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 road by yourself, coming from nowhere, going nowhere - real targets for trouble.' His voice was like dark honey. 'Now we have here in this country what we think is a most unusual facility - state-approved and state-funded, by the way - which might have been set up expressly for the benefit of boys like yourselves. It's called the Sunlight Gardener Scripture Home for Wayward Boys. Mr. Gardener's work with young fellows in trouble has been nothing short of miraculous. We've sent him some tough cases, and in no time at all he has those boys on their knees begging Jesus for forgiveness. Now I'd say that was pretty special, wouldn't you?'
Jack swallowed. His mouth felt drier than it had been in the shed. 'Ah, sir, it's really urgent that we get to Springfield. Everybody's going to wonder - '
'I very much doubt that,' said the Judge, smiling with all his wrinkles. 'But I'll tell you what. As soon as you two wags are on your way to the Sunlight Home, I'll telephone Spring-field and try to get the number of this Helen . . . Wolf, is it? Or is it Helen Vaughan?'
'Vaughan,' Jack said, and a red-hot blush covered his face like a fever.
'Yes,' the Judge said.
Wolf shook his head, blinking, and then put a hand on Jack's shoulder.
'Coming around are you, son?' the Judge asked. 'Could you tell me your age?' Wolf blinked again, and looked at Jack.
'Sixteen,' Jack said. 'And you?'
'Twelve.'
'Oh. I would have taken you for several years older. All the more reason for seeing you get help now before you get in real deep trouble, wouldn't you say, Franky?'
'Amen,' the policeman said.
'You boys come back here in a month,' said the Judge. 'Then we'll see if your memory is any better. Why are your eyes so bloodshot?'