Black House by Stephen King

“Bobby Dulac,” Dale says. “I talked to them when they came in, but I didn’t get anywhere. According to them, they were all together on Chase Street, and Tyler rode off by himself. They claim they didn’t see anything. Maybe they didn’t.”

“But you think there’s more.”

“Honest to God, I do. But I don’t know what the dickens it could be, and we have to send them home before their parents get bent out of shape.”

“Who are they, what are their names?”

Fred Marshall wraps his fingers together as if around the handle of an invisible baseball bat. “Ebbie Wexler, T. J. Renniker, and Ronnie Metzger. They’re the kids Ty’s been hanging around with this summer.” An unspoken judgment hovers about this last sentence.

“It sounds like you don’t consider them the best possible company for your son.”

“Well, no,” says Fred, caught between his desire to tell the truth and his innate wish to avoid the appearance of unfairness. “Not if you put it like that. Ebbie seems like kind of a bully, and the other two are maybe a little on the . . . slow side? I hope . . . or I was hoping . . . that Ty would realize he could do better and spend his free time with kids who are more on, you know . . .”

“More on his level.”

“Right. The trouble is, my son is sort of small for his age, and Ebbie Wexler is . . . um . . .”

“Heavyset and tall for his age,” Jack says. “The perfect situation for a bully.”

“You’re saying you know Ebbie Wexler?”

“No, but I saw him this morning. He was with the other two boys and your son.”

Dale jolts upright in his chair, and Fred Marshall drops his invisible bat. “When was that?” Dale asks. At the same time, Fred Marshall asks, “Where?”

“Chase Street, about ten past eight. I came in to pick up Henry Leyden and drive him home. When we were on our way out of town, the boys drove their bikes into the road right in front of me. I got a good look at your son, Mr. Marshall. He seemed like a great kid.”

Fred Marshall’s widening eyes indicate that some kind of hope, some promise, is taking shape before him; Dale relaxes. “That pretty much matches their story. It would have been right before Ty took off on his own. If he did.”

“Or they took off and left him,” says Ty’s father. “They were faster on their bikes than Ty, and sometimes they, you know . . . they teased him.”

“By racing ahead and leaving him alone,” Jack says. Fred Marshall’s glum nod speaks of boyhood humiliations shared with this sympathetic father. Jack remembers the inflamed, hostile face and raised finger of Ebbie Wexler and wonders if and how the boy might be protecting himself. Dale had said that he smelled the presence of falsity in the boys’ story, but why would they lie? Whatever their reasons, the lie almost certainly began with Ebbie Wexler. The other two followed orders.

For the moment setting aside the third of his thoughts, Jack says, “I want to talk to the boys before you send them home. Where are they?”

“The interrogation room, top of the stairs.” Dale aims a finger at the ceiling. “Tom will take you up.”

With its battleship-gray walls, gray metal table, and single window narrow as a slit in a castle wall, the room at the top of the stairs seems designed to elicit confessions through boredom and despair, and when Tom Lund leads Jack through the door, the four inhabitants of the interrogation room appear to have succumbed to its leaden atmosphere. Bobby Dulac looks sideways, stops drumming a pencil on the tabletop, and says, “Well, hoo-ray for Hollywood. Dale said you were coming down.” Even Bobby gleams a little less conspicuously in this gloom. “Did you want to interrogate these here hoodlums, Lieutenant?”

“In a minute, maybe.” Two of the three hoodlums on the far side of the table watch Jack move alongside Bobby Dulac as if fearing he will clap them in a cell. The words “interrogate” and “Lieutenant” have had the bracing effect of a cold wind from Canada. Ebbie Wexler squints at Jack, trying to look tough, and the boy beside him, Ronnie Metzger, wriggles in his chair, his eyes like dinner plates. The third boy, T. J. Renniker, has dropped his head atop his crossed arms and appears to be asleep.

“Wake him up,” Jack says. “I have something to say, and I want you all to hear it.” In fact, he has nothing to say, but he needs these boys to pay attention to him. He already knows that Dale was right. If they are not lying, they are at least holding something back. That’s why his abrupt appearance within their dozy scene frightened them. If Jack had been in charge, he would have separated the boys and questioned them individually, but now he must deal with Bobby Dulac’s mistake. He has to treat them collectively, to begin with, and he has to work on their fear. He does not want to terrorize the boys, merely to get their hearts pumping a bit faster; after that, he can separate them. The weakest, guiltiest link has already declared himself. Jack feels no compunction about telling lies to get information.

Ronnie Metzger shoves T.J.’s shoulder and says, “Wake up, bumdell . . . dumbbell.”

The sleeping boy moans, lifts his head from the table, begins to stretch out his arms. His eyes fasten on Jack, and blinking and swallowing he snaps into an upright position.

“Welcome back,” Jack says. “I want to introduce myself and explain what I am doing here. My name is Jack Sawyer, and I am a lieutenant in the Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. I have an excellent record and a roomful of citations and medals. When I go after a bad guy, I usually wind up arresting him. Three years ago, I came here on a case from Los Angeles. Two weeks later, a man named Thornberg Kinderling was shipped back to L.A. in chains. Because I know this area and have worked with its law enforcement officers, the LAPD asked me to assist your local force in its investigation of the Fisherman murders.” He glances down to see if Bobby Dulac is grinning at this nonsense, but Bobby is staring frozen-faced across the table. “Your friend Tyler Marshall was with you before he disappeared this morning. Did the Fisherman take him? I hate to say it, but I think he did. Maybe we can get Tyler back, and maybe we can’t, but if I am going to stop the Fisherman, I need you to tell me exactly what happened, down to the last detail. You have to be completely honest with me, because if you lie or keep anything secret, you will be guilty of obstruction of justice. Obstruction of justice is a serious, serious crime. Officer Dulac, what is the minimum sentence for that crime in the state of Wisconsin?”

“Five years, I’m pretty sure,” Bobby Dulac says.

Ebbie Wexler bites the inside of his cheek; Ronnie Metzger looks away and frowns at the table; T. J. Renniker dully contemplates the narrow window.

Jack sits down beside Bobby Dulac. “Incidentally, I was the guy in the pickup one of you gave the finger to this morning. I can’t say I’m thrilled to see you again.”

Two heads swivel toward Ebbie, who squints ferociously, trying to solve this brand-new problem. “I did not,” he says, having settled on outright denial. “Maybe it looked like I did, but I didn’t.”

“You’re lying, and we haven’t even started to talk about Tyler Marshall yet. I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me the truth.”

Ebbie smirks. “I don’t go around flipping the bird at people I don’t know.”

“Stand up,” Jack says.

Ebbie glances from side to side, but his friends are unable to meet his gaze. He shoves back his chair and stands up, uncertainly.

“Officer Dulac,” Jack says, “take this boy outside and hold him there.”

Bobby Dulac performs his role perfectly. He uncoils from his chair and keeps his eyes on Ebbie as he glides toward him. He resembles a panther on the way to a sumptuous meal. Ebbie Wexler jumps back and tries to stay Bobby with a raised palm. “No, don’t—I take it back—I did it, okay?”

“Too late,” Jack says. He watches as Bobby grasps the boy’s elbow and pulls him toward the door. Red-faced and sweating, Ebbie plants his feet on the floor, and the forward pressure applied to his arm folds him over the bulge of his stomach. He staggers forward, yelping and scattering tears. Bobbie Dulac opens the door and hauls him into the bleak second-floor corridor. The door slams shut and cuts off a wail of fear.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *