The Dark Tower - Stephen King [145]
Eddie, who could see Sheemie’s eyes perfectly well—one of the gas-lanterns was nearby and cast a strong glow on Sheemie’s face—thought that was a lie of near Presidential quality.
Susannah was cooking up a fresh batch of powdered eggs and corned beef hash. (The grill had spoken up again—“More of the same, eh?” it asked in a tone of cheery approval.) Eddie caught Dinky Earnshaw’s eye and said, “Want to step outside with me for a minute while Suze makes with the chow?”
Dinky glanced at Ted, who nodded, then back at Eddie. “If you want. We’ve got a little more time this morning, but that doesn’t mean we can waste any.”
“I understand,” Eddie said.
Three
The wind had strengthened, but instead of freshening the air, it smelled fouler than ever. Once, in high school, Eddie had gone on a field trip to an oil refinery in New Jersey. Until now he thought that was hands-down the worst thing he’d ever smelled in his life; two of the girls and three of the boys had puked. He remembered their tour-guide laughing heartily and saying, “Just remember that’s the smell of money—it helps.” Maybe Perth Oil and Gas was still the all-time champeen, but only because what he was smelling now wasn’t quite so strong. And just by the way, what was there about Perth Oil and Gas that seemed familiar? He didn’t know and it probably didn’t matter, but it was strange, the way things kept coming around over here. Only “coming around” wasn’t quite right, was it?
“Echoing back,” Eddie murmured. “That’s what it is.”
“Beg pardon, partner?” Dinky asked. They were once again standing on the path, looking down at the blue-roofed buildings in the distance, and the tangle of stalled traincars, and the perfect little village. Perfect, that was, until you remembered it was behind a triple run of wire, one of those runs carrying an electrical charge strong enough to kill a man on contact.
“Nothing,” Eddie said. “What’s that smell? Any idea?”
Dinky shook his head, but pointed beyond the prison compound in a direction that might or might not be south or east. “Something poison out there is all I know,” he said. “Once I asked Finli and he said there used to be factories in that direction. Positronics business. You know that name?”
“Yes. But who’s Finli?”
“Finli o’ Tego. The top security guy, Prentiss’s number one boy, also known as The Weasel. A taheen. Whatever your plans are, you’ll have to go through him to make them work. And he won’t make it easy for you. Seeing him stretched out dead on the ground would make me feel like it was a national holiday. By the way, my real name’s Richard Earnshaw. Pleased as hell to meetcha.” He put out his hand. Eddie shook it.
“I’m Eddie Dean. Known as Eddie of New York out here west of the Pecos. The woman’s Susannah. My wife.”
Dinky nodded. “Uh-huh. And the boy’s Jake. Also of New York.”
“Jake Chambers, right. Listen, Rich—”
“I salute the effort,” he said, smiling, “but I’ve been Dinky too long to change now, I guess. And it could be worse. I worked for awhile at the Supr Savr Supermarket with a twentysomething guy known as JJ the Fuckin Blue Jay. People will still be calling him that when he’s eighty and wearing a pee-bag.”
“Unless we’re brave, lucky, and good,” Eddie said, “nobody’s gonna see eighty. Not in this world or any of the others.”
Dinky looked startled, then glum. “You got a point.”
“That guy Roland used to know looks bad,” Eddie said. “Did you see his eyes?”
Dinky nodded, glummer than ever. “I think those little spots of blood in the whites are called petechiae. Something like that.” Then, in a tone of apology Eddie found rather bizarre, under the circumstances: “I don’t know if I’m saying that right.”
“I don’t care what you call them, it’s not