The drawing of the three - Stephen King [28]
Straighten up, maggot! They’re suspicious enough without you looking as if you’ve gone crazy!
Eddie sat up fast, as if he had been whacked. That voice wasn’t Henry’s, but it was so much like Henry’s when they had been just a couple of kids growing up in the Projects, Henry eight years older, the sister who had been between them now only a ghost of memory; Selina had been struck and killed by a car when Eddie was two and Henry ten. That rasping tone of command came out whenever Henry saw him doing something that might end with Eddie occupying a pine box long before his time . . . as Selina had.
What in the blue fuck is going on here?
You’re not hearing voices that aren’t there, the voice inside his head returned. No, not Henry’s voice—older, dryer . . . stronger. But like Henry’s voice . . . and impossible not to believe. That’s the first thing. You’re not going crazy. I AM another person.
This is telepathy?
Eddie was vaguely aware that his face was completely expressionless. He thought that, under the circumstances, that ought to qualify him for the Best Actor of the Year Academy Award. He looked out the window and saw the plane closing in on the Delta section of Kennedy’s International Arrivals Building.
I don’t know that word. But I do know that those army women know you are carrying . . .
There was a pause. A feeling—odder beyond telling—of phantom fingers rummaging through his brain as if he were a living card catalogue.
. . . heroin or cocaine. I can’t tell which except—except it must be cocaine because you’re carrying the one you don’t take to buy the one you do.
“What army women?” Eddie muttered in a low voice. He was completely unaware that he was speaking aloud. “What in the hell are you talking ab—”
That feeling of being slapped once more . . . so real he felt his head ring with it.
Shut your mouth, you damned jackass!
All right, all right! Christ!
Now that feeling of rummaging fingers again.
Army stewardesses, the alien voice replied. Do you understand me? I have no time to con your every thought, prisoner!
“What did you—” Eddie began, then shut his mouth. What did you call me?
Never mind. Just listen. Time is very, very short. They know. The army stewardesses know you have this cocaine.
How could they? That’s ridiculous!
I don’t know how they came by their knowledge, and it doesn’t matter. One of them told the drivers. The drivers will tell whatever priests perform this ceremony, this Clearing of Customs—
The language of the voice in his head was arcane, the terms so off-kilter they were almost cute . . . but the message came through loud and clear. Although his face remained expressionless, Eddie’s teeth came together with a painful click and he drew a hot little hiss in through them.
The voice was saying the game was over. He hadn’t even gotten off the plane and the game was already over.
But this wasn’t real. No way this could be real. It was just his mind, doing a paranoid little jig at the last minute, that was all. He would ignore it. Just ignore it and it would go awa—
You will NOT ignore it or you will go to jail and I will die! the voice roared.
Who in the name of God are you? Eddie asked reluctantly, fearfully, and inside his head he heard someone or something let out a deep and gusty sigh of relief.
10
He believes, the gunslinger thought. Thank all the gods that are or ever were, he believes!
11
The plane stopped. The FASTEN SEAT BELTS light went out. The jetway rolled forward and bumped against the forward port door with a gentle thump.
They had arrived.
12
There is a place where you can put it while you perform the Clearing of Customs, the voice said. A safe place. Then, when you are away, you can get it again and take it to this man Balazar.
People were standing up now, getting things out of the overhead bins and trying to deal with coats which were, according to the cockpit announcement, too warm to wear.
Get your bag. Get your jacket. Then go into the privy again.
Pr—
Oh. Bathroom. Head.
If they think I’ve got dope they’ll think