two boys were as big as house-trailers.
“SHOOT HIM!” Morgan bellowed. He ran out his bleeding tongue again and made a hideously triumphant nursery-
school sound: Yadda-yadda-yadda-yah! His feet, clad in dirty Gucci loafers, bumped up and down. One of them landed
squarely on the severed tip of his tongue and tromped it
deeper into the sand.
“SHOOT HIM! SHOOT IT!” Morgan howled.
The muzzle of the Weatherbee circled minutely as it had
when Gardener was preparing to shoot the rubber horse. Then it settled. Jack was carrying the Talisman against his chest.
The crosshairs were over its flashing, circular light. The .360
slug would pass right through it, shattering it, and the sun would turn black . . . but before it does, Gardener thought, I will see that baddest bad boy’s chest explode.
“He’s dead meat,” Gardener whispered, and began to settle
pressure against the Weatherbee’s trigger.
10
Richard raised his head with great effort and his eyes were sizzled by reflected sunlight.
Two men. One with his head slightly cocked, the other
seeming to dance. That flash of sunlight again, and Richard understood. He understood . . . and Jack was looking in the wrong place. Jack was looking down toward the rocks where
Speedy lay.
“Jack look out!” he screamed.
Jack looked around, surprised. “What—”
It happened fast. Jack missed it almost entirely. Richard
saw it and understood it, but could never quite explain what had happened to Jack. The sunlight flashed off the shooter’s riflescope again. The ray of reflected light this time struck the Talisman. And the Talisman reflected it back directly at the shooter. This was what Richard later told Jack, but that was like saying the Empire State Building is a few stories high.
The Talisman did not just reflect the sunflash; it boosted it somehow. It sent back a thick ribbon of light like a deathray in a space movie. It was there only for a second, but it im-
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printed Richard’s retinas for almost an hour afterward, first white, then green, then blue, and finally, as it faded, the lemony yellow of sunshine.
11
“He’s dead meat,” Gardener whispered, and then the scope
was full of living fire. Its thick glass lenses shattered. Smoking fused glass was driven backward into Gardener’s right
eye. The shells in the Weatherbee’s magazine exploded, tearing its mid-section apart. One of the whickers of flying metal amputated most of Gardener’s right cheek. Other hooks and
twists of steel flew around Sloat in a storm, leaving him incredibly untouched. Three Wolfs had remained through
everything. Now two of them took to their heels. The third lay dead on his back, glaring into the sky. The Weatherbee’s trigger was planted squarely between his eyes.
“What?” Morgan bellowed. His bloody mouth hung open.
“What? What?”
Gardener looked weirdly like Wile E. Coyote in the Road-
runner cartoons after one of his devices from the Acme Com-
pany has misfired.
He cast the gun aside, and Sloat saw that all the fingers had been torn from Gard’s left hand.
Gardener’s right hand pulled out his shirt with effeminate
tweezing delicacy. There was a knife-case clipped to the inner waistband of his pants—a narrow sleeve of fine-grained kid
leather. From it Gardener took a piece of chrome-banded
ivory. He pushed a button, and a slim blade seven inches long shot out.
“Bad,” he whispered. “Bad!” His voice began to rise. “All
boys! Bad! It’s axiomatic! IT’S AXIOMATIC! ” He began to run up the beach toward the Agincourt’s walk, where Jack and Richard stood. His voice continued to rise until it was a thin febrile shriek.
“BAD! EVIL! BAD! EEVIL! BAAAD! EEEEEEEEEEEE-
EEEEE—”
Morgan stood a moment longer, then grasped the key
around his neck. By grasping it, he seemed also to grasp his own panicked, flying thoughts.
He’ll go to the old nigger. And that’s where I’ll take him.
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THE TALISMAN
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—” Gardener shrieked, his killer
knife held out before him as he ran.
Morgan turned and ran down the beach. He was vaguely
aware that the Wolfs, all of them, had fled. That was all right.
He would take care of Jack Sawyer—and the Talisman—
all by himself.
45
In Which Many Things are
Resolved on the Beach
1
Sunlight Gardener ran dementedly toward Jack, blood stream-
ing down his mutilated face. He was the center of a devastated madness. Under bright blistering sunshine for the first time in what must have been decades, Point Venuti was a ruin of collapsed buildings and broken pipes and sidewalks heaved up
like books tilting and leaning on a shelf. Actual books lay here and there, their ripped jackets fluttering in raw seams of earth.
Behind Jack the Agincourt Hotel uttered a sound uncannily
like a groan; then Jack heard the sound of a thousand boards collapsing in on themselves, of walls tipping over in a shower of snapped lath and plaster-dust. The boy was faintly conscious of the beelike figure of Morgan Sloat slipping down the beach and realized with a stab of unease that his adversary was going toward Speedy Parker—or Speedy’s corpse.
“He’s got a knife, Jack,” Richard whispered.
Gardener’s ruined hand carelessly smeared blood on his
once-spotless white silk shirt. “EEEEEEVIL!” he screeched,
his voice still faint over the constant pounding of the water on the beach and the continuing, though intermittent, noises of destruction. “EEEEEEEEEEE . . .”
“What are you going to do?” Richard asked.
“How should I know?” Jack answered—it was the best,
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truest answer he could give. He had no idea of how he could defeat this madman. Yet he would defeat him. He was certain of that. “You shoulda killed both of the Ellis brothers,” Jack said to himself.
Gardener, still shrieking, came racing across the sand. He
was even now a good distance away, about halfway between
the end of the fence and the front of the hotel. A red mask covered half his face. His useless left hand leaked a steady spattering stream of blood onto the sandy ground. The distance between the madman and the boys seemed to halve in a
second. Was Morgan Sloat on the beach by now? Jack felt an
urgency like the Talisman’s, pushing him forward; pushing
him on.
“Evil! Axiomatic! Evil!” Gardener screamed.
“Flip!” Richard loudly said—
and Jack
sidestepped
as he had inside the black hotel.
And then found himself standing in front of Osmond in
blistering Territories sunlight. Most of his certainty abruptly left him. Everything was the same but everything was different. Without looking, he knew that behind him was something much worse than the Agincourt—he had never seen the exterior of the castle the hotel became in the Territories, but he suddenly knew that through the great front doors a tongue was coiling out for him . . . and that Osmond was going to drive him and Richard back toward it.
Osmond wore a patch over his right eye and a stained
glove on his left hand. The complicated tendrils of his whip came slithering off his shoulder. “Oh, yes,” he half-hissed, half-whispered. “This boy. Captain Farren’s boy.” Jack pulled the Talisman protectively into his belly. The intricacies of the whip slid over the ground, as responsive to Osmond’s minute movements of hand and wrist as is a racehorse to the hand of the jockey. “What does it profit a boy to gain a glass bauble if he loses the world?” The whip seemed almost to lift itself off the ground. “NOTHING! NAUGHT!” Osmond’s true smell,
that of rot and filth and hidden corruption, boomed out, and his lean crazy face somehow rippled, as if a lightning-bolt had cracked beneath it. He smiled brightly, emptily, and raised the coiling whip above his shoulder.
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“Goat’s-penis,” Osmond said, almost lovingly. The thongs
of the whip came singing down toward Jack, who stepped
backward, though not far enough, in a sudden sparkling
panic.
Richard’s hand gripped his shoulder as he flipped again,
and the horrible, somehow laughing noise of the whip in-
stantly erased itself from the air.
Knife! he heard Speedy say.
Fighting his instincts, Jack stepped inside the space where the whip had been, not backward as almost all of him wished to do. Richard’s hand fell away from the ridge of his shoulder, and Speedy’s voice went wailing and lost. Jack clutched the glowing Talisman into his belly with his left hand and reached up with his right. His fingers closed magically around a bony wrist.
Sunlight Gardener giggled.
“JACK!” Richard bellowed behind him.
He was standing in this world again, under streaming
cleansing light, and Sunlight Gardener’s knife hand was
straining down toward him. Gardener’s ruined face hung only inches from his own. A smell as of garbage and long-dead animals left on the road blanketed them. “Naught,” Gardener
said. “Can you give me hallelujah?” He pushed down with the elegant lethal knife, and Jack managed to hold it back.