Jack sighs.
“I dreamed I saved my mother’s life.”
The phone behind him rings, the sound shrill and broken in the shadowy room.
Jack Sawyer screams.
“I woke you up,” Fred Marshall says, and Jack knows at once that this man has been up all night, sitting in his wifeless, sonless home. Looking at photo albums, perhaps, while the TV plays. Knowing he is rubbing salt into the wounds but unable to quit.
“No,” Jack says, “actually I was—”
He stops. The phone’s beside the bed and there’s a pad beside the phone. There’s a note written on the pad. Jack must have written it, since he’s the only one here—ella-fucking-ment’ry, my dear Watson—but it isn’t in his handwriting. At some point in his dream, he wrote this note in his dead mother’s handwriting.
The Tower. The Beams. If the Beams are broken, Jacky-boy, if the Beams are broken and the Tower falls
There’s no more. There is only poor old Fred Marshall, who has discovered how quickly things can go bad in the sunniest midwestern life. Jack’s mouth has attempted to say a couple of things while his mind is occupied with this forgery from his subconscious, probably not very sensible things, but that doesn’t bother Fred; he simply goes droning along with none of the stops and drops that folks usually employ to indicate the ends of sentences or changes of thought. Fred is just getting it out, unloading, and even in his own distressed state Jack realizes that Fred Marshall of 16 Robin Hood Lane, that sweet little Cape Cod honey of a home, is nearing the edge of his endurance. If things don’t turn around for him soon, he won’t need to visit his wife in Ward D of French County Lutheran; they’ll be roommates.
And it is their proposed visit to Judy of which Fred is speaking, Jack realizes. He quits trying to interrupt and simply listens, frowning down at the note he has written to himself as he does so. Tower and Beams. What kind of beams? Sunbeams? Hornbeams? Raise high the roof beam, carpenters?
“—know I said I’d pick you up at nine but Dr. Spiegleman that’s her doctor up there Spiegleman his name is he said she had a very bad night with a lot of yelling and screaming and then trying to get up the wallpaper and eat it and maybe a seizure of some kind so they’re trying her on a new medication he might have said Pamizene or Patizone I didn’t write it down Spiegleman called me fifteen minutes ago I wonder if those guys ever sleep and said we should be able to see her around four he thinks she’ll be more stabilized by four and we could see her then so could I pick you up at three or maybe you have—”
“Three would be fine,” Jack says quietly.
“—other stuff to do other plans I’d understand that but I could come by if you don’t it’s mostly that I don’t want to go alone—”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” Jack said. “We’ll go in my pickup.”
“—thought maybe I’d hear from Ty or from whoever snatched him like maybe a ransom demand but no one called only Spiegleman he’s my wife’s doctor up there at—”
“Fred, I’m going to find your boy.”
Jack is appalled at this bald assurance, at the suicidal confidence he hears in his own voice, but it serves at least one purpose: bringing Fred’s flood of dead words to an end. There is blessed silence from the other end of the line.
At last, Fred speaks in a trembling whisper. “Oh, sir. If only I could believe that.”
“I want you to try,” Jack says. “And maybe we can find your wife’s mind while we’re at it.”
Maybe both are in the same place, he thinks, but this he does not say.
Liquid sounds come from the other end of the line. Fred has begun to cry.
“Fred.”
“Yes?”
“You’re coming to my place at three.”
“Yes.” A mighty sniff; a miserable cry that is mostly choked back. Jack has some comprehension of how empty Fred Marshall’s house must feel at this moment, and even that dim understanding is bad enough.
“My place in Norway Valley. Come past Roy’s Store, over Tamarack Creek—”
“I know where it is.” A faint edge of impatience has crept into Fred’s voice. Jack is very glad to hear it.
“Good. I’ll see you.”
“You bet.” Jack hears a ghost of Fred’s salesman cheer, and it twists his heart.
“What time?”
“Th-three?” Then, with marginal assurance: “Three.”
“That’s right. We’ll take my truck. Maybe have a bite of supper at Gertie’s Kitchen on our way back. Good-bye, Fred.”
“Good-bye, sir. And thank you.”
Jack hangs up the phone. Looks a moment longer at his memory’s reproduction of his mother’s handwriting and wonders what you’d call such a thing in cop-speak. Autoforgery? He snorts, then crumples the note up and starts getting dressed. He will drink a glass of juice, then go out walking for an hour or so. Blow all the bad dreams out of his head. And blow away the sound of Fred Marshall’s awful droning voice while he’s at it. Then, after a shower, he might or might not call Dale Gilbertson and ask if there have been any developments. If he’s really going to get involved in this, there’ll be a lot of paperwork to catch up on . . . he’ll want to reinterview the parents . . . take a look at the old folks’ home close to where the Marshall kid disappeared . . .
With his mind full of such thoughts (pleasant thoughts, actually, although if this had been suggested to him, he would have strenuously denied it), Jack almost stumbles over the box sitting on the welcome mat just outside his front door. It’s where Buck Evitz, the postman, leaves packages when he has packages to leave, but it’s not gone six-thirty yet, and Buck won’t be along in his little blue truck for another three hours.
Jack bends down and cautiously picks the package up. It’s the size of a shoe box, covered with brown paper that has been cut raggedly and secured not with tape but with big drools of red sealing wax. In addition to this, there are complicated loops of white string secured with a child’s oversized bow. There’s a cluster of stamps in the upper corner, ten or a dozen, featuring various birds. (No robins, however; Jack notes this with understandable relief.) There’s something not right about those stamps, but at first Jack doesn’t see what it is. He’s too focused on the address, which is spectacularly not right. There’s no box number, no RFD number, no zip code. No name, not really. The address consists of a single word, scrawled in large capital letters:
JACKY
Looking at those bedraggled letters, Jack imagines a fisted hand clutching a Sharpie marker; narrowed eyes; a tongue poked from the corner of some lunatic’s mouth. His heartbeat has sped up to double-time. “I’m not liking this,” he breathes. “I am so not liking this.”
And of course there are perfectly good reasons, coppiceman reasons, not to. It is a shoe box; he can feel the edge of the top right through the brown paper, and nutters have been known to put bombs in shoe boxes. He’d be crazy to open it, but he has an idea he will open it, just the same. If it blows him sky-high, at least he’ll be able to opt out of the Fisherman investigation.
Jack raises the package to listen for ticking, fully aware that ticking bombs are as out-of-date as Betty Boop cartoons. He hears nothing, but he does see what’s wrong with the stamps, which aren’t stamps at all. Someone has carefully cut the front panels from a dozen or so cafeteria sugar packets and taped them to this wrapped shoe box. A grunt of humorless laughter escapes Jack. Some nut sent him this, all right. Some nut in a locked facility, with easier access to sugar packets than to stamps. But how has it gotten here? Who left it (with the fake stamps uncanceled) while he was dreaming his confused dreams? And who, in this part of the world, could possibly know him as Jacky? His Jacky days are long gone.
No they ain’t, Travelin’ Jack, a voice whispers. Not by half. Time to stop your sobbin’ and get bob-bob-bobbin’ along, boy. Start by seein’ what’s in that box.
Resolutely ignoring his own mental voice, which tells him he’s being dangerously stupid, Jack snaps the twine and uses his thumbnail to cut through the sloppy blobs of red wax. Who uses sealing wax in this day and age, anyway? He sets the wrapping paper aside. Something else for the forensics boys, maybe.
It isn’t a shoe box but a sneaker box. A New Balance sneaker box, to be exact. Size 5. A child’s size. And at that, Jack’s heart speeds up to triple-time. He feels beads of cold sweat springing up on his forehead. His gorge and sphincter are both tightening up. This is also familiar. It is how coppicemen get cocked and locked, ready to look at something awful. And this will be awful. Jack has no doubt about it, and no doubt about who the package is from.