The drawing of the three - Stephen King [118]
“—keep her shut up. I can gag her, but I don’t want to do that. A hard gag is a dangerous business. People choke.”
“YOU QUIT IT YOU HONKY BULLSHIT VOODOO MAHFAH!”
“Odetta.” His voice was a whisper, like the onset of rain.
She fell silent, staring at him with huge eyes. Eddie had never in his life seen such hate and fear combined in human eyes.
“I don’t think this bitch would care if she did die on a hard gag. She wants to die, but maybe even more, she wants you to die. But you haven’t died, not so far, and I don’t think Detta is brand-new in your life. She feels too at home in you, so maybe you can hear what I’m saying, and maybe you can keep some control over her even if you can’t come out yet.
“Don’t let her wake us up a third time, Odetta.
“I don’t want to gag her.
“But if I have to, I will.”
He got up, left without looking back, rolled himself into his blanket again, and promptly fell asleep.
She was still staring at him, eyes wide, nostrils flaring.
“Honky voodoo bullshit,” she whispered.
Eddie lay down, but this time it was a long time before sleep came to claim him, in spite of his deep tiredness. He would come to the brink, anticipate her screams, and snap back.
Three hours or so later, with the moon now going the other way, he finally dropped off.
Detta did no more screaming that night, either because Roland had frightened her, or because she wanted to conserve her voice for future alarums and excursions, or—possibly, just possibly—because Odetta had heard and had exercised the control the gunslinger had asked of her.
Eddie slept at last but awoke sodden and unrefreshed. He looked toward the chair, hoping against hope that it would be Odetta, please God let it be Odetta this morning—
“Mawnin, whitebread,” Detta said, and grinned her sharklike grin at him. “Thought you was goan sleep till noon. You cain’t be doin nuthin like dat, kin you? We got to bus us some miles here, ain’t dat d’fac of d’matter? Sho! An I think you the one goan have to do most of de bustin, cause dat other fella, one with de voodoo eyes, he lookin mo peaky all de time, I declare he do! Yes! I doan think he goan be eatin anythin much longer, not even dat fancy smoked meat you whitebread boys keep fo when you done joikin on each other one’s little bitty white candles. So let’s go, whitebread! Detta doan want to be d’one keepin you.”
Her lids and her voice both dropped a little; her eyes peeked at him slyly from their corners.
“Not f’um startin out, leastways.”
Dis goan be a day you ’member, whitebread, those sly eyes promised. Dis goan be a day you ’member for a long, long time.
Sho.
14
They made three miles that day, maybe a shade under. Detta’s chair upset twice. Once she did it herself, working her fingers slowly and unobtrusively over to that handbrake again and yanking it. The second time Eddie did with no help at all, shoving too hard in one of those goddamned sand traps. That was near the end of the day, and he simply panicked, thinking he just wasn’t going to be able to get her out this time, just wasn’t. So he gave that one last titanic heave with his quivering arms, and of course it had been much too hard, and over she had gone, like Humpty-Dumpty falling off his wall, and he and Roland had to labor to get her upright again. They finished the job just in time. The rope under her breasts was now pulled taut across her windpipe. The gunslinger’s efficient running slipknot was choking her to death. Her face had gone a funny blue color, she was on the verge of losing consciousness, but still she went on wheezing her nasty laughter.
Let her be, why don’t you? Eddie nearly said as Roland bent quickly forward to loosen the knot. Let her choke! I don’t know if she wants to do herself like you said, but I know she wants to do US . . . so let her go!
Then he remembered Odetta (although their encounter had been so brief and seemed so long ago that memory was growing dim) and moved forward to help.
The gunslinger pushed him impatiently away with one hand. “Only room for one.”
When the rope was