The Drawing of the Three [The Dark Tower II]

by Stephen King

  Listen, the gunslinger told him. I only have time to say this—and everything else—once. My time has grown very short. If you don’t answer my question, I am going to put your right thumb into your right eye. I’ll jam it in as far as it will go, and then I’ll pull your eyeball right out of your head and wipe it on the seat of this carriage like a booger. I can get along with one eye just fine. And, after all, it isn’t as if it were mine.

  He could no more have lied to Mort than Mort could have lied to him; the nature of their relationship was cold and reluctant on both their parts, yet it was much more intimate than the most passionate act of sexual intercourse would have been. This was, after all, not a joining of bodies but the ultimate meeting of minds.

  He meant exactly what he said.

  And Mort knew it.

  The hysterics stopped abruptly. I can drive it, Mort said. It was the first sensible communication Roland had gotten from Mort since he had arrived inside the man’s head.

  Then do it.

  Where do you want me to go?

  Do you know a place called “The Village”?

  Yes.

  Go there.

  Where in the Village?

  For now, just drive.

  We’ll be able to go faster if I use the siren.

  Fine. Turn it on. Those flashing lights, too.

  For the first time since he had seized control of him, Roland pulled back a little and allowed Mort to take over. When Mort’s head turned to inspect the dashboard of Delevan’s and O’Mearah’s blue-and-white, Roland watched it turn but did not initiate the action. But if he had been a physical being instead of only his own disembodied ka, he would have been standing on the balls of his feet, ready to leap forward and take control again at the slightest sign of mutiny.

  There was none, though. This man had killed and maimed God knew how many innocent people, but he had no intention of losing one of his own precious eyes. He flicked switches, pulled a lever, and suddenly they were in motion. The siren whined and the gunslinger saw red pulses of light kicking off the front of the carriage.

  Drive fast, the gunslinger commanded grimly.

  9

  In spite of lights and siren and Jack Mort beating steadily on the horn, it took them twenty minutes to reach Greenwich Village in rush-hour traffic. In the gunslinger’s world Eddie Dean’s hopes were crumbling like dykes in a downpour. Soon they would collapse altogether.

  The sea had eaten half the sun.

  Well, Jack Mort said, we’re here. He was telling the truth (there was no way he could lie) although to Roland everything here looked just as it had everywhere else: a choke of buildings, people, and carriages. The carriages choked not only the streets but the air itself—with their endless clamor and their noxious fumes. It came, he supposed, from whatever fuel it was they burned. It was a wonder these people could live at all, or the women give birth to children that were not monsters, like the Slow Mutants under the mountains.

  Now where do we go? Mort was asking.

  This would be the hard part. The gunslinger got ready—as ready as he could, at any rate.

  Turn off the siren and the lights. Stop by the sidewalk.

  Mort pulled the cruiser up beside a fire hydrant.

  There are underground railways in this city, the gunslinger said. I want you to take me to a station where these trains stop to let passengers on and off.

  Which one? Mort asked. The thought was tinged with the mental color of panic. Mort could hide nothing from Roland, and Roland nothing from Mort—not, at least, for very long.

  Some years ago—I don’t know how many—you pushed a young woman in front of a train in one of those underground stations. That’s the one I want you to take me to.

  There ensued a short, violent struggle. The gunslinger won, but it was a surprisingly hard go. In his way, Jack Mort was as divided as Odetta. He was not a schizophrenic as she was; he knew well enough what he did from time to time. But he kept his secret self—the part of him that was The Pusher—as carefully locked away as an embezzler might lock away his secret skim.

  Take me there, you bastard, the gunslinger repeated. He slowly raised the thumb toward Mort’s right eye again. It was less than half an inch away and still moving when he gave in.

  Mort’s right hand moved the lever by the wheel again and they rolled toward the Christopher Street station where that fabled A-train had cut off the legs of a woman named Odetta Holmes some three years before.

  10

  “Well looky there,” foot patrolman Andrew Staunton said to his partner, Norris Weaver, as Delevan’s and O’Mearah’s blue-and-white came to a stop halfway down the block. There were no parking spaces, and the driver made no effort to find one. He simply double-parked and let the clog of traffic behind him inch its laborious way through the loophole remaining, like a trickle of blood trying to serve a heart hopelessly clogged with cholesterol.

  Weaver checked the numbers on the side by the right front headlight. 744. Yes, that was the number they’d gotten from dispatch, all right.

  The flashers were on and everything looked kosher—until the door opened and the driver stepped out. He was wearing a blue suit, all right, but not the kind that came with gold buttons and silver badge. His shoes weren’t police issue either, unless Staunton and Weaver had missed a memo notifying officers that duty footwear would henceforth come from Gucci. That didn’t seem likely. What seemed likely was that this was the creep who had hijacked the cops uptown. He got out oblivious to the honkings and cries of protest from the drivers trying to get by him.

  “Goddam,” Andy Staunton breathed.

  Approach with extreme caution, the dispatcher had said. This man is armed and extremely dangerous. Dispatchers usually sounded like the most bored human beings on earth—for all Andy Staunton knew, they were—and so the almost awed emphasis this one put on the word extremely had stuck to his consciousness like a burr.

  He drew his weapon for the first time in his four years on the force, and glanced at Weaver. Weaver had also drawn. The two of them were standing outside a deli about thirty feet from the IRT stairway. They had known each other long enough to be attuned to each other in a way only cops and professional soldiers can be. Without a word between them they stepped back into the doorway of the delicatessen, weapons pointing upward.

  “Subway?” Weaver asked.

  “Yeah.” Andy took one quick glance at the entrance. Rush hour was in high gear now, and the subway stairs were clogged with people heading for their trains. “We’ve got to take him right now, before he can get close to the crowd.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They stepped out of the doorway in perfect tandem, gunslingers Roland would have recognized at once as adversaries much more dangerous than the first two. They were younger, for one thing; and although he didn’t know it, some unknown dispatcher had labelled him extremely dangerous, and to Andy Staunton and Norris Weaver, that made him the equivalent of a rogue tiger. If he doesn’t stop the second I tell him to, he’s dead, Andy thought.

  “Hold it!” he screamed, dropping into a crouch with his gun held out before him in both hands. Beside him, Weaver had done the same.

  “Police! Get your hands on your he—”

  That was as far as he got before the guy ran for the IRT stairway. He moved with a sudden speed that was uncanny. Nevertheless, Andy Staunton was wired, all his dials turned up to the max. He swivelled on his heels, feeling a cloak of emotionless coldness drop over him—Roland would have known this, too. He had felt it many times in similar situations.

  Andy led the running figure slightly, then squeezed the trigger of his .38. He saw the man in the blue suit spin around, trying to keep his feet. Then he fell to the pavement as commuters who, only seconds ago, had been concentrating on nothing but surviving another trip home on the subway, screamed and scattered like quail. They had discovered there was more to survive than the uptown train this afternoon.

  “Holy fuck, partner,” Norr
is Wheaton breathed, “you blew him away.”

  “I know,” Andy said. His voice didn’t falter. The gunslinger would have admired it. “Let’s go see who he was.”

  11

  I’m dead! Jack Mort was screaming. I’m dead, you’ve gotten me killed, I’m dead, I’m—

  No, the gunslinger responded. Through slitted eyes he saw the cops approaching, guns still out. Younger and faster than the ones who had been parked near the gun-shop. Faster. And at least one of them was a hell of a shot. Mort—and Roland along with him—should have been dead, dying, or seriously wounded. Andy Staunton had shot to kill, and his bullet had drilled through the left lapel of Mort’s suitcoat. It had likewise punched through the pocket of Mort’s Arrow shirt—but that was as far as it went. The life of both men, the one inside and the one outside, were saved by Mort’s lighter.

  Mort didn’t smoke, but his boss—whose job Mort had confidently expected to have himself by this time next year—did. Accordingly, Mort had bought a two hundred dollar silver lighter at Dunhill’s. He did not light every cigarette Mr. Framingham stuck in his gob when the two of them were together—that would have made him look too much like an ass-kisser. Just once in awhile . . . and usually when someone even higher up was present, someone who could appreciate a) Jack Mort’s quiet courtesy, and b) Jack Mort’s good taste.

  Do Bees covered all the bases.

  This time covering the bases saved his life and Roland’s. Staunton’s bullet smashed the silver lighter instead of Mort’s heart (which was generic; Mort’s passion for brand names—good brand names—stopped mercifully at the skin).

  He was hurt just the same, of course. When you were hit by a heavy-caliber slug, there was no such thing as a free ride. The lighter was driven against his chest hard enough to create a hollow. It flattened and then smashed apart, digging shallow grooves in Mort’s skin; one sliver of shrapnel sliced Mort’s left nipple almost in two. The hot slug also ignited the lighter’s fluid-soaking batting. Nevertheless, the gunslinger lay still as they approached. The one who had not shot him was telling people to stay back, just stay back, goddammit.

  I’m on fire! Mort shrieked. I’m on fire, put it out! Put it out! PUT IT OWWWWWW—

  The gunslinger lay still, listening to the grit of the gunslingers’ shoes on the pavement, ignoring Mort’s shrieks, trying to ignore the coal suddenly glowing against his chest and the smell of frying flesh.

  A foot slid beneath his ribcage, and when it lifted, the gunslinger allowed himself to roll boneless onto his back. Jack Mort’s eyes were open. His face was slack. In spite of the shattered, burning remains of the lighter, there was no sign of the man screaming inside.

  “God,” someone muttered, “did you shoot him with a tracer, man?”

  Smoke was rising from the hole in the lapel of Mort’s coat in a neat little stream. It was escaping around the edge of the lapel in more untidy blotches. The cops could smell burning flesh as the wadding in the smashed lighter, soaked with Ronson lighter fluid, really began to blaze.

  Andy Staunton, who had performed faultlessly thus far, now made his only mistake, one for which Cort would have sent him home with a fat ear in spite of his earlier admirable performance, telling him one mistake was all it took to get a man killed most of the time. Staunton had been able to shoot the guy—a thing no cop really knows if he can do until he’s faced with a situation where he must find out—but the idea that his bullet had somehow set the guy on fire filled him with unreasoning horror. So he bent forward to put it out without thinking, and the gunslinger’s feet smashed into his belly before he had time to do more than register the blaze of awareness in eyes he would have sworn were dead.

  Staunton went flailing back into his partner. His pistol flew from his hand. Wheaton held onto his own, but by the time he had gotten clear of Staunton, he heard a shot and his gun was magically gone. The hand it had been in felt numb, as if it had been struck with a very large hammer.

  The guy in the blue suit got up, looked at them for a moment and said, “You’re good. Better than the others. So let me advise you. Don’t follow. This is almost over. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

  Then he whirled and ran for the subway stairs.

  12

  The stairs were choked with people who had reversed their downward course when the yelling and shooting started, obsessed with that morbid and somehow unique New Yorkers’ curiosity to see how bad, how many, how much blood spilled on the dirty concrete. Yet somehow they still found a way to shrink back from the man in the blue suit who came plunging down the stairs. It wasn’t much wonder. He was holding a gun, and another was strapped around his waist.

  Also, he appeared to be on fire.

  13

  Roland ignored Mort’s increasing shrieks of pain as his shirt, undershirt, and jacket began to burn more briskly, as the silver of the lighter began to melt and run down his midsection to his belly in burning tracks.

  He could smell dirty moving air, could hear the roar of an oncoming train.

  This was almost the time; the moment had almost come around, the moment when he would draw the three or lose it all. For the second time he seemed to feel worlds tremble and reel about his head.

  He reached the platform level and tossed the .38 aside. He unbuckled Jack Mort’s pants and pushed them casually down, revealing a pair of white underdrawers like a whore’s panties. He had no time to reflect on this oddity. If he did not move fast, he could stop worrying about burning alive; the bullets he had purchased would get hot enough to go off and this body would simply explode.

  The gunslinger stuffed the boxes of bullets into the underdrawers, took out the bottle of Keflex, and did the same with it. Now the underdrawers bulged grotesquely. He stripped off the flaming suit-jacket, but made no effort to take off the flaming shirt.

  He could hear the train roaring toward the platform, could see its light. He had no way of knowing it was a train which kept the same route as the one which had run over Odetta, but all the same he did know. In matters of the Tower, fate became a thing as merciful as the lighter which had saved his life and as painful as the fire the miracle had ignited. Like the wheels of the oncoming train, it followed a course both logical and crushingly brutal, a course against which only steel and sweetness could stand.

  He hoicked up Mort’s pants and began to run again, barely aware of the people scattering out of his way. As more air fed the fire, first his shirt collar and then his hair began to burn. The heavy boxes in Mort’s underdrawers slammed against his balls again and again, mashing them; excruciating pain rose into his gut. He jumped the turnstile, a man who was becoming a meteor. Put me out! Mort screamed. Put me out before I burn up!

  You ought to burn, the gunslinger thought grimly. What’s going to happen to you is more merciful than you deserve.

  What do you mean? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

  The gunslinger didn’t answer; in fact turned him off entirely as he pelted toward the edge of the platform. He felt one of the boxes of shells trying to slip out of Mort’s ridiculous panties and held it with one hand.

  He sent out every bit of his mental force toward the Lady. He had no idea if such a telepathic command could be heard, or if the hearer could be compelled to obey, but he sent it just the same, a swift, sharp arrow of thought:

  THE DOOR! LOOK THROUGH THE DOOR! NOW! NOW!

  Train-thunder filled the world. A woman screamed “Oh my God he’s going to jump!” A hand slapped at his shoulder trying to pull him back. Then Roland pushed the body of Jack Mort past the yellow warning line and dove over the edge of the platform. He fell into the path of the oncoming train with his hands cupping his crotch, holding the luggage he would bring back . . . if, that was, he was fast enough to get out of Mort at just the right instant. As he fell he called her—them—again:

  ODETTA HOLMES! DETTA WALKER! LOOK NOW!

  As he called, as the train bore down upon him, its wheels turning with merciless silver speed, the gunslinger finally tu
rned his head and looked back through the door.

  And directly into her face.

  Faces!

  Both of them, I see both of them at the same time—

  NOO—! Mort shrieked, and in the last split second before the train ran him down, cutting him in two not above the knees but at the waist, Roland lunged at the door . . . and through it.

  Jack Mort died alone.

  The boxes of ammunition and the bottle of pills appeared beside Roland’s physical body. His hands clenched spasmodically at them, then relaxed. The gunslinger forced himself up, aware that he was wearing his sick, throbbing body again, aware that Eddie Dean was screaming, aware that Odetta was shrieking in two voices. He looked—only for a moment—and saw exactly what he had heard: not one woman but two. Both were legless, both dark-skinned, both women of great beauty. Nonetheless, one of them was a hag, her interior ugliness not hidden by her outer beauty but enhanced by it.

  Roland stared at these twins who were not really twins at all but negative and positive images of the same woman. He stared with a feverish, hypnotic intensity.

  Then Eddie screamed again and the gunslinger saw the lobstrosities tumbling out of the waves and strutting toward the place where Detta had left him, trussed and helpless.

  The sun was down. Darkness had come.

  14

  Detta saw herself in the doorway, saw herself through her eyes, saw herself through the gunslinger’s eyes, and her sense of dislocation was as sudden as Eddie’s, but much more violent.

  She was here.

  She was there, in the gunslinger’s eyes.

  She heard the oncoming train.