Song of Susannah - Stephen King [25]
But whatever the danger, she’d been able to stop the labor. Because there were switches that could do that. Somewhere.
(in the Dogan)
Only the machinery in the Dogan had never been meant to do what she—they—
(us we)
were making it do. Eventually it would overload and
(rupture)
all the machines would catch fire, burn out. Alarms going off. Control panels and TV screens going dark. How long before that happened? Susannah didn’t know.
She had a vague memory of taking her wheelchair out of a bucka waggon while the rest of them were distracted, celebrating their victory and mourning their dead. Climbing and lifting weren’t easy when you were legless from the knees down, but they weren’t as hard as some folks might believe, either. Certainly she was used to mundane obstacles—everything from getting on and off the toilet to getting books off a shelf that had once been easily accessible to her (there had been a step-stool for such chores in every room of her New York apartment). In any case, Mia had been insisting—had actually been driving her, as a cowboy might drive a stray dogie. And so Susannah had hoisted herself into the bucka, had lowered the wheelchair down, and then had lowered herself neatly into it. Not quite as easy as rolling off a log, but far from the hardest chore she’d ever done since losing her last sixteen inches or so.
The chair had taken her one last mile, maybe a little more (no legs for Mia, daughter of none, not in the Calla). Then it smashed into a spur of granite, spilling her out. Luckily, she had been able to break her fall with her arms, sparing her turbulent and unhappy belly.
She remembered picking herself up—correction, she remembered Mia picking up Susannah Dean’s hijacked body—and working her way on up the path. She had only one other clear memory from the Calla side, and that was of trying to stop Mia from taking off the rawhide loop Susannah wore around her neck. A ring hung from it, a beautiful light ring that Eddie had made for her. When he’d seen it was too big (meaning it as a surprise, he hadn’t measured her finger), he had been disappointed and told her he’d make her another.
You go on and do just that if you like, she’d said, but I’ll always wear this one.
She had hung it around her neck, liking the way it felt between her breasts, and now here was this unknown woman, this bitch, trying to take it off.
Detta had come forward, struggling with Mia. Detta had had absolutely no success in trying to reassert control over Roland, but Mia was no Roland of Gilead. Mia’s hands dropped away from the rawhide. Her control wavered. When it did, Susannah felt another of those labor pains sweep through her, making her double over and groan.
It has to come off! Mia shouted. Otherwise, they’ll have his scent as well as yours! Your husband’s! You don’t want that, believe me!
Who? Susannah had asked. Who are you talking about?
Never mind—there’s no time. But if he comes after you—and I know you think he’ll try—they mustn’t have his scent! I’ll leave it here, where he’ll find it. Later, if ka wills, you may wear it again.
Susannah had thought of telling her they could wash the ring off, wash Eddie’s smell off it, but she knew it wasn’t just a smell Mia was speaking of. It was a love-ring, and that scent would always remain.
But for whom?
The Wolves, she supposed. The real Wolves. The ones in New York. The vampires of whom Callahan had spoken, and the low men. Or was there