sk.thetalisman-第40部分

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；　here　in　the　country　Territories　people　went　to　bed　when　the　sun　did。　No　candles　burned　in　these　small　square　windows。　Themselves　squarish　and　dark；　the　houses　on　either　side　of　the　Western　Road　sat　in　a　puzzling　isolation…something　was　wrong；　as　in　a　visual　game　from　a　child's　magazine；　but　Jack　could　not　identify　it。　Nothing　hung　upside…down；　nothing　burned；　nothing　seemed　extravagantly　out　of　place。　Most　of　the　houses　had　thick　fuzzy　roofs　which　resembled　haystacks　with　crewcuts；　but　Jack　assumed　that　these　were　thatch…he　had　heard　of　it；　but　never　seen　it　before。　Morgan；　he　thought　with　a　sudden　thrill　of　panic；　Morgan　of　Orris；　and　saw　the　two　of　them；　the　man　with　long　hair　and　a　built…up　boot　and　his　father's　sweaty　workaholic　partner；　for　a　moment　jumbled　up　together…Morgan　Sloat　with　pirate's　hair　and　a　hitch　in　his　walk。　But　Morgan…this　world's　Morgan…was　not　what　was　Wrong　with　This　Picture。
　　Jack　was　just　now　passing　a　short　squat　one…story　building　like　an　inflated　rabbit　hutch；　crazily　half…timbered　with　wide　black　wooden　X's。　A　fuzzy　crewcut　thatch　capped　this　building　too。　If　he　were　walking　out　of　Oatley…or　even　running　out　of　Oatley；　to　be　closer　to　the　truth…what　would　he　expect　to　see　in　the　single　dark　window　of　this　hutch　for　giant　rabbits？　He　knew：　the　dancing　glimmer　of　a　television　screen。　But　of　course　Territories　houses　did　not　have　television　sets　inside　them；　and　the　absence　of　that　colorful　glimmer　was　not　what　had　puzzled　him。　It　was　something　else；　something　so　much　an　aspect　of　any　grouping　of　houses　along　a　road　that　its　absence　left　a　hole　in　the　landscape。　You　noticed　the　hole　even　if　you　could　not　quite　identify　what　was　absent。
　　Television；　television　sets　。　。　。　Jack　continued　past　the　half…timbered　little　building　and　saw　ahead　of　him；　its　front　door　set　only　inches　back　from　the　verge　of　the　road；　another　gnomishly　small　dwelling。　This　one　seemed　to　have　a　sod；　not　a　thatched；　roof；　and　Jack　smiled　to　himself…this　tiny　village　had　reminded　him　of　Hobbiton。　Would　a　Hobbit　cable…stringer　pull　up　here　and　say　to　the　lady　of　the　。　。　。　shack？　doghouse？　。　。　。　anyhow；　would　he　say；　'Ma'am；　we're　installing　cable　in　your　area；　and　for　a　small　monthly　fee…hitch　you　up　right　now…you　get　fifteen　new　channels；　you　get　Midnight　Blue；　you　get　the　all…sports　and　all…weather　channels；　you　get　。　。　。　'？
　　And　that；　he　suddenly　realized；　was　it。　In　front　of　these　houses　were　no　poles。　No　wiring！　No　TV　antennas　plicated　the　sky；　no　tall　wooden　poles　marched　the　length　of　the　Western　Road；　because　in　the　Territories　there　was　no　electricity。　Which　was　why　he　had　not　permitted　himself　to　identify　the　absent　element。　Jerry　Bledsoe　had　been；　at　least　part　of　the　time；　Sawyer　&　Sloat's　electrician　and　handyman。
　　　
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　　When　his　father　and　Morgan　Sloat　used　that　name；　Bledsoe；　he　thought　he　had　never　heard　it　before…though；　having　remembered　it；　he　must　have　heard　the　handyman's　last　name　once　or　twice。　But　Jerry　Bledsoe　was　almost　always　just　Jerry；　as　it　said　above　the　pocket　on　his　workshirt。　'Can't　Jerry　do　something　about　the　air…conditioning？'　'Get　Jerry　to　oil　the　hinges　on　that　door；　will　you？　The　squeaks　are　driving　me　batshit。'　And　Jerry　would　appear；　his　work…clothes　clean　and　pressed；　his　thinning　rust…red　hair　bed　flat；　his　glasses　round　and　earnest；　and　quietly　fix　whatever　was　wrong。　There　was　a　Mrs。　Jerry；　who　kept　the　creases　sharp　and　clean　in　the　tan　workpants；　and　several　small　Jerrys；　whom　Sawyer　&　Sloat　invariably　remembered　at　Christmas。　Jack　had　been　small　enough　to　associate　the　name　Jerry　with　Tom　Cat's　eternal　adversary；　and　so　imagined　that　the　handyman　and　Mrs。　Jerry　and　the　little　Jerrys　lived　in　a　giant　mouse…hole；　accessible　by　a　curved　arch　cut　into　a　baseboard。
　　But　who　had　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　His　father　and　Morgan　Sloat；　always　so　sweet　to　the　Bledsoe　children　at　Christmas…time？
　　Jack　stepped　forward　into　the　darkness　of　the　Western　Road；　wishing　that　he　had　forgotten　pletely　about　Sawyer　&　Sloat's　handyman；　that　he　had　fallen　asleep　as　soon　as　he　had　crawled　behind　the　couch。　Sleep　was　what　he　wanted　now…wanted　it　far　more　than　the　unfortable　thoughts　which　that　six…years…dead　conversation　had　aroused　in　him。　Jack　promised　himself　that　as　soon　as　he　was　sure　he　was　at　least　a　couple　of　miles　past　the　last　house；　he　would　find　someplace　to　sleep。　A　field　would　do；　even　a　ditch。　His　legs　did　not　want　to　move　anymore；　all　his　muscles；　even　his　bones；　seemed　twice　their　weight。
　　It　had　been　just　after　one　of　those　times　when　Jack　had　wandered　into　some　enclosed　place　after　his　father　and　found　that　Phil　Sawyer　had　somehow　contrived　a　disappearance。　Later；　his　father　would　manage　to　vanish　from　his　bedroom；　from　the　dining　room；　from　the　conference　room　at　Sawyer　&　Sloat。　On　this　occasion　he　executed　his　mystifying　trick　in　the　garage　beside　the　house　on　Rodeo　Drive。
　　Jack；　sitting　unobserved　on　the　little　knob　of　raised　land　which　was　the　closest　thing　to　a　hill　offered　by　this　section　of　Beverly　Hills；　saw　his　father　leave　their　house　by　the　front　door；　cross　the　lawn　while　digging　in　his　pockets　for　money　or　keys；　and　let　himself　into　the　garage　by　the　side　door。　The　white　door　on　the　right　side　should　have　swung　up　seconds　later；　but　it　remained　stubbornly　closed。　Then　Jack　realized　that　his　father's　car　was　where　it　had　been　all　this　Saturday　morning；　parked　at　the　curb　directly　in　front　of　the　house。　Lily's　car　was　gone…she'd　plugged　a　cigarette　into　her　mouth　and　announced　that　she　was　taking　herself　off　to　a　screening　of　Dirt　Track；　the　latest　film　by　the　director　of　Death's　Darling；　and　nobody　by　God　had　better　try　to　stop　her…and　so　the　garage　was　empty。　For　minutes；　Jack　waited　for　something　to　happen。　Neither　the　side　door　nor　the　big　front　doors　opened。　Eventually　Jack　slid　down　off　the　grassy　elevation；　went　to　the　garage；　and　let　himself　in。　The　wide　familiar　space　was　entirely　empty。　Dark　oil　stains　patterned　the　gray　cement　floor。　Tools　hung　from　silver　hooks　set　into　the　walls。　Jack　grunted　in　astonishment；　called　out；　'Dad？'　and　looked　at　everything　again；　just　to　make　sure。　This　time　he　saw　a　cricket　hop　toward　the　shadowy　protection　of　a　wall；　and　for　a　second　almost　could　have　believed　that　magic　was　real　and　some　malign　wizard　had　happened　along　and　。　。　。　the　cricket　reached　the　wall　and　slipped　into　an　invisible　crack。　No；　his　father　had　not　been　turned　into　a　cricket。　Of　course　he　had　not。　'Hey；'　the　boy　said…to　himself　it　seemed。　He　walked　backward　to　the　side　door　and　left　the　garage。　Sunlight　fell　on　the　lush；　springy　lawns　of　Rodeo　Drive。　He　would　have　called　someone；　but　whom？　The　police？　My　daddy　walked　into　the　garage　and　I　couldn't　find　him　in　there　and　now　I'm　scared
　　Two　hours　later　Phil　Sawyer　came　walking　up　from　the　Beverly　Wilshire　end　of　the　street。　He　carried　his　jacket　over　his　shoulder；　had　pulled　down　the　knot　of　his　tie…to　Jack；　he　looked　like　a　man　returning　from　a　journey　around　the　world。
　　Jack　jumped　down　from　his　anxious　elevation　and　tore　toward　his　father。　'You　sure　cover　the　ground；'　his　father　said；　smiling；　and　Jack　flattened　himself　against　his　legs。　'I　thought　you　were　taking　a　nap；　Travelling　Jack。'　
　　They　heard　the　telephone　ringing　as　they　came　up　the　walk；　and　some　instinct…perhaps　the　instinct　to　keep　his　father　close…made　Jacky　pray　that　it　had　already　rung　a　dozen　times；　that　whoever　was　calling　would　hang　up　before　they　reached　the　front　door。　His　father　ruffled　the　hair　on　his　crown；　put　his　big　warm　hand　on　the　back　of　his　neck；　then　pulled　open　the　door　and　made　it　to　the　phone　in　five　long　strides。　'Yes；　Morgan；'　Jacky　heard　his　father　say。　'Oh？　Bad　news？　You'd　better　tell　me；　yes。'　After　a　long　moment　of　silence　in　which　the　boy　could　hear　the　tinny；　rasping　sound　of　Morgan　Sloat's　voice　stealing　through　the　telephone　wires：　'Oh；　Jerry。　My　God。　Poor　Jerry。　I'll　be　right　over。'　Then　his　father　looked　straight　at　him；　not　smiling；　not　winking；　not　doing　anything　but　taking　him　in。　'I'll　e　over；　Morgan。　I'll　have　to　bring　Jack；　but　he　can　wait　in　the　car。'　Jack　felt　his　muscles　relax；　and　was　so　relieved　that　he　did　not　ask　why　he　had　to　wait　in　the　car；　as　he　would　have　at　any　other　time。
　　Phil　drove　up　Rodeo　Drive　to　the　Beverly　Hills　Hotel；　turned　left　onto　Sunset；　and　pointed　the　car　toward　the　office　building。　He　said　nothing。
　　His　father　zipped　through　the　oning　traffic　and　swung　the　car　into　the　parking　lot　beside　the　office　building。　Already　in　the　lot　were　two　police　cars；　a　fire　truck；　Uncle　Morgan's　pocket…size　white　Mercedes　convertible；　the　rusted　old　Ply…mouth　two…door　that　had　been　the　handyman's　car。　Just　inside　the　entrance　Uncle　Morgan　was　talking　to　a　policeman；　who　shook　his　head　slowly；　slowly；　in　evident　sympathy。　Morgan
　　Sloat's　right　arm　squeezed　the　shoulders　of　a　slim　young　woman　in　a　dress　too　large　for　her　who　had　twisted　her　face　into　his　chest。　Mrs。　Jerry；　Jack　knew；　seeing　that　most　of　her　face　was　obscured　by　a　white　handkerchief　she　had　pressed　to　her　eyes。　A　behatted；　raincoated　fireman　pushed　a　mess　of　twisted　metal　and　plastic；　ashes　and　broken　glass　into　a　disorderly　heap　far　past　them　down　the　hall。　Phil　said；　'Just　sit　here　for　a　minute　or　two；　okay；　Jacky？'　and　sprinted　toward　the　entrance。　A　young　Chinese　woman　sat　talking　to　a　policeman　on　a　concrete　abutment　at　the　end　of　the　parking　lot。　Before　her　lay　a　crumpled　object　it　took　Jack　a　moment　to　recognize　as　a　bike。　When　Jack　inhaled；　he　smelled　bitter　smoke。
　　Twenty　minutes　later；　both　his　father　and　Uncle　Morgan　left　the　building。　Still　gripping　Mrs。　Jerry；　Uncle　Morgan　waved　goodbye　to　the　Sawyers。　He　led　the　woman　around　to　the　passenger　door　of　his　tiny　car。　Jack's　father　twirled　his　own　car　out　of　the　lot　and　back　into　the　traffic　on　Sunset。
　　'Is　Jerry　hurt？'　Jack　asked。
　　'Some　kind　of　freak　accident；'　his　father　said。　'Electricity…the　whole　building　could've　gone　up　in　smoke。'
　　'Is　Jerry　hurt？'　Jack　repeated。
　　'Poor　son　of　a　bitch　got　hurt　so　bad　he's　dead；'　said　his　father。
　　Jack　and　Richard　Sloat　needed　two　months　to　really　put　the　story　together　out　of　the　conversations　they　overheard。　Jack's　mother　and　Richard's　housekeeper　supplied　other