The Dark Tower VII

by Stephen King

  The purple dusk of that summer night deepens suddenly to full dark, then lightens up again, then deepens once more. It’s his eyes, doing the trick that so amazed the second doctor almost twenty years before, but Ted hardly notices. His attention is fixed on the fleeing man, the son of a bitch who just mugged him out of his wallet and spoiled his face in the process. He’s never been so angry in his life, never, and although the thought he sends at the fleeing man is innocuous, almost gentle

  (say buddy I would’ve given you a dollar if you’d asked maybe even two)

  it has the deadly weight of a thrown spear. And it was a spear. It takes him some time to fully accept that, but when the time comes he realizes that he’s a murderer and if there’s a God, Ted Brautigan will someday have to stand at His throne and answer for what he’s just done. The fleeing man looks like he stumbles over something, but there’s nothing there, only HARRY LOVES BELINDA printed on the cracked sidewalk in fading chalk. The sentiment is surrounded with childish doodles—stars, a comet, a crescent moon—which he will later come to fear. Ted feels like he just took a spear in the middle of the back himself, but he, at least, is still standing. And he didn’t mean it. There’s that. He knows in his heart that he didn’t mean it. He was just…surprised into anger.

  He picks up his wallet and sees the stickball kids staring at him, their mouths open. He points his wallet at them like some kind of gun with a floppy barrel, and the boy holding the sawed-off broomhandle flinches. It’s the flinch even more than the falling body that will haunt Ted’s dreams for the next year or so, and then off and on for the rest of his life. Because he likes kids, would never scare one on purpose. And he knows what they are seeing: a man with his pants mostly pulled down so his boxer shorts show (for all he knows his dingus could be hanging out of the fly front, and wouldn’t that just be the final magical touch), a wallet in his hand and a loony look on his bloody kisser.

  “You didn’t see anything!” he shouts at them. “You hear me, now! You hear me! You didn’t see anything!”

  Then he hitches up his pants. Then he goes back to his briefcase and picks it up, but not the pork chop in the brown paper sack, fuck the pork chop, he lost his appetite along with one of his incisors. Then he takes another look at the body on the sidewalk, and the frightened kids. Then he runs.

  Which turns into a career.

  Five

  The end of the second tape pulled free of the hub and made a soft fwip-fwip-fwip sound as it turned.

  “Jesus,” Susannah said. “Jesus, that poor man.”

  “So long ago,” Jake said, and shook his head as if to clear it. To him, the years between his when and Mr. Brautigan’s seemed an unbridgeable chasm.

  Eddie picked up the third box and displayed the tape inside, raising his eyebrows at Roland. The gunslinger twirled a finger in his old gesture, the one that said go on, go on.

  Eddie threaded the tape through the heads. He’d never done this before, but you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist, as the saying went. The tired voice began again, speaking from the Gingerbread House Dinky Earnshaw had made for Sheemie, a real place created from nothing more than imagination. A balcony on the side of the Dark Tower, Brautigan had called it.

  He’d killed the man (by accident, they all would have agreed; they had come to live by the gun and knew the difference between by accident and on purpose without needing to discuss the matter) around seven in the evening. By nine that night, Brautigan was on a westbound train. Three days later he was scanning the Accountants Wanted ads in the Des Moines newspaper. He knew something about himself by then, knew how careful he would have to be. He could no longer allow himself the luxury of anger even when anger was justified. Ordinarily he was just your garden-variety telepath—could tell you what you had for lunch, could tell you which card was the queen of hearts because the streetcorner sharpie running the monte-con knew—but when angry he had access to this spear, this terrible spear…

  “And just by the way, that’s not true,” said the voice from the tape recorder. “The part about being just a garden-variety telepath, I mean, and I understood that even when I was a wet-behind-the-ears kid trying to get into the Army. I just didn’t know the word for what I was.”

  The word, it turned out, was facilitator. And he later became sure that certain folks—certain talent scouts—were watching him even then, sizing him up, knowing he was different even in the subset of telepaths but not how different. For one thing, telepaths who did not come from the Keystone Earth (it was their phrase) were rare. For another, Ted had come to realize by the mid-nineteen-thirties that what he had was actually catching: if he touched a person while in a state of high emotion, that person for a short time became a telepath. What he hadn’t known then was that people who were already telepaths became stronger.

  Exponentially stronger.

  “But that’s ahead of my story,” he said.

  He moved from town to town, a hobo who rode the rods in a passenger car and wearing a suit instead of in a boxcar wearing Oshkosh biballs, never staying in one place long enough to put down roots. And in retrospect, he supposed he knew that even then he was being watched. It was an intuitive thing, or like oddities one sometimes glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye. He became aware of a certain kind of people, for instance. A few were women, most were men, and all had a taste for loud clothes, rare steak, and fast cars painted in colors as garish as their clothing. Their faces were oddly heavy and strangely inexpressive. It was a look he much later came to associate with dumbbells who’d gotten plastic surgery from quack doctors. During that same twenty-year period—but once again not consciously, only in the corner of his mind’s eye—he became aware that no matter what city he was in, those childishly simple symbols had a way of turning up on fences and stoops and sidewalks. Stars and comets, ringed planets and crescent moons. Sometimes a red eye. There was often a hopscotch grid in the same area, but not always. Later on, he said, it all fit together in a crazy sort of way, but not back in the thirties and forties and early fifties, when he was drifting. No, back then he’d been a little bit like Docs One and Two, not wanting to see what was right in front of him, because it was…disturbing.

  And then, right around the time Korea was winding down, he saw The Ad. It promised THE JOB OF A LIFETIME and said that if you were THE MAN WITH THE RIGHT QUALIFICATIONS, there would be ABSOLUTELY NO QUESTIONS ASKED. A number of required skills were enumerated, accountancy being one of them. Brautigan was sure the ad ran in newspapers all over the country; he happened to read it in the Sacramento Bee.

  “Holy crap!” Jake cried. “That’s the same paper Pere Callahan was reading when he found out his friend George Magruder—”

  “Hush,” Roland said. “Listen.”

  They listened.

  Six

  The tests are administered by humes (a term Ted Brautigan won’t know for another few weeks—not until he steps out of the year 1955 and into the no-time of the Algul). The interviewer he eventually meets in San Francisco is also a hume. Ted will learn (among a great many other things) that the disguises the low men wear, most particularly the masks they wear, are not good, not when you’re up close and personal. Up close and personal you can see the truth: they are hume/taheen hybrids who take the matter of their becoming with a religious fervor. The easiest way to find yourself wrapped in a low-man bearhug with a set of murderous low-man teeth searching for your carotid artery is to aver that the only two things they are becoming is older and uglier. The red marks on their foreheads—the Eye of the King—usually disappear when they are America-side (or dry up, like temporarily dormant pimples), and the masks take on a weird organic quality, except for behind the ears, where the hairy, tooth-scabbed underflesh shows, and inside the nostrils, where one can see dozens of little moving cilia. But who is so impolite as to look up a fellow’s snot-gutters?

  Whatever they think, up close and personal there’s something definitely wrong with them even when they’re America-side, and
no one wants to scare the new fish before the net’s properly in place. So it’s humes (an abbreviation the can-toi won’t even use; they find it demeaning, like “nigger” or “vamp”) at the exams, humes in the interview rooms, nothing but humes until later, when they go through one of the working America-side doorways and come out in Thunderclap.

  Ted is tested, along with a hundred or so others, in a gymnasium that reminds him of the one back in East Hartford. This one has been filled with rows and rows of study-hall desks (wrestling mats have been considerately laid down to keep the desks’ old-fashioned round iron bases from scratching the varnished hardwood), but after the first round of testing—a ninety-minute diagnostic full of math, English, and vocabulary questions—half of them are empty. After the second round, it’s three quarters. Round Two consists of some mighty weird questions, highly subjective questions, and in several cases Ted gives an answer in which he does not believe, because he thinks—maybe knows—that the people giving the test want a different answer from the one he (and most people) would ordinarily give. For instance, there’s this little honey:

  23. You come to a stop near an over-turned car on a little-traveled road. Trapped in the car is a Young Man crying for rescue. You ask, “Are you hurt, Young Man?” to which he responds, “I don’t think so!” In the field nearby is a Satchel filled with Money. You:

  Rescue the Young Man and give him back his Money

  Rescue the Young Man but insist that the Money be taken to the local Police

  Take the Money and go on your way, knowing that although the road may be little traveled, someone will be along eventually to free the Young Man

  None of the above

  Had this been a test for the Sacramento PD, Ted would have circled “b” in a heartbeat. He may be little more than a hobo on the road, but his mama didn’t raise no fools, thank you oh so very much. That choice would be the correct one in most circumstances, too—the play-it-safe choice, the can’t-go-wrong choice. And, as a fall-back position, the one that says “I don’t have a frigging clue what this is about but at least I’m honest enough to say so,” there’s “d.”

  Ted circles “c,” but not because that is necessarily what he’d do in that situation. On the whole he tends to think that he’d go for “a,” presuming he could at least ask the “Young Man” a few questions about where the loot came from. And if outright torture wasn’t involved (and he would know, wouldn’t he, no matter what the “Young Man” might have to say on the subject), sure, here’s your money, Vaya con Dios. And why? Because Ted Brautigan happens to believe that the owner of the defunct candystore had a point: THEIR KILLING THE LITTLE MAN.

  But he circles “c,” and five days later he finds himself in the ante-room of an out-of-business dance studio in San Francisco (his train-fare from Sacramento prepaid), along with three other men and a sullen-looking teenage girl (the girl’s the former Tanya Leeds of Bryce, Colorado, as it turns out). Better than four hundred people showed up for the test in the gym, lured by the honeypot ad. Goats, for the most part. Here, however, are four sheep. One per cent. And even this, as Brautigan will discover in the full course of time, is an amazing catch.

  Eventually he is shown into an office marked PRIVATE. It is mostly filled with dusty ballet stuff. A broad-shouldered, hard-faced man in a brown suit sits in a folding chair, incongruously surrounded by filmy pink tutus. Ted thinks, A real toad in an imaginary garden.

  The man sits forward, arms on his elephantine thighs. “Mr. Brautigan,” he says, “I may or may not be a toad, but I can offer you the job of a lifetime. I can also send you out of here with a handshake and a much-obliged. It depends on the answer to one question. A question about a question, in fact.”

  The man, whose name turns out to be Frank Armitage, hands Ted a sheet of paper. On it, blown up, is Question 23, the one about the Young Man and the Satchel of Money.

  “You circled ‘c,’ ” Frank Armitage says. “So now, with absolutely no hesitation whatever, please tell me why.”

  “Because ‘c’ was what you wanted,” Ted replies with absolutely no hesitation whatever.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I’m a telepath,” Ted says. “And that’s what you’re really looking for.” He tries to keep his poker face and thinks he succeeds pretty well, but inside he’s filled with a great and singing relief. Because he’s found a job? No. Because they’ll shortly make him an offer that would make the prizes on the new TV quiz shows look tame? No.

  Because someone finally wants what he can do.

  Because someone finally wants him.

  Seven

  The job offer turned out to be another honeypot, but Brautigan was honest enough in his taped memoir to say he might have gone along even if he’d known the truth.

  “Because talent won’t be quiet, doesn’t know how to be quiet,” he said. “Whether it’s a talent for safe-cracking, thought-reading, or dividing ten-digit numbers in your head, it screams to be used. It never shuts up. It’ll wake you in the middle of your tiredest night, screaming, ‘Use me, use me, use me! I’m tired of just sitting here! Use me, fuckhead, use me!’ ”

  Jake broke into a roar of pre-adolescent laughter. He covered his mouth but kept laughing through his hands. Oy looked up at him, those black eyes with the gold wedding rings floating in them, grinning fiendishly.

  There in the room filled with the frilly pink tutus, his fedora hat cocked back on his crewcut head, Armitage asked if Ted had ever heard of “the South American Seabees.” When Ted replied that he hadn’t, Armitage told him that a consortium of wealthy South American businessmen, mostly Brazilian, had hired a bunch of American engineers, construction workers, and roughnecks in 1946. Over a hundred in all. These were the South American Seabees. The consortium hired them all for a four-year period, and at different pay-grades, but the pay was extremely generous—almost embarrassingly so—at all grades. A ’dozer operator might sign a contract for $20,000 a year, for instance, which was tall tickets in those days. But there was more: a bonus equal to one year’s pay. A total of $100,000. If, that was, the fellow would agree to one unusual condition: you go, you work, and you don’t come back until the four years are up or the work is done. You got two days off every week, just like in America, and you got a vacation every year, just like in America, but in the pampas. You couldn’t go back to North America (or even Rio) until your four-year hitch was over. If you died in South America, you got planted there—no one was going to pay to have your body shipped back to Wilkes-Barre. But you got fifty grand up front, and a sixty-day grace period during which you could spend it, save it, invest it, or ride it like a pony. If you chose investment, that fifty grand might be seventy-five when you came waltzing out of the jungle with a bone-deep tan, a whole new set of muscles, and a lifetime of stories to tell. And, of course, once you were out you had what the limeys liked to call “the other half” to put on top of it.

  This was like that, Armitage told Ted earnestly. Only the front half would be a cool quarter of a million and the back end half a million.

  “Which sounded incredible,” Ted said from the Wollensak. “Of course it did, by jiminy. I didn’t find out until later how incredibly cheap they were buying us, even at those prices. Dinky is particularly eloquent on the subject of their stinginess…‘they’ in this case being all the King’s bureaucrats. He says the Crimson King is trying to bring about the end of all creation on the budget plan, and of course he’s right, but I think even Dinky realizes—although he won’t admit it, of course—that if you offer a man too much, he simply refuses to believe it. Or, depending on his imagination (many telepaths and precogs have almost no imagination at all), be unable to believe it. In our case the period of indenture was to be six years, with an option to renew, and Armitage needed my decision immediately. Few techniques are so successful, lady and gentlemen, as the one where you boggle your target’s mind, freeze him with greed, then blitz him.

  “I was duly blitzed, and agr
eed at once. Armitage told me that my quarter-mil would be in the Seaman’s San Francisco Bank as of that afternoon, and I could draw on it as soon as I got down there. I asked him if I had to sign a contract. He reached out one of his hands—big as a ham, it was—and told me that was our contract. I asked him where I’d be going and what I’d be doing—all questions I should have asked first, I’m sure you’d agree, but I was so stunned it never crossed my mind.

  “Besides, I was pretty sure I knew. I thought I’d be working for the government. Some kind of Cold War deal. The telepathic branch of the CIA or FBI, set up on an island in the Pacific. I remember thinking it would make one hell of a radio play.

  “Armitage told me, ‘You’ll be traveling far, Ted, but it will also be right next door. And for the time being, that’s all I can say. Except to keep your mouth shut about our arrangement during the eight weeks before you actually…mmm…ship out. Remember that loose lips sink ships. At the risk of inculcating you with paranoia, assume that you are being watched.’