sk.thetalisman-第22部分

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ce　suits；　more　than　ever　like　a　judge。　His　cheeks　were　always　slightly　flushed　（alcoholic？　Sloat　wondered）；　his　manner　still　kindly　and　ponderous。　The　world　had　left　its　marks　on　him…clever　little　wrinkles　at　the　corners　of　his　eyes；　the　eyes　themselves　infinitely　more　guarded　than　those　of　the　gilded　boy　at　Yale。　Sloat　understood　almost　at　once；　and　knew　that　Phil　Sawyer　would　never　see　it　unless　he　were　told；　that　Tommy　Woodbine　lived　with　an　enormous　secret：　whatever　the　gilded　boy　might　have　been；　Tommy　was　now　a　homosexual。　Probably　he'd　call　himself　gay。　And　that　made　everything　easier…in　the　end；　it　even　made　it　easier　to　get　rid　of　Tommy。
　　Because　queers　are　always　getting　killed；　aren't　they？　And　did　anybody　really　want　a　two…hundred…and…ten…pound　pansy　responsible　for　bringing　up　a　teenage　boy？　You　could　say　that　Sloat　was　just　saving　Phil　Sawyer　from　the　posthumous　consequences　of　a　serious　lapse　of　judgment。　If　Sawyer　had　made　Sloat　the　executor　of　his　estate　and　the　guardian　of　his　son；　there　would　have　been　no　problems。　As　it　was；　the　murderers　from　the　Territories…the　same　two　who　had　bungled　the　abduction　of　the　boy…had　blasted　through　a　stoplight　and　nearly　been　arrested　before　they　could　return　home。
　　Things　all　would　have　been　so　much　simpler；　Sloat　reflected　for　perhaps　the　thousandth　time；　if　Phil　Sawyer　had　never　married。　If　no　Lily；　no　Jack；　if　no　Jack；　no　problems。　Phil　may　never　even　have　looked　at　the　reports　about　Lily　Cavanaugh's　early　life　Sloat　had　piled：　they　listed　where　and　how　often　and　with　whom；　and　should　have　killed　that　romance　as　readily　as　the　black　van　turned　Tommy　Woodbine　into　a　lump　on　the　road。　If　Sawyer　read　those　meticulous　reports；　they　left　him　amazingly　unaffected。　He　wanted　to　marry　Lily　Cavanaugh；　and　he　did。　As　his　damned　Twinner　had　married　Queen　Laura。　More　underestimation。　And　repaid　in　the　same　fashion；　which　seemed　fitting。
　　Which　meant；　Sloat　thought　with　some　satisfaction；　that　after　a　few　details　were　taken　care　of；　everything　would　finally　be　settled。　After　so　many　years…when　he　came　back　from　Arcadia　Beach；　he　should　have　all　of　Sawyer　&　Sloat　in　his　pocket。　And　in　the　Territories；　all　was　placed　just　so：　poised　on　the　brink；　ready　to　fall　into　Morgan's　hands。　As　soon　as　the　Queen　died；　her　consort's　former　deputy　would　rule　the　country；　introducing　all　the　interesting　little　changes　both　he　and　Sloat　desired。　And　then　watch　the　money　roll　in。　Sloat　thought；　turning　off　the　freeway　into　Marina　del　Rey。　Then　watch　everything　roll　in！
　　His　client；　Asher　Dondorf；　lived　in　the　bottom　half　of　a　new　condo　in　one　of　the　Marina's　narrow；　alleylike　streets　just　off　the　beach。　Dondorf　was　an　old　character　actor　who　had　achieved　a　surprising　level　of　prominence　and　visibility　in　the　late　seventies　through　a　role　on　a　television　series；　he'd　played　the　landlord　of　the　young　couple…private　detectives；　and　both　cute　as　baby　pandas…who　were　the　series'　stars。　Dondorf　got　so　much　mail　from　his　few　appearances　in　the　early　episodes　that　the　writers　increased　his　part；　making　him　an　unofficial　father　to　the　young　detectives；　letting　him　solve　a　murder　or　two；　putting　him　in　danger；　etc。；　etc。　His　salary　doubled；　tripled；　quadrupled；　and　when　the　series　was　cancelled　after　six　years；　he　went　back　into　film　work。　Which　was　the　problem。　Dondorf　thought　he　was　a　star；　but　the　studios　and　producers　still　considered　him　a　character　actor…popular；　but　not　a　serious　asset　to　any　project。　Dondorf　wanted　flowers　in　his　dressing　room；　he　wanted　his　own　hairdresser　and　dialogue　coach；　he　wanted　more　money；　more　respect；　more　love；　more　everything。　Dondorf；　in　fact；　was　a　putz。
　　When　he　pulled　his　car　tight　into　the　parking　bay　and　eased　himself　out；　being　careful　not　to　scratch　the　edge　of　his　door　on　the　brick；　Sloat　came　to　a　realization：　if　he　learned；　or　even　suspected；　sometime　in　the　next　few　days；　that　Jack　Sawyer　had　discovered　the　existence　of　the　Territories；　he　would　kill　him。　There　was　such　a　thing　as　an　unacceptable　risk。
　　Sloat　smiled　to　himself；　popping　another　Di…Gel　into　his　mouth；　and　rapped　on　the　condo's　door。　He　knew　it　already：　Asher　Dondorf　was　going　to　kill　himself。　He'd　do　it　in　the　living　room　in　order　to　create　as　much　mess　as　possible。　A　temperamental　jerk　like　his　soon…to…be…ex…client　would　think　a　really　sloppy　suicide　was　revenge　on　the　bank　that　held　his　mortgage。　When　a　pale；　trembling　Dondorf　opened　the　door；　the　warmth　of　Sloat's　greeting　was　quite　genuine。
　　
　　　
　　　PART　II
　　　THE　ROAD　OF　TRIALS
　　　
　　CHAPTER　6
　　　The　Queen's　Pavillion
　　　
　　　1
　　
　　The　saw…toothed　blades　of　grass　directly　before　Jack's　eyes　seemed　as　tall　and　stiff　as　sabres。　They　would　cut　the　wind；　not　bend　to　it。　Jack　groaned　as　he　lifted　his　head。　He　did　not　possess　such　dignity。　His　stomach　still　felt　threateningly　liquid；　his　forehead　and　eyes　burned。　Jack　pushed　himself　up　on　his　knees　and　then　forced　himself　to　stand。　A　long　horse…drawn　cart　rumbled　toward　him　down　the　dusty　track；　and　its　driver；　a　bearded　red…faced　man　roughly　the　same　shape　and　size　as　the　wooden　barrels　rattling　behind　him；　was　staring　at　him。　Jack　nodded　and　tried　to　take　in　as　much　as　he　could　about　the　man　while　giving　the　appearance　of　a　loafing　boy　who　had　perhaps　run　off　for　an　illicit　snooze。　Upright；　he　no　longer　felt　ill；　he　felt；　in　fact；　better　than　at　any　time　since　leaving　Los　Angeles；　not　merely　healthy　but　somehow　harmonious；　mysteriously　in　tune　with　his　body。　The　warm；　drifting　air　of　the　Territories　patted　his　face　with　the　gentlest；　most　fragrant　of　touches…its　own　delicate　and　flowery　scent　quite　distinct　beneath　the　stronger　odor　of　raw　meat　it　carried。　Jack　ran　his　hands　over　his　face　and　peeked　at　the　driver　of　the　cart；　his　first　sample　of　Territories　Man。
　　If　the　driver　addressed　him；　how　should　he　answer？　Did　they　even　speak　English　here？　His　kind　of　English？　For　a　moment　Jack　imagined　himself　trying　to　pass　unnoticed　in　a　world　where　people　said　'Prithee'　and　'Dost　thou　go　cross…gartered；　yonder　varlet？'　and　decided　that　if　that　was　how　things　went；　he'd　pretend　to　be　a　mute。
　　The　driver　finally　took　his　eyes　off　Jack　and　clucked　something　decidedly　not　1980's　American　English　to　his　horses。　But　perhaps　that　was　just　the　way　you　spoke　to　horses。　Slusha；　slusha！　Jack　edged　backward　into　the　sea…grass；　wishing　that　he　had　managed　to　get　on　his　feet　a　couple　of　seconds　earlier。　The　man　glanced　at　him　again；　and　surprised　Jack　by　nodding…a　gesture　neither　friendly　nor　unfriendly；　merely　a　munication　between　equals。　I'll　be　glad　when　this　day's　work　is　done；　brother。　Jack　returned　the　nod；　tried　to　put　his　hands　in　his　pockets；　and　for　a　moment　must　have　looked　half…witted　with　astonishment。　The　driver　laughed；　not　unpleasantly。
　　Jack's　clothes　had　changed…he　wore　coarse；　voluminous　woolen　trousers　instead　of　the　corduroy　jeans。　Above　the　waist　a　close…fitting　jacket　of　soft　blue　fabric　covered　him。　Instead　of　buttons；　the　jacket…a　jerkin？　he　speculated…had　a　row　of　cloth　hooks　and　eyes。　Like　the　trousers；　it　was　clearly　hand…made。　The　Nikes；　too；　were　gone；　replaced　by　flat　leather　sandals。　The　knapsack　had　been　transmogrified　into　a　leather　sack　held　by　a　thin　strap　over　his　shoulder。　The　cart…driver　wore　clothing　almost　exactly　similar…his　jerkin　was　of　leather　stained　so　deeply　and　continuously　that　it　showed　rings　within　rings；　like　an　old　tree's　heart。
　　All　rattle　and　dust；　the　cart　pulled　past　Jack。　The　barrels　radiated　a　yeasty　musk　of　beer。　Behind　the　barrels　stood　a　triple　pile　of　what　Jack　unthinkingly　took　to　be　truck　tires。　He　smelled　the　'tires'　and　noticed　that　they　were　perfectly；　flawlessly　bald　in　the　same　moment…it　was　a　creamy　odor；　full　of　secret　depths　and　subtle　pleasures；　that　instantly　made　him　hungry。　Cheese；　but　no　cheese　that　he　had　ever　tasted。　Behind　the　wheels　of　cheese；　near　the　back　of　the　cart；　an　irregular　mound　of　raw　meat…long；　peeled…looking　sides　of　beef；　big　slablike　steaks；　a　heap　of　ropy　internal　organs　he　could　not　identify…slithered　beneath　a　glistening　mat　of　flies。　The　powerful　smell　of　the　raw　meat　assailed　Jack；　killing　the　hunger　evoked　by　the　cheese。　He　moved　into　the　middle　of　the　track　aft