Darktower 2 - The Drawing of the Three

by Stephen King

He could hear the waves.

  He could smell salt, a smell as bitter as tears in his nose.

  Go through.

  Someone was thumping on the door to the bathroom, telling him to come out, that he must deplane at once.

  Go through, damn you!

  Eddie, moaning, stepped toward the doorway … stum­bled … and fell into another world.

  13

  He got slowly to his feet, aware that he had cut his right palm on an edge of shell. He looked stupidly at the blood welling across his lifeline, then saw another man rising slowly to his feet on his right.

  Eddie recoiled, his feelings of disorientation and dreamy dislocation suddenly supplanted by sharp terror: this man was dead and didn’t know it. His face was gaunt, the skin stretched over the bones of his face like strips of cloth wound around slim angles of metal almost to the point where the cloth must tear itself open. The man’s skin was livid save for hectic spots of red high on each cheekbone, on the neck below the angle of jaw on either side, and a single circular mark between the eyes like a child’s effort to replicate a Hindu caste symbol.

  Yet his eyes—blue, steady, sane—were alive and full of terrible and tenacious vitality. He wore dark clothes of some homespun material; the shirt, its sleeves rolled up, was a black faded almost to gray, the pants something that looked like bluejeans. Gunbelts crisscrossed his hips, but the loops were almost all empty. The holsters held guns that looked like .45s—but .45s of an incredibly antique vintage. The smooth wood of their handgrips seemed to glow with their own inner light.

  Eddie, who didn’t know he had any intention of speak­ing—anything to say—heard himself saying something never­theless. “Are you a ghost?”

  “Not yet,” the man with the guns croaked. “The devil-weed. Cocaine. Whatever you call it. Take off your shirt.”

  “Your arms—” Eddie had seen them. The arms of the man who looked like the extravagant sort of gunslinger one would only see in a spaghetti western were glowing with lines of bright, baleful red. Eddie knew well enough what lines like that meant. They meant blood-poisoning. They meant the devil was doing more than breathing up your ass; he was already crawling up the sewers that led to your pumps.

  “Never mind my fucking arms!” the pallid apparition told him. “Take off your shirt and get rid of it!”

  He heard waves; he heard the lonely hoot of a wind that knew no obstruction; he saw this mad dying man and nothing else but desolation; yet from behind him he heard the mur­muring voices of deplaning passengers and a steady muffled pounding.

  “Mr. Dean!” That voice, he thought, is in another world. Not really doubting it; just trying to pound it through his head the way you’d pound a nail through a thick piece of mahogany. “You’ll really have to—”

  “You can leave it, pick it up later,” the gunslinger croaked. “Gods, don’t you understand I have to talk here? It hurts! And there is no time, you idiot!”

  There were men Eddie would have killed for using such a word … but he had an idea that he might have a job killing this man, even though the man looked like killing might do him good.

  Yet he sensed the truth in those blue eyes; all questions were canceled in their mad glare.

  Eddie began to unbutton his shirt. His first impulse was to simply tear it off, like Clark Kent while Lois Lane was tied to a railroad track or something, but that was no good in real life; sooner or later you had to explain those missing buttons. So he slipped them through the loops while the pounding behind him went on.

  He yanked the shirt out of his jeans, pulled it off, and dropped it, revealing the strapping tape across his chest. He looked like a man in the last stages of recovery from badly fractured ribs.

  He snapped a glance behind him and saw an open door … its bottom jamb had dragged a fan shape in the gray grit of the beach when someone—the dying man, presumably—had opened it. Through the doorway he saw the first-class head, the basin, the mirror… and in it his own desperate face, black hair spilled across his brow and over his hazel eyes. In the background he saw the gunslinger, the beach, and soaring seabirds that screeched and squabbled over God knew what.

  He pawed at the tape, wondering how to start, how to find a loose end, and a dazed sort of hopelessness settled over him. This was the way a deer or a rabbit must feel when it got halfway across a country road and turned its head only to be fixated by the oncoming glare of headlights.

  It had taken William Wilson, the man whose name Poe had made famous, twenty minutes to strap him up. They would have the door to the first-class bathroom open in five, seven at most.

  “I can’t get this shit off,” he told the swaying man in front of him. “I don’t know who you are or where I am, but I’m telling you there’s too much tape and too little time.”

  14

  Deere, the co-pilot, suggested Captain McDonald ought to lay off pounding on the door when McDonald, in his frustration at 3A’s lack of response, began to do so.

  “Where’s he going to go?” Deere asked. “What’s he going to do? Flush himself down the John? He’s too big.”

  “But if he’s carrying—” McDonald began.

  Deere, who had himself used cocaine on more than a few occasions, said: “If he’s carrying, he’s carrying heavy. He can’t get rid of it.”

  “Turn off the water,” McDonald snapped suddenly.

  “Already have,” the navigator (who had also tooted more than his flute on occasion) said. “But I don’t think it matters. You can dissolve what goes into the holding tanks but you can’t make it not there.” They were clustered around the bathroom door, with its OCCUPIED sign glowing jeerily, all of them speaking in low tones. “The DEA guys drain it, draw off a sample, and the guy’s hung.”

  “He could always say someone came in before him and dumped it,” McDonald replied. His voice was gaining a raw edge. He didn’t want to be talking about this; he wanted to be doing something about it, even though he was acutely aware that the geese were still filing out, many looking with more than ordinary curiosity at the flight-deck crew and steward­esses gathered around the bathroom door. For their part, the crew were acutely aware that an act that was—well, overly overt—could provoke the terrorist boogeyman that now lurked in the back of every air-traveler’s mind. McDonald knew his navigator and flight engineer were right, he knew that the stuff was apt to be in plastic bags with the scuzzball’s prints on them, and yet he felt alarm bells going off in his mind. Something was not right about this. Something inside of him kept screaming Fast one! Fast one! as if the fellow from 3A were a riverboat gambler with palmed aces he was all ready to play.

  “He’s not trying to flush the John,” Susy Douglas said. “He’s not even trying to run the basin faucets. We’d hear them sucking air if he was. I hear something, but—”

  “Leave,” McDonald said curtly. His eyes flicked to Jane Doming. “You too. We’ll take care of this.”

  Jane turned to go, cheeks burning.

  Susy said quietly: “Jane bird-dogged him and I spotted the bulges under his shirt. I think we’ll stay, Captain McDon­ald. If you want to bring charges of insubordination, you can. But I want you to remember that you may be raping the hell out of what could be a really big DEA bust.”

  Their eyes locked, flint sparking off steel.

  Susy said, “I’ve flown with you seventy, eighty times, Mac. I’m trying to be your friend.”

  McDonald looked at her a moment longer, then nodded. “Stay, then. But I want both of you back a step toward the cockpit.”

  He stood on his toes, looked back, and saw the end of the line now just emerging from tourist class into business. Two minutes, maybe three.

  He turned to the gate agent at the mouth of the hatch, who was watching them closely. He must have sensed some sort of problem, because he had unholstered his walkie-talkie and was holding it in his hand.

  “Tell him I want customs agents up here,” McDonald said quietly to the navigator. “Three or four. Armed. Now.�
�

  The navigator made his way through the line of pas­sengers, excusing himself with an easy grin, and spoke quietly to the gate agent, who raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke quietly into it.

  McDonald—who had never put anything stronger than aspirin into his system in his entire life and that only rarely— turned to Deere. His lips were pressed into a thin white line like a scar.

  “As soon as the last of the passengers are off, we’re break­ing that shithouse door open,” he said. “I don’t care if Cus­toms is here or not. Do you understand?”

  “Roger,” Deere said, and watched the tail of the line make its way into first class.

  15

  “Get my knife,” the gunslinger said. “It’s in my purse.”

  He gestured toward a cracked leather bag lying on the sand. It looked more like a big packsack than a purse, the kind of thing you expected to see hippies carrying as they made their way along the Appalachian Trail, getting high on nature (and maybe a bomber joint every now and then), except this looked like the real thing, not just a prop for some airhead’s self-image; something that had done years and years of hard— maybe desperate—travelling.

  Gestured, but did not point. Couldn’t point. Eddie realized why the man had a swatch of dirty shirting wrapped around his right hand: some of his fingers were gone.

  “Get it,” he said. “Cut through the tape. Try not to cut yourself. It’s easy to do. You’ll have to be careful, but you’ll have to move fast just the same. There isn’t much time.”

  “I know that,” Eddie said, and knelt on the sand. None of this was real. That was it, that was the answer. As Henry Dean, the great sage and eminent junkie would have put it, Flip-flop, hippety-hop, offa your rocker and over the top, life’s a fiction and the world’s a lie, so put on some Creedence and let’s get high.

  None of it was real, it was all just an extraordinarily vivid nodder, so the best thing was just to ride low and go with the flow.

  It sure was a vivid nodder. He was reaching for the zipper—or maybe it would be a velcro strip—on the man’s “purse” when he saw it was held together by a crisscross pattern of rawhide thongs, some of which had broken and been carefully reknotted—reknotted small enough so they would still slide through the grommetted eyelets.

  Eddie pulled the drag-knot at the top, spread the bag’s opening, and found the knife beneath a slightly damp package that was the piece of shirting tied around the bullets. Just the handle was enough to take his breath away … it was the true mellow gray-white of pure silver, engraved with a complex series of patterns that caught the eye, drew it—

  Pain exploded in his ear, roared across his head, and momentarily puffed a red cloud across his vision. He fell clumsily over the open purse, struck the sand, and looked up at the pale man in the cut-down boots. This was no nodder. The blue eyes blazing from that dying face were the eyes of all truth.

  “Admire it later, prisoner,” the gunslinger said. “For now just use it.”

  He could feel his ear throbbing, swelling.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Cut the tape,” the gunslinger said grimly. “If they break into yon privy while you’re still over here, I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be here for a very long time. And with a corpse for company before long.”

  Eddie pulled the knife out of the scabbard. Not old; more than old, more than ancient. The blade, honed almost to the point of invisibility, seemed to be all age caught in metal.

  “Yeah, it looks sharp,” he said, and his voice wasn’t steady.

  16

  The last passengers were filing out into the jetway. One of them, a lady of some seventy summers with that exquisite look of confusion which only first-time fliers with too many years or too little English seem capable of wearing, stopped to show Jane Doming her tickets. “How will I ever find my plane to Montreal?” she asked. “And what about my bags? Do they do my Customs here or there?”

  “There will be a gate agent at the top of the jetway who can give you all the information you need, ma’am,” Jane said.

  “Well, I don’t see why you can’t give me all the informa­tion I need,” the old woman said. “That jetway thing is still full of people.”

  “Move on, please, madam,” Captain McDonald said. “We have a problem.”

  “Well, pardon me for living,” the old woman said huffily, “I guess I just fell off the hearse!”

  And strode past them, nose tilted like the nose of a dog scenting a fire still some distance away, totebag clutched in one hand, ticket-folder (with so many boarding-pass stubs sticking out of it that one might have been tempted to believe the lady had come most of the way around the globe, changing planes at every stop along the way) in the other.

  “There’s a lady who may never fly Delta’s big jets again,” Susy murmured.

  “I don’t give a fuck if she flies stuffed down the front of Superman’s Jockies,” McDonald said. “She the last?”

  Jane darted past them, glanced at the seats in business class, then poked her head into the main cabin. It was deserted.

  She came back and reported the plane empty.

  McDonald turned to the jetway and saw two uniformed Customs agents fighting their way through the crowd, excus­ing themselves but not bothering to look back at the people they jostled aside. The last of these was the old lady, who dropped her ticket-folder. Papers flew and fluttered every­where and she shrilled after them like an angry crow.

  “Okay,” McDonald said, “you guys stop right there.”

  “Sir, we’re Federal Customs officers—”

  “That’s right, and I requested you, and I’m glad you came so fast. Now you just stand right there because this is my plane and that guy in there is one of my geese. Once he’s off the plane and into the jetway, he’s your goose and you can cook him any way you want.” He nodded to Deere. “I’m going to give the son of a bitch one more chance and then we’re going to break the door in.”

  “Okay by me,” Deere said.

  McDonald whacked on the bathroom door with the heel of his hand and yelled, “Come on out, my friend! I’m done asking!”

  There was no answer.

  “Okay,” McDonald said. “Let’s do it.”

  17

  Dimly, Eddie heard an old woman say: “Well, pardon me for living! I guess I just fell off the hearse!”

  He had parted half the strapping tape. When the old woman spoke his hand jerked a little and he saw a trickle of blood run down his belly.

  “Shit,” Eddie said.

  “It can’t be helped now,” the gunslinger said in his hoarse voice. “Finish the job. Or does the sight of blood make you sick?”

  “Only when it’s my own,” Eddie said. The tape had started just above his belly. The higher he cut the harder it got to see. He got another three inches or so, and almost cut himself again when he heard McDonald speaking to the Cus­toms agents: “Okay, you guys stop right there.”

  “I can finish and maybe cut myself wide open or you can try,” Eddie said. “I can’t see what I’m doing. My fucking chin’s in the way.”

  The gunslinger took the knife in his left hand. The hand was shaking. Watching that blade, honed to a suicidal sharp­ness, shaking like that made Eddie extremely nervous.

  “Maybe I better chance it mys—”

  “Wait.”

  The gunslinger stared fixedly at his left hand. Eddie didn’t exactly disbelieve in telepathy, but he had never exactly believed in it, either. Nevertheless, he felt something now, something as real and palpable as heat baking out of an oven. After a few seconds he realized what it was: the gathering of this strange man’s will.

  How the hell can he be dying if I can feel the force of him that strongly?

  The shaking hand began to steady down. Soon it was barely shivering. After no more than ten seconds it was as solid as a rock.

  “Now,” the gunslinger said. He took a step forward, raised the knife, and Edd
ie felt something else baking off him—rancid fever.

  “Are you left-handed?” Eddie asked.

  “No,” the gunslinger said.

  “Oh Jesus,” Eddie said, and decided he might feel better if he closed his eyes for a moment. He heard the harsh whisper of the masking tape parting.

  “There,” the gunslinger said, stepping back. “Now pull it off as far as you can. I’ll get the back.”

  No polite little knocks on the bathroom door now; this was a hammering fist. The passengers are out, Eddie thought. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Oh shit.

  “Come on out, my friend! I’m done asking!”

  “Yank it!” the gunslinger growled.

  Eddie grabbed a thick tab of strapping tape in each hand and yanked as hard as he could. It hurt, hurt like hell. Stop bellyaching, he thought. Things could be worse. You could be hairy-chested, like Henry.

  He looked down and saw a red band of irritated skin about seven inches wide across his sternum. Just above the solar plexus was the place where he had poked himself. Blood welled in a dimple and ran down to his navel in a scarlet runnel. Beneath his armpits, the bags of dope now dangled like badly tied saddlebags.

  “Okay,” the muffled voice beyond the bathroom door said to someone else. “Let’s d—”

  Eddie lost the rest of it in the unexpected riptide of pain across his back as the gunslinger unceremoniously tore the rest of the girdle from him.

  He bit down against a scream.

  “Put your shirt on,” the gunslinger said. His face, which Eddie had thought as pallid as the face of a living man could become, was now the color of ancient ashes. He held the girdle of tape (now sticking to itself in a meaningless tangle, the big bags of white stuff looking like strange cocoons) in his left hand, then tossed it aside. Eddie saw fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandage on the gunslinger’s right hand. “Do it fast.”

  There was a thudding sound. This wasn’t someone pounding for admittance. Eddie looked up in time to see the bathroom door shudder, to see the lights in there flicker. They were trying to break it in.

  He picked his shirt up with fingers that suddenly seemed too large, too clumsy. The left sleeve was turned inside out. He tried to stuff it back through the hole, got his hand stuck for a moment, then yanked it out so hard he pulled the sleeve back again with it.