(no subject)
The coffeemaker in Dale Cooper's attic apartment came from a most singular source. Nobody else in town (so far as he knows) has one like it.
Dream gave it to him by way of a housewarming gift.
It does, in fact, make a damn fine cup of coffee. Good for times like right now. He's standing in his bathrobe, looking out over Northwestern Street, cup of coffee in hand. It's another mostly sleepless night. Starting to wear on him, a little; Gordon mentioned it when they met over pie at the Double R yesterday afternoon. If it's getting noticeable, then Cooper needs to figure out a way to stop it.
Won't happen tonight, though. Cooper goes to get dressed. There's a history of Twin Peaks County down at the Bookhouse that he's finding to be very interesting reading -- where the definition of 'interesting' is 'extremely disconcerting' -- and if Big Jake is on the night shift, he'll probably be able to answer some of Cooper's questions. Books never answer everything.
***
Somebody joins him as he walks past the Palmer house.
Cooper hears the footsteps behind him, and doesn't turn around. He simply walks -- takes a right on Frost Avenue, and keeps going until the sheriff's station is a block or so away. Then he stops. Lets the footsteps catch up. Watches the shadow lengthen as it approaches him under his streetlight.
"It's awfully late for you to be out, isn't it, Leland?"
The footsteps stop, and Leland Palmer, recently deceased, draws a ragged breath. "Agent Cooper -- "
Cooper turns around, and Leland Palmer looks the same as he did the day he died -- the shock of white hair, the bewildered expression, the contusion high on his forehead where Bob rammed his head against the wall of the interrogation room.
The contusion is healing.
"I'm sorry I followed you." Leland wrings his hands. "I didn't know where else to -- "
"What's going on at home?" Cooper has his hands in his pockets of his coat, and he's aware of the old gunfighter's trick -- cut out the pockets so you can draw and shoot without having to take your hands out. He hasn't done it with this coat. He's no gunfighter. And Leland has already died once.
"I can't tell Sarah." Leland takes a step forward. "I can't -- she can't hold up -- "
The streetlight illuminates a single circle on the pavement. Beyond, all is black.
The borders of the circle don't move; Cooper suddenly knows from his pit of knowing that if he doesn't move, doesn't leave --
The circle will shrink until he's swallowed whole.
He moves out and takes Leland Palmer's arm. "Come on, Leland," Cooper says, tired, and he doesn't care who knows it any more. Doesn't bother trying to sound alert or authoritative. "Let's get you home."
Leland never manages to get out what it is he wants to tell Cooper. Cooper makes a mental note to call Dr. Jacoby, the psychiatrist treating Sarah Palmer, in the morning. Right now --
Cooper walks home, picks up a few things, and gets in his car. He'll drive out to the Bookhouse instead.
***
Big Jake is reading Rimbaud and drinking Alaskan Amber when Cooper comes in. "Slow night," he says, before Cooper can ask. "You got the place to yourself."
The biker's eyes are measuring, and Cooper knows Big Jake won't tell Harry that Cooper has been in the last four nights out of five. That's good. Harry doesn't need to know.
In the alcove, Cooper puts down the knapsack he brought in with him and picks up the second volume -- the one that starts detailing the origins of the Packard sawmill, and the rivalry of the Packard and Martell families.
***
Fifteen minutes later:
Click.
"Diane, if I'm looking for a soporific, maybe I should try Kant rather than local history. It's interesting. I wish it wasn't. A homicide detective would have a field day."
"So to speak."
Click.
Dream gave it to him by way of a housewarming gift.
It does, in fact, make a damn fine cup of coffee. Good for times like right now. He's standing in his bathrobe, looking out over Northwestern Street, cup of coffee in hand. It's another mostly sleepless night. Starting to wear on him, a little; Gordon mentioned it when they met over pie at the Double R yesterday afternoon. If it's getting noticeable, then Cooper needs to figure out a way to stop it.
Won't happen tonight, though. Cooper goes to get dressed. There's a history of Twin Peaks County down at the Bookhouse that he's finding to be very interesting reading -- where the definition of 'interesting' is 'extremely disconcerting' -- and if Big Jake is on the night shift, he'll probably be able to answer some of Cooper's questions. Books never answer everything.
***
Somebody joins him as he walks past the Palmer house.
Cooper hears the footsteps behind him, and doesn't turn around. He simply walks -- takes a right on Frost Avenue, and keeps going until the sheriff's station is a block or so away. Then he stops. Lets the footsteps catch up. Watches the shadow lengthen as it approaches him under his streetlight.
"It's awfully late for you to be out, isn't it, Leland?"
The footsteps stop, and Leland Palmer, recently deceased, draws a ragged breath. "Agent Cooper -- "
Cooper turns around, and Leland Palmer looks the same as he did the day he died -- the shock of white hair, the bewildered expression, the contusion high on his forehead where Bob rammed his head against the wall of the interrogation room.
The contusion is healing.
"I'm sorry I followed you." Leland wrings his hands. "I didn't know where else to -- "
"What's going on at home?" Cooper has his hands in his pockets of his coat, and he's aware of the old gunfighter's trick -- cut out the pockets so you can draw and shoot without having to take your hands out. He hasn't done it with this coat. He's no gunfighter. And Leland has already died once.
"I can't tell Sarah." Leland takes a step forward. "I can't -- she can't hold up -- "
The streetlight illuminates a single circle on the pavement. Beyond, all is black.
The borders of the circle don't move; Cooper suddenly knows from his pit of knowing that if he doesn't move, doesn't leave --
The circle will shrink until he's swallowed whole.
He moves out and takes Leland Palmer's arm. "Come on, Leland," Cooper says, tired, and he doesn't care who knows it any more. Doesn't bother trying to sound alert or authoritative. "Let's get you home."
Leland never manages to get out what it is he wants to tell Cooper. Cooper makes a mental note to call Dr. Jacoby, the psychiatrist treating Sarah Palmer, in the morning. Right now --
Cooper walks home, picks up a few things, and gets in his car. He'll drive out to the Bookhouse instead.
***
Big Jake is reading Rimbaud and drinking Alaskan Amber when Cooper comes in. "Slow night," he says, before Cooper can ask. "You got the place to yourself."
The biker's eyes are measuring, and Cooper knows Big Jake won't tell Harry that Cooper has been in the last four nights out of five. That's good. Harry doesn't need to know.
In the alcove, Cooper puts down the knapsack he brought in with him and picks up the second volume -- the one that starts detailing the origins of the Packard sawmill, and the rivalry of the Packard and Martell families.
***
Fifteen minutes later:
Click.
"Diane, if I'm looking for a soporific, maybe I should try Kant rather than local history. It's interesting. I wish it wasn't. A homicide detective would have a field day."
"So to speak."
Click.