The Talisman

“God through the power of His only begotten Son, Jesus.”

“Will you pray to Jesus to intercede for you?” Gardener asked Roy Owdersfelt.

“Sure am gonna!” Roy Owdersfelt cried in an unsteady voice, and tweaked the pimple again. Jack saw that Roy Owdersfelt was weeping.

“And the next time your momma comes here are you going to tell your momma that you know you sinned against her and your little brother and against the face of God and you’re just as sorry a boy as ever there was?”

“You bet!”

Sunlight Gardener nodded to Andy Warwick.

“Confession,” Warwick said.

Before confession was over at six o’clock, almost everyone except Jack and Wolf had his hand up, hoping to relate some sin to those gathered. Several confessed petty theft. Others told of stealing liquor and drinking until they threw up. There were, of course, many tales of drugs.

Warwick called on them, but it was Sunlight Gardener they looked to for approval as they told . . . and told . . . and told.

He’s got them liking their sins, Jack thought, troubled. They love him, they want his approval, and I guess they only get it if they confess. Some of these sad sacks probably even make their crimes up.

The smells from the dining hall had been getting stronger. Wolf’s stomach rumbled furiously and constantly next to Jack. Once, during one boy’s tearful confession of having hooked a Penthouse magazine so he could look at those filthy pictures of what he called “sexed-out women,” Wolf’s stomach rumbled so loudly that Jack elbowed him.

Following the last confession of the evening, Sunlight Gardener offered a short, melodious prayer. Then he stood in the doorway, informal and yet resplendent in his jeans and white silk shirt, as the boys filed out. As Jack and Wolf passed, he closed one of his hands around Jack’s wrist.

“I’ve met you before.” Confess, Sunlight Gardener’s eyes demanded.

And Jack felt an urge to do just that.

Oh yes, we know each other, yes. You whipped my back bloody.

“No,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Gardener said. “Oh yes. I’ve met you before. In California? In Maine? Oklahoma? Where?”

Confess.

“I don’t know you,” Jack said.

Gardener giggled. Inside his own head, Jack suddenly knew, Sunlight Gardener was jigging and dancing and snapping a bullwhip. “So Peter said when he was asked to identify Jesus Christ,” he said. “But Peter lied. So do you, I think. Was it in Texas, Jack? El Paso? Was it in Jerusalem in another life? On Golgotha, the place of the skull?”

“I tell you—”

“Yes, yes, I know, we’ve only just met.” Another giggle. Wolf, Jack saw, had shied as far away from Sunlight Gardener as the doorway would allow. It was the smell. The gagging, cloying smell of the man’s cologne. And under it, the smell of craziness.

“I never forget a face, Jack. I never forget a face or a place. I’ll remember where we met.”

His eyes flicked from Jack to Wolf—Wolf whined a little and pulled back—and then back to Jack again.

“Enjoy your dinner, Jack,” he said. “Enjoy your dinner, Wolf. Your real life at the Sunlight Home begins tomorrow.”

Halfway to the stairs, he turned and looked back.

“I never forget a place or a face, Jack. I’ll remember.”

Coldly, Jack thought, God, I hope not. Not until I’m about two thousand miles away from this fucking pris—

Something slammed into him hard. Jack flew out into the hall, pinwheeling his arms madly for balance. He hit his head on the bare concrete floor and saw a tangled shower of stars.

When he was able to sit up, he saw Singer and Bast standing together, grinning. Behind them was Casey, his gut pouching out his white turtleneck. Wolf was looking at Singer and Bast, and something in his tensed-down posture alarmed Jack.

“No, Wolf!” he said sharply.

Wolf slumped.

“No, go ahead, dummy,” Heck Bast said, laughing a little. “Don’t listen to him. Go on and try me, if you want. I always liked a little warmup before dinner.”

Singer glanced at Wolf and said, “Leave the dummy alone, Heck. He’s just the body.” He nodded at Jack. “There’s the head. There’s the head we got to change.” He looked down at Jack, hands on his knees, like an adult bending to pass a pleasant word or two with a very small child. “And we will change it, Mr. Jack Parker. You can believe it.”

Deliberately, Jack said, “Piss off, you bullying asshole.”

Singer recoiled as if slapped, a flush rising out of his collar, up his neck, and into his face. With a growl, Heck Bast stepped forward.