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er's doubts。 At the end of this conversation； which returned to the twelve…year…old Jacky Sawyer in the dangerous borderland between Oatley； New York； and a nameless Territories village； Morgan Sloat had allowed himself to seem not only persuaded but positively grateful for the lessons。 When Jack woke up； the first thing he heard was his father asking； 'Hey； did Jack disappear or something？' and the second thing was Uncle Morgan saying； 'Hell； I guess you're right； Phil。 You have a way of seeing right to the heart of things； you're great the way you do that。'
'Where the hell is Jack？' his father said； and Jack stirred behind the couch； really waking up now。 The black taxi thudded to the floor。
'Aha；' Uncle Morgan said。 'Little pitchers and big ears； peut…être？'
'You behind there； kiddo？' his father said。 Noises of chairs pushing back across the wooden floor； of men standing up。
He said； 'Oooh；' and slowly lifted the taxi back into his lap。 His legs felt stiff and unfortable…when he stood； they would tingle。
His father laughed。 Footsteps came toward him。 Morgan Sloat's red； puffy face appeared over the top of the couch。 Jack yawned and pushed his knees into the back of the couch。 His father's face appeared beside Sloat's。 His father was smiling。 For a moment； both of those grown…up adult male heads seemed to be floating over the top of the couch。 'Let's move on home； sleepyhead；' his father said。 When the boy looked into Uncle Morgan's face； he saw calculation sink into his skin； slide underneath his jolly…fat…man's cheeks like a snake beneath a rock。 He looked like Richard Sloat's daddy again； like good old Uncle Morgan who always gave spectacular Christmas and birthday presents； like good old sweaty Uncle Morgan； so easy not to notice。 But what had he looked like before？ Like a human earthquake； like a man crumbling apart over the fault…line behind his eyes； like something all wound up and waiting to explode
'How about a little ice cream on the way home； Jack？' Uncle Morgan said to him。 'That sound good to you？'
'Uh；' Jack said。
'Yeah； we can stop off at that place in the lobby；' his father said。
'Yummy…yummy…yum；' Uncle Morgan said。 'Now we're really talking about synergy；' and smiled at Jack once more。
This happened when he was six； and in the midst of his weightless tumble through limbo； it happened again…the horrible purple taste of Speedy's juice backed up into his mouth； into the passages behind his nose； and all of that languid afternoon of six years before replayed itself out in his mind。 He saw it just as if the magic juice brought total recall； and so speedily that he lived through that afternoon in the same few seconds which told him that this time the magic juice really was going to make him vomit。
Uncle Morgan's eyes smoking； and inside Jack； a question smoking too； demanding to finally e out 。 。 。
Who played
What changes what changes
Who plays those changes； daddy？
Who
killed Jerry Bledsoe？ The magic juice forced itself into the boy's mouth； stinging threads of it nauseatingly trickled into his nose； and just as Jack felt loose earth beneath his hands he gave up and vomited rather than drown。 What killed Jerry Bledsoe？ Foul purple stuff shot from Jack's mouth； choking him； and he blindly pushed himself backward…his feet and legs snagged in tall stiff weeds。 Jack pushed himself up on his hands and knees and waited； patient as a mule； his mouth drooping open； for the second attack。 His stomach clenched； and he did not have time to groan before more of the stinking juice burned up through his chest and throat and spattered out of his mouth。 Ropey pink strings of saliva hung from his lips； and Jack feebly brushed them away。 He wiped his hand on his pants。 Jerry Bledsoe； yes。 Jerry…who'd always had his name spelled out on his shirt； like a gas…station attendant。 Jerry； who had died when…The boy shook his head and wiped his hands across his mouth again。 He spat into a nest of sawtoothed wild grass sprouting like a giant's corsage out of the gray…brown earth。 Some dim animal instinct he did not understand made him push loose earth over the pinkish pool of vomit。 Another reflex made him brush the palms of his hands against his trousers。 Finally he looked up。
He was kneeling； in the last of the evening light； on the edge of a dirt lane。 No horrible Elroy…thing pursued him…he had known that immediately。 Dogs penned in a wooden； cage…like enclosure barked and snarled at him； thrusting their snouts through the cracks of their jail。 On the other side of the fenced…in dogs was a rambling wooden structure and from here too doggy noises rose up into the immense sky。 These were unmistakably similar to the noises Jack had just been hearing from the other side of a wall in the Oatley Tap： the sounds of drunken men bellowing at each other。 A bar…here it would be an inn or a public house； Jack imagined。 Now that he was no longer sickened by Speedy's juice； he could smell the pervasive； yeasty odors of malt and hops。 He could not let the men from the inn discover him。
For a moment he imagined himself running from all those dogs yipping and growling through the cracks in their enclosure； and then he stood up。 The sky seemed to tilt over his head； to darken。 And back home； in his world； what was happening？ A nice little disaster in the middle of Oatley？ Maybe a nice little flood； a sweet little fire？ Jack slipped quietly backward away from the inn； then began to move sideways through the tall grass。 Perhaps sixty yards away； thick candles burned in the windows of the only other building he could see。 From somewhere not far off to his right drifted the odor of pigs。 When Jack had gone half the distance between the inn and the house； the dogs ceased growling and snapping； and he slowly began walking forward toward the Western Road。 The night was dark and moonless。
Jerry Bledsoe。
4
There were other houses； though Jack did not see them until he was nearly before them。 Except for the noisy drinkers behind him at the inn； here in the country Territories people went to bed when the sun did。 No candles burned in these small square windows。 Themselves squarish and dark； the houses on either side of the Western Road sat in a puzzling isolation…something was wrong； as in a visual game from a child's magazine； but Jack could not identify it。 Nothing hung upside…down； nothing burned； nothing seemed extravagantly out of place。 Most of the houses had thick fuzzy roofs which resembled haystacks with crewcuts； but Jack assumed that these were thatch…he had heard of it； but never seen it before。 Morgan； he thought with a sudden thrill of panic； Morgan of Orris； and saw the two of them； the man with long hair and a built…up boot and his father's sweaty workaholic partner； for a moment jumbled up together…Morgan Sloat with pirate's hair and a hitch in his walk。 But Morgan…this world's Morgan…was not what was Wrong with This Picture。
Jack was just now passing a short squat one…story building like an inflated rabbit hutch； crazily half…timbered with wide black wooden X's。 A fuzzy crewcut thatch capped this building too。 If he were walking out of Oatley…or even running out of Oatley； to be closer to the truth…what would he expect to see in the single dark window of this hutch for giant rabbits？ He knew： the dancing glimmer of a television screen。 But of course Territories houses did not have television sets inside them； and the absence of that colorful glimmer was not what had puzzled him。 It was something else； something so much an aspect of any grouping of houses along a road that its absence left a hole in the landscape。 You noticed the hole even if you could not quite identify what was absent。
Television； television sets 。 。 。 Jack continued past the half…timbered little building and saw ahead of him； its front door set only inches back from the verge of the road； another gnomishly small dwelling。 This one seemed to have a sod； not a thatched； roof； and Jack smiled to himself…this tiny village had reminded him of Hobbiton。 Would a Hobbit cable…stringer pull up here and say to the lady of the 。 。 。 shack？ doghouse？ 。 。 。 anyhow； would he say； 'Ma'am； we're installing cable in your area； and for a small monthly fee…hitch you up right now…you get fifteen new channels； you get Midnight Blue； you get the all…sports and all…weather channels； you get 。 。 。 '？
And that； he suddenly realized； was it。 In front of these houses were no poles。 No wiring！ No TV antennas plicated the sky； no tall wooden poles marched the length of the Western Road； because in the Territories there was no electricity。 Which was why he had not permitted himself to identify the absent element。 Jerry Bledsoe had been； at least part of the time； Sawyer & Sloat's electrician and handyman。
5
When his father and Morgan Sloat used that name； Bledsoe； he thought he had never heard it before…though； having remembered it； he must have heard the handyman's last name once or twice。 But Jerry Bledsoe was almost always just Jerry； as it said above the pocket on his workshirt。 'Can't Jerry do something about the air…conditioning？' 'Get Jerry to oil the hinges on that door； will you？ The squeaks are driving me batshit。' And Jerry would appear； his work…clothes clean and pressed； his thinning rust…red hair bed flat； his glasses round and earnest； and quietly fix whatever was wrong。 There was a Mrs。 Jerry； who kept the creases sharp and clean in the tan workpants； and several small Jerrys； whom Sawyer & Sloat invariably remembered at Christmas。 Jack had been small enough to associate the name Jerry with Tom Cat's eternal adversary； and so imagined that the handyman and Mrs。 Jerry and the little Jerrys lived in a giant mouse…hole； accessible by a curved arch cut into a baseboard。
But who had killed Jerry Bledsoe？ His father and Morgan Sloat； always so sweet to the Bledsoe children at Christmas…time？
Jack stepped forward into the darkness of the Western Road； wishing that he had forgotten pletely about Sawyer & Sloat's handyman； that he had fallen asleep as soon as he had crawled behind the couch。 Sleep was what he wanted now…wanted it far more than the unfortable thoughts which that six…years…dead conversation had aroused in him。 Jack promised himself that as soon as he was sure he was at least a couple of miles past the last house； he would find someplace to sleep。 A field would do； even a ditch。 His legs did not want to move anymore； all his muscles； even his bones； seemed twice their weight。
It had been just after one of those times when Jack had wandered into some enclosed place after his father and found that Phil Sawyer had somehow contrived a disappearance。 Later； his father would manage to vanish from his bedroom； from the dining room； from the conference room at Sawyer & Sloat。 On this occasion he executed his mystifying trick in the garage beside the house on Rodeo Drive。
Jack； sitting unobserved on the little knob of raised land which was the closest thing to a hill offered by this section of Beverly Hills； saw his father leave their house by the front door； cross the lawn while digging in his pockets for money or keys； and let himself into the garage by the side door。 The white door on the right side should have swung up seconds later； but it remained stubbornly closed。 Then Jack realized that his father's car was where it had been all this Saturday morning； parked at the curb directly in front of the house。 Lily's car was gone…she'd plugged a cigarette into her mouth and announced that she was taking herself off to a screening of Dirt Track； the latest film by the director of Death's Darling； and nobody by God had better try to stop her…and so the garage was empty。 For minutes； Jack waited for something to happen。 Neither the side door nor the big front doors opened。 Eventually Jack slid down off the grassy elevation； went to the garage； and let himself in。 The wide familiar space was entirely empty。 Dark oil stains patterned the gray cement floor。 Tools hung from silver hooks set into the walls。 Jack grunted in astonishment； called out； 'Dad？' and looked at everything again； just to make sure。 This time he saw a cricket hop toward the shad