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Mar. 31st, 2006 04:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tibetanmethod"We don't know what will happen, or when, but there are owls in the Roadhouse," the Log Lady tells Harry and Cooper at the station, while Hawk is putting Ben in a cell.
"The Roadhouse," Cooper echoes. "Something is happening, isn't it, Margaret."
"Yes," the Log Lady says.
***
The interior of the Roadhouse is dark. A woman in a red dress and too-red lipstick is singing on the stage, backed by a band -- a love song or six. Cooper's not terribly impressed. He and Harry and the Log Lady sit and eat peanuts for what seems like hours.
And then the band -- disappears.
The singer is replaced by a giant wearing a bow tie. Cooper's seen him before. And -- he notices -- the Log Lady sees him too. Or sees something.
Over and over, the giant intones:
It is happening again.
The lights go down; the singer's back; the song is over. Cooper stares at the stage --
-- until a decrepit old man wearing a red bow tie leaves the bar and totters over, and pats him on the shoulder, and says, "I'm so sorry," and then turns and limps away.
The Log Lady looks at Cooper. Cooper is too busy watching the red curtains on the stage to say anything.
Waking dreams, he thinks. The gifted, and the damned.
***
Click.
"Diane, 10:03 am. Great Northern Hotel. Sheriff Truman and I have just been with the one-armed man -- or what's left of him. In another time, another culture, he may have been a seer, a shaman priest. In our world he's a shoe salesman and lives among the shadows."
[Deeply bitter, by Cooper's standards.]
Click.
***
In the interrogation room with Harry, Ben Horne, and Ben's younger brother Jerry -- short, bespectacled, greasy, and full of smarm, with none of his brother's suave bonhomie and all of his brother's vices. Also in possession of a law degree.
"Gentlemen!" Jerry cries. "I protest this brutal treatment of my client! After all this man has done for this town -- "
"Now hold still," Dr. Hayward cuts in, moving to draw blood from Ben's finger for a test. There was blood at the murder scene. Routine. Cooper stands back in the shadows with Harry, watching. Ben yelps; Dr. Hayward finishes acquiring the sample, and leaves with it; Harry thanks him quietly as he goes.
"Gentlemen," Jerry cuts back in, "I demand my client either be released or charged. Never in all my years of practicing law have I witnessed such a complete and utter disregard for an accused man's constitutional rights."
Cooper's had enough.
"Jeremy Horne," he says. Dryly. "Gonzaga University, 1974. Graduated last in his class of one hundred and forty two. Passed the bar on his third attempt. License to practice revoked in the states of Illinois, Florida, Alaska, Massachusetts."
Jerry stands openmouthed for a moment before rejoining with the brilliant statement, "I'm not on trial here."
"Sit down." Cooper steps into the light. Lets himself swagger a little. It's his favorite tactic in the interrogation room -- mirror what the suspect does.
And Jerry Horne sits.
"The Roadhouse," Cooper echoes. "Something is happening, isn't it, Margaret."
"Yes," the Log Lady says.
The interior of the Roadhouse is dark. A woman in a red dress and too-red lipstick is singing on the stage, backed by a band -- a love song or six. Cooper's not terribly impressed. He and Harry and the Log Lady sit and eat peanuts for what seems like hours.
And then the band -- disappears.
The singer is replaced by a giant wearing a bow tie. Cooper's seen him before. And -- he notices -- the Log Lady sees him too. Or sees something.
Over and over, the giant intones:
It is happening again.
The lights go down; the singer's back; the song is over. Cooper stares at the stage --
-- until a decrepit old man wearing a red bow tie leaves the bar and totters over, and pats him on the shoulder, and says, "I'm so sorry," and then turns and limps away.
The Log Lady looks at Cooper. Cooper is too busy watching the red curtains on the stage to say anything.
Waking dreams, he thinks. The gifted, and the damned.
Click.
"Diane, 10:03 am. Great Northern Hotel. Sheriff Truman and I have just been with the one-armed man -- or what's left of him. In another time, another culture, he may have been a seer, a shaman priest. In our world he's a shoe salesman and lives among the shadows."
[Deeply bitter, by Cooper's standards.]
Click.
In the interrogation room with Harry, Ben Horne, and Ben's younger brother Jerry -- short, bespectacled, greasy, and full of smarm, with none of his brother's suave bonhomie and all of his brother's vices. Also in possession of a law degree.
"Gentlemen!" Jerry cries. "I protest this brutal treatment of my client! After all this man has done for this town -- "
"Now hold still," Dr. Hayward cuts in, moving to draw blood from Ben's finger for a test. There was blood at the murder scene. Routine. Cooper stands back in the shadows with Harry, watching. Ben yelps; Dr. Hayward finishes acquiring the sample, and leaves with it; Harry thanks him quietly as he goes.
"Gentlemen," Jerry cuts back in, "I demand my client either be released or charged. Never in all my years of practicing law have I witnessed such a complete and utter disregard for an accused man's constitutional rights."
Cooper's had enough.
"Jeremy Horne," he says. Dryly. "Gonzaga University, 1974. Graduated last in his class of one hundred and forty two. Passed the bar on his third attempt. License to practice revoked in the states of Illinois, Florida, Alaska, Massachusetts."
Jerry stands openmouthed for a moment before rejoining with the brilliant statement, "I'm not on trial here."
"Sit down." Cooper steps into the light. Lets himself swagger a little. It's his favorite tactic in the interrogation room -- mirror what the suspect does.
And Jerry Horne sits.
