The Talisman

scrutinizing Wolf. He had given no indication whether he believed Jack or not.
    ‘My,’ he said. ‘You’re a healthy specimen, aren’t you? Positively strapping. We’ll certainly be able to find a use for a big strong boy like you around here, praise the Lord. And might I ask you to emulate Mr Jack Parker here, and give me your name?’
    Jack looked uneasily at Wolf. His head was bowed, and he was breathing heavily. A glistening line of slobber went from the corner of his mouth to his chin. A black smudge, half-dirt, half-grease, covered the front of the stolen Athletic Department sweatshirt. Wolf shook his head, but the gesture seemed to have no content – he might have been shaking away a fly.
    ‘Name, son? Name? Name? Are you called Bill? Paul? Art? Sammy? No – something exceedingly foursquare, I’m sure. George, perhaps?’
    ‘Wolf,’ said Wolf.
    ‘Ah, that is nice.’ Gardener beamed at both of them. ‘Mr Parker and Mr Wolf. Perhaps you’ll escort them inside, Officer Williams? And aren’t we happy that Mr Bast is in residence already? For the presence of Mr Hector Bast – one of our stewards, by the way – means that we shall probably be able to outfit Mr Wolf.’ He peered at the two boys over the frames of his sunglasses. ‘One of our beliefs here at the Scripture Home is that the soldiers of the Lord march best when they march in uniform. And Heck Bast is nearly as large as your friend Wolf, young Jack Parker. So from the points of view of both clothing and discipline you shall be very well served indeed. A comfort, yes?’
    ‘Jack,’ Wolf said in a low voice.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘My head hurts, Jack. Hurts bad.’
    ‘Your little head pains you, Mr Wolf?’ Reverend Sunlight Gardener half-danced towardWolf and gently patted his arm. Wolf snatched his arm away, his face working into an exaggerated reflex of disgust. The cologne, Jack knew – that heavy cloying odor would have been like ammonia in Wolf’s sensitive nostrils.
    ‘Never mind, son,’ said Gardener, seemingly unaffected by Wolf’s withdrawal from him. ‘Mr Bast or Mr Singer, our other steward, will see to that inside. Frank, I thought I told you to get them into the Home.’
    Officer Williams reacted as if he had been jabbed in the back with a pin. His face grew more feverish, and he jerked his peculiar body across the porch to the front door.
    Sunlight Gardener twinkled at Jack again, and the boy saw that all his dandified animation was only a kind of sterile self-amusement: the man in white was cold and crazy within. A heavy gold chain rattled out of Gardener’s sleeve and came to rest against the base of his thumb. Jack heard the whistle of a whip cutting through the air, and this time he recognized Gardener’s dark gray eyes.
    Gardener was Osmond’s Twinner.
    ‘Inside, young fellows,’ Gardener said, half-bowing and indicating the open door.
    2
    ‘By the way, Mr Parker,’ Gardener said, once they had gone in, ‘is it possible that we’ve met before? There must be some reason you look so familiar to me, mustn’t there?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Jack said, looking carefully around the odd interior of the Scripture Home.
    Long couches covered with a dark blue fabric sat against the wall on the forest-green carpet; two massive leather-topped desks had been placed against the opposite wall. At one of the desks a pimply teenager glanced at them dully, then returned to the video screen before him, where a TV preacher was inveighing against rock and roll. The teenage boy seated at the adjoining desk straightened up and fixed Jack with an aggressive stare. He was slim and black-haired and his narrow face looked clever and bad-tempered. To the pocket of his white turtleneck sweater was pinned a rectangular nameplate of the sort worn by soldiers: SINGER .
    ‘But I do think we have met each other somewhere, don’t you, my lad? I assure you, we must have – I don’t forget, I am literally incapable of forgetting the face of a boy I have encountered. Have you ever been in trouble before this, Jack?’
    Jack said, ‘I never saw you before.’
    Across the room, a massive boy had lifted himself off one of the blue couches and was now standing at attention. He too wore a white turtleneck sweater and a military nameplate. His hands wandered nervously from his sides to his belt, into the pockets of his blue jeans, back to his sides. He was at least six-three and seemed to weigh nearly three hundred pounds. Acne burned across