sk.thetalisman-第44部分

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　　Who　plays　those　changes；　daddy？　
　　Who　
　　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　The　magic　juice　forced　itself　into　the　boy's　mouth；　stinging　threads　of　it　nauseatingly　trickled　into　his　nose；　and　just　as　Jack　felt　loose　earth　beneath　his　hands　he　gave　up　and　vomited　rather　than　drown。　What　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　Foul　purple　stuff　shot　from　Jack's　mouth；　choking　him；　and　he　blindly　pushed　himself　backward…his　feet　and　legs　snagged　in　tall　stiff　weeds。　Jack　pushed　himself　up　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　waited；　patient　as　a　mule；　his　mouth　drooping　open；　for　the　second　attack。　His　stomach　clenched；　and　he　did　not　have　time　to　groan　before　more　of　the　stinking　juice　burned　up　through　his　chest　and　throat　and　spattered　out　of　his　mouth。　Ropey　pink　strings　of　saliva　hung　from　his　lips；　and　Jack　feebly　brushed　them　away。　He　wiped　his　hand　on　his　pants。　Jerry　Bledsoe；　yes。　Jerry…who'd　always　had　his　name　spelled　out　on　his　shirt；　like　a　gas…station　attendant。　Jerry；　who　had　died　when…The　boy　shook　his　head　and　wiped　his　hands　across　his　mouth　again。　He　spat　into　a　nest　of　sawtoothed　wild　grass　sprouting　like　a　giant's　corsage　out　of　the　gray…brown　earth。　Some　dim　animal　instinct　he　did　not　understand　made　him　push　loose　earth　over　the　pinkish　pool　of　vomit。　Another　reflex　made　him　brush　the　palms　of　his　hands　against　his　trousers。　Finally　he　looked　up。
　　He　was　kneeling；　in　the　last　of　the　evening　light；　on　the　edge　of　a　dirt　lane。　No　horrible　Elroy…thing　pursued　him…he　had　known　that　immediately。　Dogs　penned　in　a　wooden；　cage…like　enclosure　barked　and　snarled　at　him；　thrusting　their　snouts　through　the　cracks　of　their　jail。　On　the　other　side　of　the　fenced…in　dogs　was　a　rambling　wooden　structure　and　from　here　too　doggy　noises　rose　up　into　the　immense　sky。　These　were　unmistakably　similar　to　the　noises　Jack　had　just　been　hearing　from　the　other　side　of　a　wall　in　the　Oatley　Tap：　the　sounds　of　drunken　men　bellowing　at　each　other。　A　bar…here　it　would　be　an　inn　or　a　public　house；　Jack　imagined。　Now　that　he　was　no　longer　sickened　by　Speedy's　juice；　he　could　smell　the　pervasive；　yeasty　odors　of　malt　and　hops。　He　could　not　let　the　men　from　the　inn　discover　him。
　　For　a　moment　he　imagined　himself　running　from　all　those　dogs　yipping　and　growling　through　the　cracks　in　their　enclosure；　and　then　he　stood　up。　The　sky　seemed　to　tilt　over　his　head；　to　darken。　And　back　home；　in　his　world；　what　was　happening？　A　nice　little　disaster　in　the　middle　of　Oatley？　Maybe　a　nice　little　flood；　a　sweet　little　fire？　Jack　slipped　quietly　backward　away　from　the　inn；　then　began　to　move　sideways　through　the　tall　grass。　Perhaps　sixty　yards　away；　thick　candles　burned　in　the　windows　of　the　only　other　building　he　could　see。　From　somewhere　not　far　off　to　his　right　drifted　the　odor　of　pigs。　When　Jack　had　gone　half　the　distance　between　the　inn　and　the　house；　the　dogs　ceased　growling　and　snapping；　and　he　slowly　began　walking　forward　toward　the　Western　Road。　The　night　was　dark　and　moonless。
　　Jerry　Bledsoe。
　　　
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　　There　were　other　houses；　though　Jack　did　not　see　them　until　he　was　nearly　before　them。　Except　for　the　noisy　drinkers　behind　him　at　the　inn；　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？'