sk.thetalisman-第52部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


athless　interest。　They　all　asked　him　if　he　had　had　any　girlfriends　back　home。　Sooner　or　later　he　would　find　a　hand　（a　large　bald　hand）　lying　on　his　thigh；　and　when　he　looked　at　Ferguson/Darrent/Light；　he　would　see　an　expression　of　half…mad　hope　in　the　eyes　（mixed　with　half…mad　guilt）　and　a　stipple　of　sweat　on　the　upper　lip　（in　the　case　of　Darrent；　the　sweat　had　gleamed　through　a　dark　moustache　like　tiny　white　eyes　peering　through　scant　underbrush）。
　　Ferguson　had　asked　him　if　he　would　like　to　make　ten　dollars。
　　Darrent　had　upped　that　to　twenty。
　　Light；　in　a　large　bald　voice　that　nonetheless　cracked　and　quivered　through　several　registers；　asked　him　if　he　couldn't　use　fifty　dollars…he　always　kept　a　fifty　in　the　heel　of　his　left　shoe；　he　said；　and　he'd　just　love　to　give　it　to　Master　Lewis　Farren。　There　was　a　place　they　could　go　near　Randolph。　An　empty　barn。
　　Jack　did　not　make　any　correlation　between　the　steadily　increasing　monetary　offers　from　Light　in　his　various　incarnations　and　any　changes　his　adventures　might　be　working　on　him…he　was　not　introspective　by　nature　and　had　little　interest　in　self…analysis。
　　He　had　learned　quickly　enough　how　to　deal　with　fellows　like　Emory　W。　Light。　His　first　experience　with　Light；　when　Light　had　been　calling　himself　Tom　Ferguson；　had　taught　him　that　discretion　was　by　far　the　better　part　of　valor。　When　Ferguson　put　his　hand　on　Jack's　thigh；　Jack　had　responded　automatically　out　of　a　California　sensibility　in　which　gays　had　been　merely　part　of　the　scenery：　'No　thanks；　mister。　I'm　strictly　A。C。'　
　　He　had　been　groped　before；　certainly…in　movie　theaters；　mostly；　but　there　had　been　the　men's…shop　clerk　in　North　Hollywood　who　had　cheerfully　offered　to　blow　him　in　a　changing　booth　（and　when　Jack　told　him　no　thanks；　the　clerk　said；　'Fine；　now　try　on　the　blue　blazer；　okay？'）。
　　These　were　annoyances　a　good…looking　twelve…year…old　boy　in　Los　Angeles　simply　learned　to　put　up　with；　the　way　a　pretty　woman　learns　to　put　up　with　being　groped　occasionally　on　the　subway。　You　eventually　find　a　way　to　cope　without　letting　it　spoil　your　whole　day。　The　deliberate　passes；　such　as　the　one　this　Ferguson　was　making；　were　less　of　a　problem　than　the　sudden　gropes　from　ambush。　They　could　simply　be　shunted　aside。
　　At　least　in　California　they　could。　Eastern　gays…especially　out　here　in　the　sticks…apparently　had　a　different　way　of　dealing　with　rejection。
　　Ferguson　had　e　to　a　screeching；　sliding　halt；　leaving　forty　yards　of　rubber　behind　his　Pontiac　and　throwing　a　cloud　of　shoulder…dust　into　the　air。
　　'Who　you　calling　D。C。？'　he　screamed。　'Who　you　calling　queer？　I'm　not　queer！　Jesus！　Give　a　kid　a　fucking　ride　and　he　calls　you　a　fucking　queer！'　
　　Jack　was　looking　at　him；　dazed。　Unprepared　for　the　sudden　stop；　he　had　thumped　his　head　a　damned　good　one　on　the　padded　dash。　Ferguson；　who　had　only　a　moment　before　been　looking　at　him　with　melting　brown　eyes；　now　looked　ready　to　kill　him。
　　'Get　out！'　Ferguson　yelled。　'You're　the　queer；　not　me！　You're　the　queer！　Get　out；　you　little　queerboy！　Get　out！　I've　got　a　wife！　I've　got　kids！　I've　probably　got　bastards　scattered　all　over　New　England！　I'm　not　queer！　You're　the　queer；　not　me；　SO　GET　OUT　OF　MY　CAR！'
　　More　terrified　than　he　had　been　since　his　encounter　with　Osmond；　Jack　had　done　just　that。　Ferguson　tore　out；　spraying　him　with　gravel；　still　raving。　Jack　staggered　over　to　a　rock　wall；　sat　down；　and　began　to　giggle。　The　giggles　became　shrieks　of　laughter；　and　he　decided　right　then　and　there　that　he　would　have　to　develop　A　POLICY；　at　least　until　he　got　out　of　the　boondocks。　'Any　serious　problem　demands　A　POLICY；'　his　father　had　said　once。　Morgan　had　agreed　vigorously；　but　Jack　decided　he　shouldn't　let　that　hold　him　back。
　　His　POLICY　had　worked　well　enough　with　Bob　Darrent；　and　he　had　no　reason　to　believe　it　wouldn't　also　work　with　Emory　Light　。　。　。　but　in　the　meantime　he　was　cold　and　his　nose　was　running。　He　wished　Light　would　head　em　up　and　move　em　out。　Standing　in　the　trees；　Jack　could　see　him　down　there；　walking　back　and　forth　with　his　hands　in　his　pockets；　his　large　bald　head　gleaming　mellowly　under　the　white…out　sky。　On　the　turnpike；　big　semis　droned　by；　filling　the　air　with　the　stink　of　burned　diesel　fuel。　The　woods　here　were　trashed…out；　the　way　the　woods　bordering　any　interstate　rest　area　always　were。　Empty　Dorito　bags。　Squashed　Big　Mac　boxes。　Crimped　Pepsi　and　Budweiser　cans　with　pop…tops　that　rattled　inside　if　you　kicked　them。　Smashed　bottles　of　Wild　Irish　Rose　and　Five　O'Clock　gin。　A　pair　of　shredded　nylon　panties　over　there；　with　a　mouldering　sanitary　napkin　still　glued　to　the　crotch。　A　rubber　poked　over　a　broken　branch。　Plenty　of　nifty　stuff；　all　right；　hey…hey。　And　lots　of　graffiti　jotted　on　the　walls　of　the　men's　room；　almost　all　of　it　the　sort　a　fellow　like　Emory　W。　Light　could　really　relate　to：　I　LIKE　TO　SUK　BIG　FAT　COX。　BE　HERE　AT　4　FOR　THE　BEST　BLOJOB　YOU　EVER　HAD。　REEM　OUT　MY　BUTT。　And　here　was　a　gay　poet　with　large　aspirations：　LET　THE　HOLE　HUMAN　RACE/JERK　OFF　ON　MY　SMILING　FACE。
　　I'm　homesick　for　the　Territories；　Jack　thought；　and　there　was　no　surprise　at　all　in　the　realization。　Here　he　stood　behind　two　brick　outhouses　off　I…70　somewhere　in　western　Ohio；　shivering　in　a　ragged　sweater　he　had　bought　in　a　thrift　store　for　a　buck　and　a　half；　waiting　for　that　large　bald　man　down　there　to　get　back　on　his　horse　and　ride。
　　Jack's　POLICY　was　simplicity　itself：　don't　antagonize　a　man　with　large　bald　hands　and　a　large　bald　voice。
　　Jack　sighed　with　relief。　Now　it　was　starting　to　work。　An　expression　that　was　half…anger；　half…disgust；　had　settled　over　Emory　W。　Light's　large　bald　face。　He　went　back　to　his　car；　got　in；　backed　up　so　fast　he　almost　hit　the　pick…up　truck　passing　behind　him　（there　was　a　brief　blare　of　horns　and　the　passenger　in　the　truck　shot　Emory　W。　Light　the　finger）；　and　then　left。
　　Now　it　was　only　a　matter　of　standing　on　the　ramp　where　the　rest…area　traffic　rejoined　the　turnpike　traffic　with　his　thumb　out　。　。　。　and；　he　hoped；　catching　a　ride　before　it　started　to　rain。
　　Jack　spared　another　look　around。　Ugly；　wretched。　These　words　came　quite　naturally　to　mind　as　he　looked　around　at　the　littery　desolation　here　on　the　rest　area's　pimply　backside。　It　occurred　to　Jack　that　there　was　a　feeling　of　death　here…not　just　at　this　rest　area　or　on　the　interstate　roads　but　pressed　deep　into　all　the　country　he　had　travelled。　Jack　thought　that　sometimes　he　could　even　see　it；　a　desperate　shade　of　hot　dark　brown；　like　the　exhaust　from　the　shortstack　of　a　fast…moving　Jimmy…Pete。
　　The　new　homesickness　came　back…the　wanting　to　go　to　the　Territories　and　see　that　dark　blue　sky；　the　slight　curve　at　the　edge　of　the　horizon
　　But　it　plays　those　Jerry　Bledsoe　changes。
　　Don't　know　nothin　bout　dat　。　。　。　All　I　know　is　you　seem　to　have　this　idear　of　'moider'　a　little　broad
　　Walking　down　to　the　rest　area…now　he　really　did　have　to　urinate…Jack　sneezed　three　times；　quickly。　He　swallowed　and　winced　at　the　hot　prickle　in　his　throat。　Getting　sick；　oh　yeah。　Great。　Not　even　into　Indiana　yet；　fifty　degrees；　rain　in　the　forecast；　no　ride；　and　now　I'm…
　　The　thought　broke　off　cleanly。　He　stared　at　the　parking　lot；　his　mouth　falling　wide　open。　For　one　awful　moment　he　thought　he　was　going　to　wet　his　pants　as　everything　below　his　breastbone　seemed　to　cramp　and　squeeze。
　　Sitting　in　one　of　the　twenty　or　so　slant　parking　spaces；　its　deep　green　surface　now　dulled　with　road…dirt；　was　Uncle　Morgan's　BMW。　No　chance　of　a　mistake；　no　chance　at　all。　California　vanity　plates　MLS；　standing　for　Morgan　Luther　Sloat。　It　looked　as　if　it　had　been　driven　fast　and　hard。
　　But　if　he　flew　to　New　Hampshire；　how　can　his　car　be　here？　Jack's　mind　yammered。　It's　a　coincidence；　Jack；　just　a…
　　Then　he　saw　the　man　standing　with　his　back　to　him　at　the　pay　telephone　and　knew　it　was　no　coincidence。　He　was　wearing　a　bulky　Army…style　anorak；　fur…lined；　a　garment　more　suited　to　five　below　than　to　fifty　degrees。　Back…to　or　not；　there　was　no　mistaking　those　broad　shoulders　and　that　big；　loose；　hulking　frame。
　　The　man　at　the　phone　started　to　turn　around；　crooking　the　phone　between　his　ear　and　shoulder。
　　Jack　drew　back　against　the　brick　side　of　the　men's　toilet。
　　Did　he　see　me？
　　No；　he　answered　himself。　No；　I　don't　think　so。　But…
　　But　Captain　Farren　had　said　that　Morgan…that　other　Morgan…would　smell　him　like　a　cat　smells　a　rat；　and　so　he　had。　From　his　hiding　place　in　that　dangerous　forest；　Jack　had　seen　the　hideous　white　face　in　the　window　of　the　diligence　change。
　　This　Morgan　would　smell　him；　too。　If　given　the　time。　
　　Footfalls　around　the　corner；　approaching。
　　Face　numb　and　twisted　with　fear；　Jack　fumbled　off　his　pack　and　then　dropped　it；　knowing　he　was　too　late；　too　slow；　that　Morgan　would　e　around　the　corner　and　seize　him　by　the　neck；　smiling。　Hi；　Jacky！　Allee…allee…in…free！　Game's　over　now；　isn't　it；　you　little　prick？
　　A　tall　man　in　a　houndstooth…check　jacket　passed　the　corner　of　the　rest…room；　gave　Jack　a　disinterested　glance；　and　went　to　the　drinking　fountain。
　　Going　back。　He　was　going　back。　There　was　no　guilt；　at　least　not　now；　only　that　terrible　trapped　fear　mingling　oddly　with　feelings　of　relief　and　pleasure。　Jack　fumbled　his　pack　open。　Here　was　Speedy's　bottle；　with　less　than　an　inch　of　the　purple　liquid　now　left
　　（no　boy　needs　dat　poison　to　travel　with　but　I　do　Speedy　I　do！）　
　　sloshing　around　in　the　bottom。　No　matter。　He　was　going　back。　His　heart　leaped　at　the　thought。　A　big　Saturday…night　grin　dawned　on　his　face；　denying　both　the　gray　day　and　the　fear　in　his　heart。　Going　back；　oh　yeah；　dig　it。
　　More　footsteps　approaching；　and　this　was　Uncle　Morgan；　no　doubt　about　that　heavy　yet　somehow　mincing　step。　But　the　fear　was　gone。　Uncle　Morgan　had　smelled　something；　but　when　he　turned　the　corner　he　would　see　nothing　but　empty　Dorito　bags　and　crimped　beercans。
　　Jack　pulled　in　breath…pulled　in　the　greasy　stink　of　diesel　fumes　and　car　exhausts　and　cold　autumn　air。　Tipped　the　bottle　up　to　his　lips。　Took　one　of　the　two　swallows　left。　And　even　with　his　eyes　shut　he　squinted　as…
　　
　　　CHAPTER　16
　　　Wolf
　　　
　　　1
　　
　　…the　strong　sunlight　struck　his　closed　lids。　
　　Through　the　gagging…sweet　odor　of　the