sk.thetalisman-第62章
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It is Speedy。 Behind those dark glasses； it is Speedy。
Jack was sure of it。 But a moment later he was just as sure that it wasn't Speedy。 Speedy wasn't built square in the shoulders and broad across the chest； Speedy's shoulders were rounded； a little slumped over； and his chest consequently had a slightly caved…in look。 Mississippi John Hurt； not Ray Charles。
But I could tell one way or the other for sure if he'd take off those shades。
He opened his mouth to speak Speedy's name aloud； and suddenly the old man began to play； his wrinkled fingers； as dully dark as old walnut that has been faithfully oiled but never polished； moving with limber speed and grace on both strings and frets。 He played well； finger…picking the melody。 And after a moment； Jack recognized the tune。 It had been on one of his father's older records。 A Vanguard album called Mississippi John Hurt Today。 And although the blind man didn't sing； Jack knew the words：
O kindly friends； tell me； ain't it hard？
To see ole Lewis in a new graveyard；
The angels laid him away
The blond football player and his three princesses came out of the mall's main doors。 Each of the princesses had an ice cream cone。 Mr。 All…America had a chili…dog in each hand。 They sauntered toward where Jack stood。 Jack； whose whole attention was taken up by the old black man； had not even noticed them。 He had been transfixed by the idea that it was Speedy； and Speedy had somehow read his mind。 How else could it be that this man had begun to play a Mississippi John Hurt position just as Jack happened to think Speedy looked like that very man？ And a song containing his own road…name； as well？
The blond football player transferred both chili…dogs to his left hand and slapped Jack on the back with his right as hard as he could。 Jack's teeth snapped on his own tongue like a bear…trap。 The pain was sudden and excruciating。
'You just shake her easy； urine…breath；' he said。 The princesses giggled and shrieked。
Jack stumbled forward and kicked over the blind man's cup。 Coins spilled and rolled。 The gentle lilt of the blues tune came to a jangling halt。
Mr。 All…America and the Three Little Princesses were already moving on。 Jack stared after them and felt the now…familiar impotent hate。 This was how it felt to be on your own； just young enough to be at everyone's mercy and to be anyone's meat…anyone from a psychotic like Osmond to a humorless old Lutheran like Elbert Palamountain； whose idea of a pretty fair work…day was to slog and squelch through gluey fields for twelve hours during a steady cold downpour of October rain； and to sit bolt…upright in the cab of his International Harvester truck during lunch hour； eating onion sandwiches and reading from the Book of Job。
Jack had no urge to 'get' them； although he had a strange idea that if he wanted to； he could…that he was gaining some sort of power； almost like an electrical charge。 It sometimes seemed to him that other people knew that； too…that it was in their faces when they looked at him。 But he didn't want to get them； he only wanted to be left alone。 He…
The blind man was feeling around himself for the spilled money； his pudgy hands moving gently over the pavement； almost seeming to read it。 He happened on a dime； set his cup back up again； and dropped the dime in。 Plink！
Faintly； Jack heard one of the princesses： 'Why do they let him stay there； he's so gross； you know？'
Even more faintly still： 'Yeah； rilly！'
Jack got down on his knees and began to help； picking up coins and putting them into the blind man's cup。 Down here； close to the old man； he could smell sour sweat； mildew； and some sweet bland smell like corn。 Smartly dressed mall shoppers gave them a wide berth。
'Thankya； thankya；' the blind man croaked monotonously。 Jack could smell dead chili on his breath。 'Thankya； blessya； God blessya； thankya。'
He is Speedy。
He's not Speedy。
What finally forced him to speak…and this was not really so odd…was remembering just how little of the magic juice he had left。 Barely two swallows now。 He did not know if； after what had happened in Angola； he could ever bring himself to travel in the Territories again； but he was still determined to save his mother's life； and that meant he might have to。
And； whatever the Talisman was； he might have to flip into the other world to get it。
'Speedy？'
'Blessya； thankya； God blessya； didn't I hear one go over there？' He pointed。
'Speedy！ It's Jack！'
'Ain't nothin speedy round here； boy； No sir。' His hands began to whisper…walk along the concrete in the direction he had just pointed。 One of them found a nickel and he dropped it into the cup。 His other happened to touch the shoe of a smartly dressed young woman who was passing by。 Her pretty； empty face wrinkled in almost painful disgust as she drew away from him。
Jack picked the last coin out of the gutter。 It was a silver dollar…a big old cartwheel with Lady Liberty on one side。
Tears began to spill out of his eyes。 They ran down his dirty face and he wiped them away with an arm that shook。 He was crying for Thielke； Wild； Hagen； Davey； and Heidel。 For his mother。 For Laura DeLoessian。 For the carter's son lying dead in the road with his pockets turned out。 But most of all for himself。 He was tired of being on the road。 Maybe when you rode it in a Cadillac it was a road of dreams； but when you had to hitch it； riding on your thumb and a story that was just about worn out； when you were at everybody's mercy and anyone's meat； it was nothing but a road of trials。 Jack felt that he had been tried enough 。 。 。 but there was no way to cry it off。 If he cried it off； the cancer would take his mother； and Uncle Morgan might well take him。
'I don't think I can do it； Speedy；' he wept。 'I don't think so； man。'
Now the blind man groped for Jack instead of the spilled coins。 Those gentle； reading fingers found his arm and closed around it。 Jack could feel the hard pad of callus in the tip of each finger。 He drew Jack to him； into those odors of sweat and heat and old chili。 Jack pressed his face against Speedy's chest。
'Hoo； boy。 I don't know no Speedy； but it sounds like you puttin an awful lot on him。 You…'
'I miss my mom； Speedy；' Jack wept； 'and Sloat's after me。 It was him on the phone inside the mall； him。 And that's not the worst thing。 The worst thing was in Angola 。 。 。 the Rainbird Towers 。 。 。 earthquake 。 。 。 five men 。 。 。 me； I did it； Speedy； I killed those men when I flipped into this world； I killed them just like my dad and Morgan Sloat killed Jerry Bledsoe that time！'
Now it was out； the worst of it。 He had sicked up the stone of guilt that had been in his throat； threatening to choke him； and a storm of weeping seized him…but this time it was relief rather than fear。 It was said。 It had been confessed。 He was a murderer。
'Hooo…eeee！' the black man cried。 He sounded perversely delighted。 He held Jack with one thin； strong arm； rocked him。 'You tryin to carry you one heavy load； boy。 You sure am。 Maybe you ought to put some of it down。'
'I killed em；' Jack whispered。 'Thielke； Wild； Hagen； Davey 。 。 。 '
'Well； if yo friend Speedy was here；' the black man said； 'whoever he might be； or wherever he might be in this wide old world； he might tell you that you cain't carry the world on yo shoulders； son。 You cain't do that。 No one can。 Try to carry the world on yo shoulders； why； first it's gonna break yo back； and then it's gonna break you sperrit。'
'I killed…'
'Put a gun to their heads and shot somebodies； didya？'
'No 。 。 。 the earthquake 。 。 。 I flipped 。 。 。 '
'Don't know nothin bout dat；' the black man said。 Jack had pulled away from him a bit and was staring up into the black man's seamed face with wondering curiosity； but the black man had turned his head toward the parking lot。 If he was blind； then he had picked out the smoother； slightly more powerful beat of the police car's engine from the others as it approached； because he was looking right at it。 'All I know is you seem to have this idear of 'moider' a little broad。 Prolly if some fella
