The Talisman

Jack’s guilty image in the rear-view mirror.
    The Cayuga Municipal Building was a shadowy maze of unlighted hallways and narrow staircases that seemed to wind unexpectedly upward alongside equally narrow rooms. Water sang and rumbled in the pipes. ‘Let me explain something to you kids,’ the policeman said, ushering them toward the last staircase to their right. ‘You’re not under arrest. Got that? You are being detained for questioning. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about one phone call. You’re in limbo until you tell us who you are and what you’re up to,’ the cop went on. ‘You hear me? Limbo. Nowhere. We’re gonna see Judge Fairchild, he’s the magistrate, and if you don’t tell us the truth, you’re gonna pay some big fuckin consequences. Upstairs. Move it!’
    At the top of the stairs the policeman pushed a door open. A middle-aged woman in wire glasses and a black dress looked up from a typewriter placed sideways against the far wall. ‘Two more runaways,’ the policeman said. ‘Tell him we’re here.’
    She nodded, picked up her telephone, and spoke a few words. ‘You may go in,’ the secretary said to them, her eyes wandering from Wolf to Jack and back again.
    The cop pushed them across the anteroom and opened the door to a room twice as large, lined with books on one long wall, framed photographs and diplomas and certificates on another. Blinds had been lowered across the long windows opposite. A tall skinny man in a dark suit, a wrinkled white shirt, and a narrow tie of no discernible pattern stood up behind a chipped wooden desk that must have been six feet long. The man’s face was a relief map of wrinkles, and his hair was so black it must have been dyed. Stale cigarette smoke hung visibly in the air. ‘Well, what have we got here, Franky?’ His voice was startlingly deep, almost theatrical.
    ‘Kids I picked up on French Lick Road, over by Thompson’s place.’
    Judge Fairchild’s wrinkles contorted into a smile as he looked at Jack. ‘You have any identification papers on you, son?’
    ‘No sir,’ Jack said.
    ‘Have you told Officer Williams here the truth about everything? He doesn’t think you have, or you wouldn’t be here.’
    ‘Yes sir,’ Jack said.
    ‘Then tell me your story.’ He walked around his desk, disturbing the flat layers of smoke just over his head, and half-sat, half-leaned on the front corner nearest Jack. Squinting, he lit a cigarette – Jack saw the Judge’s recessed pale eyes peering at him through the smoke and knew there was no charity in them.
    It was the pitcher plant again.
    Jack drew in a large breath. ‘My name is Jack Parker. He’s my cousin, and he’s called Jack too. Jack Wolf. But his real name is Philip. He was staying with us in Daleville because his dad’s dead and his mother got sick. I was just taking him back to Springfield.’
    ‘Simple-minded, is he?’
    ‘A little slow,’ Jack said, and glanced up at Wolf. His friend seemed barely conscious.
    ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ the Judge asked Wolf. Wolf did not respond in any way. His eyes were clamped shut and his hands stuffed into his pockets.
    ‘She’s named Helen,’ Jack said. ‘Helen Vaughan.’
    The Judge eased himself off the desk and walked slowly over to Jack. ‘Have you been drinking, son? You’re a little unsteady.’
    ‘No.’
    Judge Fairchild came to within a foot of Jack and bent down. ‘Let me smell your breath.’
    Jack opened his mouth and exhaled.
    ‘Nope. No booze.’ The Judge straightened up again. ‘But that’s the only thing you were telling the truth about, isn’t it? You’re trying to string me along, boy.’
    ‘I’m sorry we were hitching,’ Jack said, aware that he had to speak with great caution now. Not only might what he said determine whether he and Wolf were to be let free, but he was having a little trouble forming the words themselves – everything seemed to be happening with great slowness. As in the shed, the seconds had wandered off the metronome. ‘In fact, we hardly ever hitch because Wolf – Jack, that is – hates being in cars. We’ll never do it again. We haven’t done anything wrong, sir, and that really is the truth.’
    ‘You don’t understand, sonny,’ the Judge said, and his far-off eyes gleamed again. He’s enjoying this , Jack understood. Judge Fairchild moved slowly back behind his desk. ‘Hitching rides isn’t the issue. You two boys are out on the roads by yourself, coming