31? And who was responsible for the massive explosion that destroyed a mysterious dwelling in the woods, reputedly central to the Fisherman case?
Some of these questions may be answered tomorrow in French Landing’s La Follette Park, when P.D. Chief Dale Gilbertson holds a press conference. His longtime friend Jack Sawyer—reputed to have broken the Fisherman case singlehandedly—will be standing next to him when he takes the podium. Also expected to be present are two deputies, Armand St. Pierre and Reginald Amberson, who participated in last week’s rescue mission.
The press conference will take place over the strong—almost strident—objections of an FBI/WSP task force headed by FBI agent John P. Redding and Wisconsin State Police Detective Jeffrey Black. “They [task force leaders] believe this is nothing but a last-ditch effort on the part of Gilbertson to save his job,” a source said. “He botched everything, but luckily has a friend who knows a lot about public relations.”
French Landing town officials sing a different tune. “This summer has been a nightmare for the people of French Landing,” says town treasurer Beth Warren. “Chief Gilbertson wants to assure the people that the nightmare is over. If he can give us some answers about the children in the process of doing that, so much the better.”
Interest focuses on Jack “Hollywood” Sawyer, who got to know Chief Gilbertson and the town of French Landing during the case of Thornberg Kinderling, the so-called Prostitute Killer. Sawyer was urged by Gilbertson to take an active role in the Fisherman case, and apparently played a large part in the events that followed.
What events, exactly, were they? That is what the world is waiting to find out. The first answers may come tomorrow, in La Follette Park, on the banks of the mighty Mississippi.
Developing . . .
29
“YOU GUYS READY?” Dale asks.
“Aw, man, I don’t know,” Doc says. This isn’t the fifth time he’s said it, maybe not even the fifteenth. He’s pale, almost hyperventilating. The four of them are in a Winnebago—kind of a rolling green room—that has been set up on the edge of La Follette Park. Nearby is the podium on which they’ll stand (always assuming Doc can keep his legs under him) and deliver their carefully crafted answers. On the slope running down to the broad river are gathered nearly four hundred newspeople, plus camera crews from six American networks and God knows how many foreign stations. The gentlemen of the press aren’t in the world’s best mood, because the prime space in front of the podium has been reserved for a representative sampling (drawn by lottery) of French Landing’s residents. This was Dale’s one ironclad demand for the press conference.
The idea for the press conference itself came from Jack Sawyer.
“Mellow out, Doc,” Beezer says. He looks bigger than ever in his gray linen slacks and open-collared white shirt—almost like a bear in a tuxedo. He has even made an effort to comb his acres of hair. “And if you really think you’re going to do one of the Three P’s—piss, puke, or pass out—stay here.”
“Nah,” Doc says miserably. “In for a penny, in for a fuckin’ pound. If we’re gonna give it a try, let’s give it a try.”
Dale, resplendent in his dress uniform, looks at Jack. The latter is if anything more resplendent in his gray summerweight suit and dark blue silk tie. A matching blue handkerchief pokes from the breast pocket of his coat. “You sure this is the right thing?”