“JACK!” Richard yelled again.
Sunlight Gardener stared at him with a bright birdlike air.
He continued to push down with his knife.
Don’t you know what Sunlight done? said Speedy’s voice.
Don’t you yet?
Jack looked straight into Gardener’s crazily dancing
eye. Yes.
Richard rushed in and kicked Gardener in the ankle, then
clouted a weak fist into his temple.
“You killed my father,” Jack said.
Gardener’s single eye sparkled back. “You killed my boy,
baddest bastard!”
“Morgan Sloat told you to kill my father and you did.”
Gardener pushed the knife down a full two inches. A knot
of yellow gristly stuff and a bubble of blood squeezed out of the hole that had been his right eye.
Jack screamed—with horror, rage, and all the long-hidden
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feelings of abandonment and helplessness which had fol-
lowed his father’s death. He found that he had pushed Gar-
dener’s knife hand all the way back up. He screamed again.
Gardener’s fingerless left hand battered against Jack’s own left arm. Jack was just managing to twist Gardener’s wrist
back when he felt that dripping pad of flesh insinuate itself between his chest and his arm. Richard continued to skirmish about Gardener, but Gardener was managing to get his fingerless hand very near the Talisman.
Gardener tilted his face right up to Jack’s.
“Hallelujah,” he whispered.
Jack twisted his entire body around, using more strength
than he’d known he had. He hauled down on Gardener’s knife
hand. The other, fingerless hand flew to the side. Jack
squeezed the wrist of the knife hand. Corded tendons wriggled in his grasp. Then the knife dropped, as harmless now as the fingerless cushion of skin which struck repeatedly at
Jack’s ribs. Jack rolled his whole body into the off-center Gardener and sent him lurching away.
He shoved the Talisman toward Gardener. Richard
squawked, What are you doing? This was right, right, right.
Jack moved in toward Gardener, who was still gleaming at
him, though with less assurance, and thrust the Talisman out toward him. Gardener grinned, another bubble of blood
bulging fatly in the empty eye-socket, and swung wildly at
the Talisman. Then he ducked for the knife. Jack rushed in
and touched the Talisman’s grooved warm skin against Gar-
dener’s own skin. Like Reuel, like Sunlight. He jumped back.
Gardener howled like a lost, wounded animal. Where the
Talisman had brushed against him, the skin had blackened,
then turned to a slowly sliding fluid, skimming away from the skull. Jack retreated another step. Gardener fell to his knees.
All the skin on his head turned waxy. Within half a second, only a gleaming skull protruded through the collar of the ruined shirt.
That’s you taken care of, Jack thought, and good riddance!
2
“All right,” Jack said. He felt full of crazy confidence. “Let’s go get him, Richie. Let’s—”
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He looked at Richard and saw that his friend was on the
verge of collapsing again. He stood swaying on the sand, his eyes half-lidded and dopey.
“Maybe you better just sit this one out, on second
thought,” Jack said.
Richard shook his head. “Coming, Jack. Seabrook Island.
All the way . . . to the end of the line.”
“I’m going to have to kill him,” Jack said. “That is, if I
can.”
Richard shook his head with dogged, stubborn persistence.
“Not my father. Told you. Father’s dead. If you leave me I’ll crawl. Crawl right through the muck that guy left behind, if I have to.”
Jack looked toward the rocks. He couldn’t see Morgan, but
he didn’t think there was much question that Morgan was
there. And if Speedy was still alive, Morgan might at this moment be taking steps to remedy that situation.
Jack tried to smile but couldn’t make it. “Think of the
germs you might pick up.” He hesitated a moment longer,
then held the Talisman reluctantly out to Richard. “I’ll carry you, but you’ll have to carry this. Don’t drop the ball,
Richard. If you drop it—”
What was it Speedy had said?
“If you drop it, all be lost.”
“I won’t drop it.”
Jack put the Talisman into Richard’s hands, and again
Richard seemed to improve at its touch . . . but not so much.
His face was terribly wan. Washed in the Talisman’s bright
glow, it looked like the face of a dead child caught in the glare of a police photographer’s flash.
It’s the hotel. It’s poisoning him.
But it wasn’t the hotel; not entirely. It was Morgan. Morgan was poisoning him.
Jack turned around, discovering he was loath to look away
from the Talisman even for a moment. He bent his back and
curved his hands into stirrups.
Richard climbed on. He held to the Talisman with one
hand and curled the other around Jack’s neck. Jack grabbed
Richard’s thighs.
He is as light as a thistle. He has his own cancer. He’s had
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it all his life. Morgan Sloat is radioactive with evil and Richard is dying of the fallout.
He started to jog down toward the rocks behind which
Speedy lay, conscious of the light and heat of the Talisman just above him.
3
He ran around the left side of the clump of rocks with Richard on his back, still full of that crazy assurance . . . and that it was crazy was brought home to him with rude suddenness. A plumpish leg clad in light brown wool (and just below the
pulled-back cuff Jack caught a blurred glimpse of a perfectly proper brown nylon sock) suddenly stuck straight out from
behind the last rock like a toll-gate.
Shit! Jack’s mind screamed. He was waiting for you! You total nerd!
Richard cried out. Jack tried to pull up and couldn’t.
Morgan tripped him up as easily as a schoolyard bully trips up a younger boy in the play-yard. After Smokey Updike, and Osmond, and Gardener, and Elroy, and something that looked
like a cross between an alligator and a Sherman tank, all it really took to bring him down was overweight, hypertensive
Morgan Sloat crouched behind a rock, watching and waiting
for an overconfident boy named Jack Sawyer to come boogy-
ing right down on top of him.
“Yiyyy!” Richard cried as Jack stumbled forward. He was dimly aware of their combined shadow tracking out to his
left—it seemed to have as many arms as a Hindu idol. He felt the psychic weight of the Talisman shift . . . and then over-shift.
“WATCH OUT FOR IT, RICHARD!” Jack screamed.
Richard fell over the top of Jack’s head, his eyes huge and dismayed. The cords on his neck stood out like piano wire. He held the Talisman up as he went down. His mouth was pulled
down at the corners in a desperate snarl. He hit the ground face-first like the nosecone of a defective rocket. The sand here around the place where Speedy had gone to earth was
not precisely sand at all but a rough-textured scree stubbly with smaller rocks and shells. Richard came down on a rock
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that had been burped up by the earthquake. There was a com-
pact thudding sound. For a moment Richard looked like an
ostrich with its head buried in the sand. His butt, clad in dirty polished-cotton slacks, wagged drunkenly back and forth in
the air. In other circumstances—circumstances unattended by that dreadful compact thudding sound, for instance—it would have been a comic pose, worthy of a Kodachrome: “Rational
Richard Acts Wild and Crazy at the Beach.” But it wasn’t
funny at all. Richard’s hands opened slowly . . . and the Talisman rolled three feet down the gentle slope of the beach and stopped there, reflecting sky and clouds, not on its surface but in its gently lighted interior.
“Richard!” Jack bellowed again.
Morgan was somewhere behind him, but Jack had momen-
tarily forgotten him. All his reassurance was gone; it had left him at the moment when that leg, clad in light brown wool, had stuck out in front of him like a toll-gate. Fooled like a kid in a nursery-school play-yard, and Richard . . . Richard was . . .
“Rich—”
Richard rolled over and Jack saw that Richard’s poor, tired face was covered with running blood. A flap of his scalp hung down almost to one eye in a triangular shape like a ragged
sail. Jack could see hair sticking out of the underside and brushing Richard’s cheek like sand-colored grass . . . and
where that hair-covered skin had come from he could see the naked gleam of Richard Sloat’s skull.
“Did it break?” Richard asked. His voice cracked toward a
scream. “Jack, did it break when I fell?”
“It’s okay, Richie—it’s—”
Richard’s blood-rimmed eyes bulged widely at something
behind him. “Jack! Jack, look o—!”
Something that felt like a leather brick—one of Morgan
Sloat’s Gucci loafers—crashed up between Jack’s legs and