sk.thetalisman-第51部分

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　One　True　Cross　or　the　fingerbone　of　a　saint。　It　was　magic；　all　right。　Powerful　magic。　And　sometimes　it　got　people　killed。
　　'I　haven't　been　drinking　it；　honest；'　he　finally　managed。　'What　I　started　with　is　almost　gone。　It　。　。　。　I　。　。　。　man；　I　don't　even　like　it！'　His　stomach　had　begun　to　clench　nervously；　just　thinking　about　the　magic　juice　was　making　him　feel　nauseated。　'But　I　need　to　get　some　more。　Just　in　case。'
　　'More　Poiple　Jesus？　Boy　your　age？'　The　blind　man　laughed　and　made　a　shooing　gesture　with　one　hand。　'Hell；　you　don't　need　dat。　No　boy　needs　dat　poison　to　travel　with。'
　　'But…'
　　'Here。　I'll　sing　you　a　song　to　cheer　you　up。　Sounds　like　you　could　use　it。'　
　　He　began　to　sing；　and　his　singing　voice　was　nothing　at　all　like　his　speaking　voice。　It　was　deep　and　powerful　and　thrilling；　without　the　Nigger　Jim　'My…Huck…dat…sure…is…gay！'　cadences　of　his　talk。　It　was；　Jack　thought；　awed；　almost　the　trained；　cultured　voice　of　an　opera　singer；　now　amusing　itself　with　a　little　piece　of　popular　fluff。　Jack　felt　goosebumps　rise　on　his　arms　and　back　at　that　rich；　full　voice。　Along　the　sidewalk　which　ran　along　the　dull；　ochre　flank　of　the　mall；　heads　turned。
　　'When　the　red；　red　robin　goes　bob…bob…bobbin　along；　ALONG；　there'll　be　no　more　sobbin　when　he　starts　throbbin　his　old　。　。　。　sweet　SONG…'
　　Jack　was　struck　by　a　sweet　and　terrible　familiarity；　a　sense　that　he　had　heard　this　before；　or　something　very　like　it；　and　as　the　blind　man　bridged；　grinning　his　crooked；　yellowing　smile；　Jack　realized　where　the　feeling　was　ing　from。　He　knew　what　had　made　all　those　heads　turn；　as　they　would　have　turned　if　a　unicorn　had　gone　galloping　across　the　mall's　parking　lot。　There　was　a　beautiful；　alien　clarity　in　the　man's　voice。　It　was　the　clarity　of；　say；　air　so　pure　that　you　could　smell　a　radish　when　a　man　pulled　one　out　of　the　ground　half　a　mile　away。　It　was　a　good　old　Tin　Pan　Alley　song　。　。　。　but　the　voice　was　pure　Territories。
　　'Get　up　。　。　。　get　up；　you　sleepyhead　。　。　。　get　out　。　。　。　get　out；　get　outta　bed　。　。　。　live；　love；　laugh　and　be　ha…'
　　Both　guitar　and　voice　came　to　a　sudden　halt。　Jack；　who　had　been　concentrating　fiercely　on　the　blind　man's　face　（trying　subconsciously　to　peer　right　through　those　dark　glasses；　perhaps；　and　see　if　Speedy　Parker's　eyes　were　behind　them）；　now　widened　his　focus　and　saw　two　cops　standing　beside　the　blind　man。
　　'You　know；　I　don't　hear　nothin；'　the　blind　guitarist　said；　almost　coyly；　'but　I　b'lieve　I　smell　somethin　blue。'
　　'Goddammit；　Snowball；　you　know　you're　not　supposed　to　work　the　mall！'　one　of　the　cops　cried。　'What　did　Judge　Hal…las　tell　you　the　last　time　he　had　you　in　chambers？　Downtown　between　Center　Street　and　Mural　Street。　No　place　else。　Damn；　boy；　how　senile　have　you　got？　Your　pecker　rotted　off　yet　from　that　whatall　your　woman　gave　you　before　she　took　off　？　Christ；　I　just　don't…'　His　partner　put　a　hand　on　his　arm　and　nodded　toward　Jack　in　a　little…pitchers…have…big…ears　gesture。
　　'Go　tell　your　mother　she　wants　you；　kid；'　the　first　cop　said　curtly。
　　Jack　started　walking　down　the　sidewalk。　He　couldn't　stay。　Even　if　there　was　something　he　could　do；　he　couldn't　stay。　He　was　lucky　the　cops'　attention　had　been　taken　up　by　the　man　they　called　Snowball。　If　they　had　given　him　a　second　glance；　Jack　had　no　doubt　he　would　have　been　asked　to　produce　his　bona　fides。　New　sneakers　or　not；　the　rest　of　him　looked　used　and　battered。　It　doesn't　take　cops　long　to　get　good　at　spotting　road…kids；　and　Jack　was　a　boy　on　the　road　if　there　ever　had　been　one。
　　He　imagined　being　tossed　into　the　Zanesville　pokey　while　the　Zanesville　cops；　fine　upstanding　boys　in　blue　who　listened　to　Paul　Harvey　every　day　and　supported　President　Reagan；　tried　to　find　out　whose　little　boy　he　was。
　　No；　he　didn't　want　the　Zanesville　cops　giving　him　more　than　the　one　passing　glance。
　　A　motor；　throbbing　smoothly；　ing　up　behind　him。　
　　Jack　hunched　his　pack　a　little　higher　on　his　back　and　looked　down　at　his　new　sneakers　as　if　they　interested　him　tremendously。　From　the　corners　of　his　eyes　he　saw　the　police　cruiser　slide　slowly　by。
　　The　blind　man　was　in　the　back　seat；　the　neck　of　his　guitar　poking　up　beside　him。
　　As　the　cruiser　swung　into　one　of　the　outbound　lanes；　the　blind　man　abruptly　turned　his　head　and　looked　out　the　back　window；　looked　directly　at　Jack　。　。　。
　　。　。　。　and　although　Jack　could　not　see　through　the　dirty　dark　glasses；　he　knew　perfectly　well　that　Lester　'Speedy'　Parker　had　winked　at　him。
　　　
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　　Jack　managed　to　keep　further　thought　at　bay　until　he　reached　the　turnpike　ramps　again。　He　stood　looking　at　the　signs；　which　seemed　the　only　clear…cut　things　left　in　a　world
　　（worlds？）　
　　where　all　else　was　a　maddening　gray　swirl。　He　felt　a　dark　depression　swirling　all　around　him；　sinking　into　him；　trying　to　destroy　his　resolve。　He　recognized　that　homesickness　played　a　part　in　this　depression；　but　this　feeling　made　his　former　homesickness　seem　boyish　and　callow　indeed。　He　felt　utterly　adrift；　without　a　single　firm　thing　to　hold　on　to。
　　Standing　by　the　signs；　watching　the　traffic　on　the　turnpike；　Jack　realized　he　felt　damn　near　suicidal。　For　quite　a　while　he　had　been　able　to　keep　himself　going　with　the　thought　that　he　would　see　Richard　Sloat　soon　（and；　although　he　had　hardly　admitted　the　thought　to　himself；　the　idea　that　Richard　might　head　west　with　him　had　done　more　than　cross　Jack's　mind…after　all；　it　would　not　be　the　first　time　that　a　Sawyer　and　a　Sloat　had　made　strange　journeys　together；　would　it？）；　but　the　hard　work　at　the　Palamountain　farm　and　the　peculiar　happenings　at　the　Buckeye　Mall　had　given　even　that　the　false　glitter　of　fool's　gold。
　　Go　home；　Jacky；　you're　beaten；　a　voice　whispered。　If　you　keep　on；　you're　going　to　end　up　getting　the　living　shit　kicked　out　of　you　。　。　。　and　next　time　it　may　be　fifty　people　that　die。　Or　five　hundred。
　　I…70　East。　
　　I…70　West。
　　Abruptly　he　fished　in　his　pocket　for　the　coin…the　coin　that　was　a　silver　dollar　in　this　world。　Let　whatever　gods　there　were　decide　this；　once　and　for　all。　He　was　too　beaten　to　do　it　for　himself。　His　back　still　smarted　where　Mr。　All…America　had　whacked　him。　e　up　tails；　and　he　would　go　down　the　eastbound　ramp　and　head　home。　e　up　heads；　he　would　go　on　。　。　。　and　there　would　be　no　more　looking　back。
　　He　stood　in　the　dust　of　the　soft　shoulder　and　flicked　the　coin　into　the　chilly　October　air。　It　rose；　turning　over　and　over；　kicking　up　glints　of　sun。　Jack　craned　his　head　to　follow　its　course。
　　
　　A　family　passing　in　an　old　station…wagon　stopped　squabbling　long　enough　to　look　at　him　curiously。　The　man　driving　the　wagon；　a　balding　C。P。A。　who　sometimes　awoke　in　the　middle　of　the　night　fancying　that　he　could　feel　shooting　pains　in　his　chest　and　down　his　left　arm；　had　a　sudden　and　absurd　series　of　thoughts：　Adventure。　Danger。　A　quest　of　some　noble　purpose。　Dreams　of　fear　and　glory。　He　shook　his　head；　as　if　to　clear　it；　and　glanced　at　the　boy　in　the　wagon's　rear…view　mirror　just　as　the　kid　leaned　over　to　look　at　something。　Christ；　the　balding　C。P。A。　thought。　Get　it　out　of　your　head；　Larry；　you　sound　like　a　fucking　boys'　adventure　book。
　　Larry　shot　into　traffic；　quickly　getting　the　wagon　up　to　seventy；　forgetting　about　the　kid　in　the　dirty　jeans　by　the　side　of　the　road。　If　he　could　get　home　by　three；　he'd　be　in　good　time　to　watch　the　middleweight　title　fight　on　ESPN。
　　
　　The　coin　came　down。　Jack　bent　over　it。　It　was　heads　。　。　。　but　that　was　not　all。
　　The　lady　on　the　coin　wasn't　Lady　Liberty。　It　was　Laura　DeLoessian；　Queen　of　the　Territories。　But　God；　what　a　difference　here　from　the　pale；　still；　sleeping　face　he　had　glimpsed　for　a　moment　in　the　pavillion；　surrounded　by　anxious　nurses　in　their　billowing　white　wimples！　This　face　was　alert　and　aware；　eager　and　beautiful。　It　was　not　a　classic　beauty；　the　line　of　the　jaw　was　not　clear　enough　for　that；　and　the　cheekbone　which　showed　in　profile　was　a　little　soft。　Her　beauty　was　in　the　regal　set　of　her　head　bined　with　the　clear　sense　that　she　was　kind　as　well　as　capable。
　　And　oh　it　was　so　like　the　face　of　his　mother。
　　Jack's　eyes　blurred　with　tears　and　he　blinked　them　hard；　not　wanting　the　tears　to　fall。　He　had　cried　enough　for　one　day。　He　had　his　answer；　and　it　was　not　for　crying　over。
　　When　he　opened　his　eyes　again；　Laura　DeLoessian　was　gone；　the　woman　on　the　coin　was　Lady　Liberty　again。
　　He　had　his　answer　all　the　same。
　　Jack　bent　over；　picked　up　the　coin　out　of　the　dust；　put　it　in　his　pocket；　and　headed　down　the　westbound　ramp　of　Interstate　70。
　　　
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　　A　day　later；　white　overcast　in　the　air　that　tasted　of　chilly　rain　on　its　way；　the　Ohio…Indiana　border　not　much　more　than　a　lick　and　a　promise　from　here。
　　'Here'　was　in　a　scrub　of　woods　beyond　the　Lewisburg　rest　area　on　I…70。　Jack　was　standing　concealed…he　hoped…among　the　trees；　patiently　waiting　for　the　large　bald　man　with　the　large　bald　voice　to　get　back　into　his　Chevy　Nova　and　drive　away。　Jack　hoped　he　would　go　soon；　before　it　started　to　rain。　He　was　cold　enough　without　getting　wet；　and　all　morning　his　sinuses　had　been　plugged；　his　voice　foggy。　He　thought　he　must　finally　be　getting　a　cold。
　　The　large　bald　man　with　the　large　bald　voice　had　given　his　name　as　Emory　W。　Light。　He　had　picked　Jack　up　around　eleven　o'clock；　north　of　Dayton；　and　Jack　had　felt　a　tired　sinking　sensation　in　the　pit　of　his　belly　almost　at　once。　He　had　gotten　rides　with　Emory　W。　Light　before。　In　Vermont　Light　had　called　himself　Tom　Ferguson；　and　said　he　was　a　shoe…shop　foreman；　in　Pennsylvania　the　alias　had　been　Bob　Dar…rent　（'Almost　like　that　fellow　who　sang　'Splish…Splash；'　ah…ha…hah…hah'）；　and　the　job　had　changed　to　District　High　School　Superintendent；　this　time　Light　said　he　was　President　of　the　First　Mercantile　Bank　of　Paradise　Falls；　in　the　town　of　Paradise　Falls；　Ohio。　Ferguson　had　been　lean　and　dark；　Dar…rent　as　portly　and　pink　as　a　freshly　tubbed　baby；　and　this　Emory　W。　Light　was　large　and　owlish；　with　eyes　like　boiled　eggs　behind　his　rimless　glasses。
　　Yet　all　of　these　differences　were　only　superficial；　Jack　had　found。　They　all　listened　to　the　Story　with　the　same　breathless　interest。　They　all　asked　him　if　he　had　had　any　girlfriends　back　home。　Sooner　or　later　he　wou