Darktower 2 - The Drawing of the Three Read online

  On the back was an eagle, the device which had decorated his own banner, in those dim days when there had still been kingdoms and banners to symbolize them.

  Time’s short. Go back. Hurry.

  But he tarried a moment longer, thinking. It was harder to think inside this head—the prisoner’s was far from clear, but it was, temporarily at least, a cleaner vessel than his own.

  To try the coin both ways was only half the experiment, wasn’t it?

  He took one of the shells from his cartridge belt and folded it over the coin in his hand.

  Roland stepped back through the door.

  5

  The prisoner’s coin was still there, firmly curled within the pocketed hand. He didn’t have to come forward to check on the shell; he knew it hadn’t made the trip.

  He came forward anyway, briefly, because there was one thing he had to know. Had to see.

  So he turned, as if to adjust the little paper thing on the back of his seat (by all the gods that ever were, there was paper everywhere in this world), and looked through the doorway. He saw his body, collapsed as before, now with a fresh trickle of blood flowing from a cut on his cheek—a stone must have done it when he left himself and crossed over.

  The cartridge he had been holding along with the coin lay at the base of the door, on the sand.

  Still, enough was answered. The prisoner could Clear the Customs. Their guards o’ the watch might search him from head to toe, from asshole to appetite, and back again.

  They’d find nothing.

  The gunslinger settled back, content, unaware, at least for the time being, that he still had not grasped the extent of his problem.

  6

  The 727 came in low and smooth over the salt marshes of Long Island, leaving sooty trails of spent fuel behind. The landing gear came down with a rumble and a thump.

  7

  3A, the man with the two-tone eyes, straightened up and Jane saw—actually saw—a snub-nosed Uzi in his hands before she realized it was nothing but his duty declaration card and a little zipper bag of the sort which men sometimes use to hold their passports.

  The plane settled like silk.

  Letting out a deep, shaking shudder, she tightened the red top on the Thermos.

  “Call me an asshole,” she said in a low voice to Susy, buckling the cross-over belts now that it was too late. She had told Susy what she suspected on the final approach, so Susy would be ready. “You have every right.”

  “No,” Susy said. “You did the right thing.”

  “I over-reacted. And dinner’s on me.”

  “Like hell it is. And don’t look at him. Look at me. Smile, Janey.”

  Jane smiled. Nodded. Wondered what in God’s name was going on now.

  “You were watching his hands,” Susy said, and laughed. Jane joined in. “I was watching what happened to his shirt when he bent over to get his bag. He’s got enough stuff under there to stock a Woolworth’s notions counter. Only I don’t think he’s carrying the kind of stuff you can buy at Woolworth’s.”

  Jane threw back her head and laughed again, feeling like a puppet. “How do we handle it?” Susy had five years’ senior­ity on her, and Jane, who only a minute ago had felt she had the situation under some desperate kind of control, now only felt glad to have Susy beside her.

  “We don’t. Tell the Captain while we’re taxiing in. The Captain speaks to customs. Your friend there gets in line like everyone else, except then he gets pulled out of line by some men who escort him to a little room. It’s going to be the first in a very long succession of little rooms for him, I think.”

  “Jesus.” Jane was smiling, but chills, alternately hot and cold, were racing through her.

  She hit the pop-release on her harness when the reverse thrusters began to wind down, handed the Thermos to Susy, then got up and rapped on the cockpit door.

  Not a terrorist but a drug-smuggler. Thank God for small favors. Yet in a way she hated it. He had been cute.

  Not much, but a little.

  8

  He still doesn’t see, the gunslinger thought with anger and dawning desperation. Gods!

  Eddie had bent to get the papers he needed for the ritual, and when he looked up the army woman was staring at him, her eyes bulging, her cheeks as white as the paper things on the backs of the seats. The silver tube with the red top, which he had at first taken for some kind of canteen, was apparently a weapon. She was holding it up between her breasts now. Roland thought that in a moment or two she would either throw it or spin off the red top and shoot him with it.

  Then she relaxed and buckled her harness even though the thump told both the gunslinger and the prisoner the aircarriage had already landed. She turned to the army woman she was sitting with and said something. The other woman laughed and nodded, but if that was a real laugh, the gun­slinger thought, he was a river-toad.

  The gunslinger wondered how the man whose mind had become temporary home for the gunslinger’s own ka, could be so stupid. Some of it was what he was putting into his body, of course … one of this world’s versions of devil-weed. Some, but not all. He was not soft and unobservant like the others, but in time he might be.

  They are as they are because they live in the light, the gunslinger thought suddenly. That light of civilization you were taught to adore above all other things. They live in a world which has not moved on.

  If this was what people became in such a world, Roland was not sure he didn’t prefer the dark. “That was before the world moved on,” people said in his own world, and it was always said in tones of bereft sadness … but it was, perhaps, sadness without thought, without consideration.

  She thought I/ he—meant to grab a weapon when I/he— bent down to get the papers. When she saw the papers she relaxed and did what everyone else did before the carriage came down to the ground again. Now she and her friend are talking and laughing but their faces—her face especially, the face of the woman with the metal tube—are not right. They are talking, all right, but they are only pretending to laugh… and that is because what they are talking about is I/ him.

  The aircarriage was now moving along what seemed a long concrete road, one of many. Mostly he watched the women, but from the edges of his vision the gunslinger could see other aircarriages moving here and there along other roads. Some lumbered; some moved with incredible speed, not like carriages at all but like projectiles fired from guns or cannons, preparing to leap into the air. As desperate as his own situation had become, part of him wanted very much to come forward and turn his head so he could see these vehicles as they leaped into the sky. They were man-made but every bit as fabulous as the stories of the Grand Featherex which had supposedly once lived in the distant (and probably mythical) kingdom of Garlan—more fabulous, perhaps, simply because these were man-made.

  The woman who had brought him the popkin unfas­tened her harness (this less than a minute since she had fas­tened it) and went forward to a small door. That’s where the driver sits, the gunslinger thought, but when the door was opened and she stepped in he saw it apparently took three drivers to operate the aircarriage, and even the brief glimpse he was afforded of what seemed like a million dials and levers and lights made him understand why.

  The prisoner was looking at all but seeing nothing—Cort would have first sneered, then driven him through the nearest wall. The prisoner’s mind was completely occupied with grabbing the bag under the seat and his light jacket from the overhead bin … and facing the ordeal of the ritual.

  The prisoner saw nothing; the gunslinger saw every­thing.

  The woman thought him a thief or a madman. He—or perhaps it was I, yes, that’s likely enough—did something to make her think that. She changed her mind, and then the other woman changed it back … only now I think they know what’s really wrong. They know he’s going to try to profane the ritual.

  Then, in a thunderclap, he saw the rest of his problem. First, it wasn’t just a matter of taking the bags i
nto his world as he had the coin; the coin hadn’t been stuck to the prisoner’s body with the glue-string the prisoner had wrapped around and around his upper body to hold the bags tight to his skin. This glue-string was only part of his problem. The prisoner hadn’t missed the temporary disappearance of one coin among many, but when he realized that whatever it was he had risked his life for was suddenly gone, he was surely going to raise the racks … and what then?

  It was more than possible that the prisoner would begin to behave in a manner so irrational that it would get him locked away in gaol as quickly as being caught in the act of profanation. The loss would be bad enough; for the bags under his arms to simply melt away to nothing would proba­bly make him think he really had gone mad.

  The aircarriage, ox-like now that it was on the ground, labored its way through a left turn. The gunslinger realized that he had no time for the luxury of further thought. He had to do more than come forward; he must make contact with Eddie Dean.

  Right now.

  9

  Eddie tucked his declaration card and passport in his breast pocket. The steel wire was now turning steadily around his guts, sinking in deeper and deeper, making his nerves spark and sizzle. And suddenly a voice spoke in his head.

  Not a thought; a voice.

  Listen to me, fellow. Listen carefully. And if you would remain safe, let your face show nothing which might further rouse the suspicions of those army women. God knows they’re suspicious enough already.

  Eddie first thought he was still wearing the airline earphones and picking up some weird transmission from the cockpit. But the airline headphones had been picked up five minutes ago.

  His second thought was that someone was standing beside him and talking. He almost snapped his head to the left, but that was absurd. Like it or not, the raw truth was that the voice had come from inside his head.

  Maybe he was receiving some sort of transmission—AM, FM, or VHF on the fillings in his teeth. He had heard of such th—

  Straighten up, maggot! They’re suspicious enough with­out you looking as if you’ve gone crazy!

  Eddie sat up fast, as if he had been whacked. That voice wasn’t Henry’s, but it was so much like Henry’s when they had been just a couple of kids growing up in the Projects, Henry eight years older, the sister who had been between them now only a ghost of memory; Selina had been struck and killed by a car when Eddie was two and Henry ten. That rasping tone of command came out whenever Henry saw him doing some­thing that might end with Eddie occupying a pine box long before his time … as Selina had.

  What in the blue fuck is going on here?

  You’re not hearing voices that aren’t there, the voice inside his head returned. No, not Henry’s voice—older, dryer … stronger. But like Henry’s voice… and impossible not to believe. That’s the first thing. You’re not going crazy. I AM another person.

  This is telepathy?

  Eddie was vaguely aware that his face was completely expressionless. He thought that, under the circumstances, that ought to qualify him for the Best Actor of the Year Academy Award. He looked out the window and saw the plane closing in on the Delta section of Kennedy’s International Arrivals Building.

  I don’t know that word. But I do know that those army women know you are carrying…

  There was a pause. A feeling—odder beyond telling—of phantom fingers rummaging through his brain as if he were a living card catalogue.

  … heroin or cocaine. I can’t tell which except—except it must be cocaine because you’re carrying the one you don’t take to buy the one you do.

  “What army women?” Eddie muttered in a low voice. He was completely unaware that he was speaking aloud. “What in the hell are you talking ab—”

  That feeling of being slapped once more… so real he felt his head ring with it.

  Shut your mouth, you damned jackass!

  All right, all right! Christ!

  Now that feeling of rummaging fingers again.

  Army stewardesses, the alien voice replied. Do you under­stand me? I have no time to con your every thought, prisoner!

  “What did you—” Eddie began, then shut his mouth. What did you call me?

  Never mind. Just listen. Time is very, very short. They know. The army stewardesses know you have this cocaine.

  How could they? That’s ridiculous!

  I don’t know how they came by their knowledge, and it doesn’t matter. One of them told the drivers. The drivers will tell whatever priests perform this ceremony, this Clearing of Customs—

  The language of the voice in his head was arcane, the terms so off-kilter they were almost cute … but the message came through loud and clear. Although his face remained expressionless, Eddie’s teeth came together with a painful click and he drew a hot little hiss in through them.

  The voice was saying the game was over. He hadn’t even gotten off the plane and the game was already over.

  But this wasn’t real. No way this could be real. It was just his mind, doing a paranoid little jig at the last minute, that was all. He would ignore it. Just ignore it and it would go awa—

  You will NOT ignore it or you will go to jail and I will die! the voice roared.

  Who in the name of God are you? Eddie asked reluctantly, fearfully, and inside his head he heard someone or something let out a deep and gusty sigh of relief.

  10

  He believes, the gunslinger thought. Thank all the gods that are or ever were, he believes!

  11

  The plane stopped. The FASTEN SEAT BELTS light went out. The jetway rolled forward and bumped against the for­ward port door with a gentle thump.

  They had arrived.

  12

  There is a place where you can put it while you perform the Clearing of Customs, the voice said. A safe place. Then, when you are away, you can get it again and take it to this man Balazar.

  People were standing up now, getting things out of the overhead bins and trying to deal with coats which were, according to the cockpit announcement, too warm to wear.

  Get your bag. Get your jacket. Then go into the privy again.

  Pr—

  Oh. Bathroom. Head.

  If they think I’ve got dope they’ll think I’m trying to dump it.

  But Eddie understood that part didn’t matter. They wouldn’t exactly break down the door, because that might scare the passengers. And they’d know you couldn’t flush two pounds of coke down an airline toilet and leave no trace. Not unless the voice was really telling the truth … that there was some safe place. But how could there be?

  Never mind, damn you! MOVE!

  Eddie moved. Because he had finally come alive to the situation. He was not seeing all Roland, with his many years and his training of mingled torture and precision, could see, but he could see the faces of the stews—the real faces, the ones behind the smiles and the helpful passing of garment bags and cartons stowed in the forward closet. He could see the way their eyes flicked to him, whiplash quick, again and again.

  He got his bag. He got his jacket. The door to the jetway had been opened, and people were already moving up the aisle. The door to the cockpit was open, and here was the Captain, also smiling… but also looking at the passengers in first class who were still getting their things together, spotting him—no, targeting him—and then looking away again, nod­ding to someone, tousling a youngster’s head.

  He was cold now. Not cold turkey, just cold. He didn’t need the voice in his head to make him cold. Cold—sometimes that was okay. You just had to be careful you didn’t get so cold you froze.

  Eddie moved forward, reached the point where a left turn would take him into the jetway—and then suddenly put his hand to his mouth.

  “I don’t feel well,” he murmured. “Excuse me.” He moved the door to the cockpit, which slightly blocked the door to the first class head, and opened the bathroom door on the right.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to exit the plane,” the pilot said
sharply as Eddie opened the bathroom door. “It’s—”

  “I believe I’m going to vomit, and I don’t want to do it on your shoes,” Eddie said, “or mine, either.”

  A second later he was in with the door locked. The Cap­tain was saying something. Eddie couldn’t make it out, didn’t want to make it out. The important thing was that it was just talk, not yelling, he had been right, no one was going to start yelling with maybe two hundred and fifty passengers still waiting to deplane from the single forward door. He was in, he was temporarily safe … but what good was it going to do him?

  If you’re there, he thought, you better do something very quick, whoever you are.

  For a terrible moment there was nothing at all. That was a short moment, but in Eddie Dean’s head it seemed to stretch out almost forever, like the Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy Henry had sometimes bought him in the summer when they were kids; if he were bad, Henry beat the shit out of him, if he were good, Henry bought him Turkish Taffy. That was the way Henry handled his heightened responsibilities during summer vacation.

  God, oh Christ, I imagined it all, oh Jesus, how crazy could I have b—

  Get ready, a grim voice said. I can’t do it alone. I can COME FORWARD but I can’t make you COME THROUGH. You have to do it with me. Turn around.

  Eddie was suddenly seeing through two pairs of eyes, feeling with two sets of nerves (but not all the nerves of this other person were here; parts of the other were gone, freshly gone, screaming with pain), sensing with ten senses, thinking with two brains, his blood beating with two hearts.

  He turned around. There was a hole in the side of the bathroom, a hole that looked like a doorway. Through it he could see a gray, grainy beach and waves the color of old athletic socks breaking upon it.