The Talisman

Jack slapped his palm down on Richard’s, and then the two of them started back toward the hallway, Richard with one arm around Jack’s neck.

Halfway down the hall, Richard stared at the litter of dead metal. “What in heck?”

“Coffee cans,” Jack said, and smiled. “Maxwell House.”

“Jack, what in the world are you t—”

“Never mind, Richard,” Jack said. He was grinning, and he still felt good, but wires of tension were working into his body again just the same. The earthquake was over . . . but it wasn’t over. Morgan would be waiting for them now. And Gardener.

Never mind. Let it come down the way it will.

They reached the lobby and Richard looked around wonderingly at the stairs, the broken registration desk, the tumbled trophies and flagstands. The stuffed head of a black bear had its nose in one of the pigeonholes of the mail depository, as if smelling something good—honey, perhaps.

“Wow,” Richard said. “Whole place just about fell down.”

Jack got Richard over to the double doors, and observed Richard’s almost greedy appreciation of that little spray of sunlight.

“Are you really ready for this, Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Your father’s out there.”

“No, he’s not. He’s dead. All that’s out there is his . . . what do you call it? His Twinner.”

“Oh.”

Richard nodded. In spite of the Talisman’s proximity, he was beginning to look exhausted again. “Yes.”

“There’s apt to be a hell of a fight.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can.”

“I love you, Richard.”

Richard smiled wanly. “I love you, too, Jack. Now let’s go for it before I lose my nerve.”

9

Sloat really believed he had everything under control—the situation, of course, but more important, himself. He went right on believing this until he saw his son, obviously weak, obviously sick, but still very much alive, come out of the black hotel with his arm around Jack Sawyer’s neck and his head leaning against Jack’s shoulder.

Sloat had also believed he finally had his feelings about Phil Sawyer’s brat under control—it was his previous rage that had caused him to miss Jack, first at the Queen’s pavillion, then in the midwest. Christ, he had crossed Ohio unscathed—and Ohio was only an eyeblink from Orris, that other Morgan’s stronghold. But his fury had led to uncontrolled behavior, and so the boy had slipped through. He had suppressed his rage—but now it flared up with wicked and unbridled freedom. It was as if someone had hosed kerosene on a well-banked fire.

His son, still alive. And his beloved son, to whom he had meant to turn over the kingship of worlds and universes, was leaning on Sawyer for support.

Nor was that all. Glimmering and flashing in Sawyer’s hands like a star which had fallen to earth was the Talisman. Even from here Sloat could feel it—it was as if the planet’s gravitational field had suddenly gotten stronger, pulling him down, making his heart labor; as if time were speeding up, drying out his flesh, dimming his eyes.

“It hurts!” Gardener wailed beside him.

Most of the Wolfs who had stood up to the quake and rallied to Morgan were now reeling away, hands before their faces. A couple of them were vomiting helplessly.

Morgan felt a moment of swooning fear . . . and then his rage, his excitement, and the lunacy that had been feeding on his increasingly grandiose dreams of overlordship—these things burst apart the webbing of his self- control.

He raised his thumbs to his ears and slammed them deep inside, so deep it hurt. Then he stuck out his tongue and waggled his fingers at Mr. Jack Dirty Motherfuck and Soon-to-be-Dead Sawyer. A moment later his upper teeth descended like a drop-gate and seered the tip of his wagging tongue. Sloat didn’t even notice it. He seized Gardener by the flak-vest.

Gardener’s face was moony with fear. “They’re out, he’s got IT, Morgan . . . my Lord . . . we ought to run, we must run—”

“SHOOT HIM!” Morgan screamed into Gardener’s face. Blood from his severed tongue flew in a fine spray. “SHOOT HIM, YOU ETHIOPIAN JUG-FUCKER, HE KILLED YOUR BOY! SHOOT HIM AND SHOOT THE FUCKING TALISMAN! SHOOT RIGHT THROUGH HIS ARMS AND BREAK IT!”

Sloat now began to dance slowly up and down before Gardener, his face working horribly, his thumbs back in his ears, his fingers waggling beside his head, his amputated tongue popping in and out of his mouth like one of those New Year’s Eve party favors that unroll with a tooting sound. He looked like a murderous child—hilarious, and at the same time awful.

“HE KILLED YOUR SON! AVENGE YOUR SON! SHOOT HIM! SHOOT IT! YOU SHOT HIS FATHER, NOW SHOOT HIM!”

“Reuel,” Gardener said thoughtfully. “Yes. He killed Reuel. He’s the baddest bitch’s bastard to ever draw a breath. All boys. Axiomatic. But he . . . he . . .”

He turned toward the black hotel and raised the Weatherbee to his shoulder. Jack and Richard had reached the bottom of the twisted front steps and were beginning to move down the broad walkway, which had been flat a few minutes ago and which was now crazy-paved. In the Judkins scope, the two boys were as big as house-