deadly intimacy, they had never seen each other.
What the gunslinger didn’t want was for the Lady to see the Lady.
Not yet, at least.
The spark of intuition grew closer to a plan.
But it was late over there—the light had suggested to him that it must be three in the
afternoon, perhaps even four.
How long until sunset brought the lobstrosities, and the end of Eddie’s life?
Three hours?
Two?
He could go back and try to save Eddie . . .but that was exactly what Detta wanted. She had
laid a trap, just as villagers who fear a deadly wolf may stake out a sacrificial lamb to draw
it into bowshot. He would go back into his diseased body … but not for long. The reason he
had seen only her shadow was because she was lying beside the door with one of his
revolvers curled in her fist. The moment his Roland-body moved, she would shoot it and
end his life.
Hisending, because she feared him, would at least be merciful.
Eddie’s would be a screaming horror.
He seemed to hear Detta Walker’s nasty, giggling voice:
You want to go at me, graymeat?Sho you want to go at me! You ain’t afraid of no lil ole
cripple black woman, are you?
“Only one way,” Jack’s mouth muttered. “Only one.”
The door of the office opened, and a bald man with lenses over his eyes looked in.
“How are you doing on that Dorfman account?” the bald man asked.
“I feel ill. I think it was my lunch. I think I might leave.”
The bald man looked worried. “It’s probably a bug. I heard there’s a nasty one going
around.”
“Probably.”
“Well. . . as long as you get the Dorfman stuff finished by five tomorrow afternoon …”
“Yes.”
“Because you know what a dong he can be—”
“Yes.”
The bald man, now looking a little uneasy, nodded. “Yes, go home. You don’t seem like
your usual self at all.”
“I’m not.”
The bald man went out the door in a hurry.
He sensed me,the gunslinger thought. That was part of it. Part, but not all. They’re afraid
of him. They don’t know why, but they’re afraid of him. And they’re right to be afraid.
Jack Mort’s body got up, found the briefcase the man had been carrying when the
gunslinger entered him, and swept all the papers on the surface of the desk into it.
He felt an urge to sneak a look back at the door and resisted it. He would not look again
until he was ready to risk everything and come back.
In the meantime, time was short and there were things which had to be done.
CHAPTER 2
THE HONEYPOT
1
Detta laid up in a deeply shadowed cleft formed by rocks which leaned together like old
men who had been turned to stone while sharing some weird secret. She watched Eddie
range up and down the rubble-strewn slopes of the hills, yelling himself hoarse. The
duck-fuzz on his cheeks was finally becoming a beard, and you might have taken him for a
growed man except for the three or four times he passed close to her (once he had come
close enough for her to have snaked a hand out and grabbed his ankle). When he got close
you saw he wasn’t nothing but a kid still, and one who was dog tired to boot.
Odetta would have felt pity; Detta felt only the still, coiled readiness of the natural
predator.
When she first crawled in here she had felt things crack- ling under her hands like old
autumn leaves in a woods holler. As her eyes adjusted she saw they weren’t leaves but the
tiny bones of small animals. Some predator, long gone if these ancient yellow bones told
the truth, had once denned here, something like a weasel or a ferret. It had perhaps gone out
at night, following its nose further up into The Drawers to where the trees and undergrowth
were thicker—following its nose to prey. It had killed, eaten, and brought the remains back
here to snack on the following day as it laid up, waiting for night to bring the time of
hunting on again.
Now there was a bigger predator here, and at first Detta thought she’d do pretty much what
the previous tenant had done: wait until Eddie fell asleep, as he was almost certain to do,
then kill him and drag his body up here. Then, with both guns in her possession, she could
drag herself back down by the doorway and wait for the Really Bad Man to come back. Her
first thought had been to kill the Really Bad Man’s body as soon as she had taken care of
Eddie, but that was no good, was it? If the Really Bad Man had no body to come back to,
there would be no way Detta could get out of here and back to her own world.
Could she make that Really Bad Man take her back?
Maybe not.
But maybe so.
If he knew Eddie was still alive, maybe so.
And that led to a much better idea.
2
She was deeply sly. She would have laughed harshly at anyone daring to suggest it, but she
was also deeply insecure. Because of the latter, she attributed the former to anyone she met
whose intellect seemed to approach her own. This was how she felt about the gunslinger.
She had heard a shot, and when she looked she’d seen smoke drifting from the muzzle of
his remaining gun. He had reloaded and tossed this gun to Eddie just before going through
the door.
She knew what it was supposed to mean to Eddie: all the shells weren’t wet after all; the
gun would protect him. She also knew what it was supposed to mean to her (for of course
the Really Bad Man had known she was watching; even if she had been sleeping when the
two of them started chinning, the shot would have awakened her): Stay away from him. He’s
packing iron.
But devils could be subtle.
It that little show had been put on for her benefit, might not that Really Bad Man have had
another purpose in mind as well, one neither she nor Eddie was supposed to see? Might that Really Bad Man not have been thinking if she sees this one fires good shells, why, she’ll think the one she took from Eddie does, too.
But suppose he had guessed that Eddie would doze off? Wouldn’t he know she would be
waiting for just that, waiting to filch the gun and creep slowly away up the slopes to safety?
Yes, that Really Bad Man might have foreseen all that. He was smart for a honky. Smart
enough, anyway, to see that Detta was bound to get the best of that little white boy.
So just maybe that Really Bad Man had purposely loaded this gun with bad shells. He had
fooled her once; why not again? This time she had been careful to check that the chambers
were loaded with more than empty casings, and yes, they appeared to be real bullets, but
that didn’t mean they were. He didn’t even have to take the chance that one of them might be dry enough to fire, now did he? He could have fixed them somehow. After all, guns were
the Really Bad Man’s business. Why would he do that? Why, to trick her into show- ing herself, of course! Then Eddie could cover her with the gun that really did work, and he
would not make the same mistake twice, tired or not. He would, in fact, be especially
careful not to make the same mistake twice because he was tired.
Nice try, honky,Detta thought in her shadowy den, this tight but somehow comforting dark
place whose floor was carpeted with the softened and decaying bones of small
anim- als. Nice try, but I ain’t goin fo dat shit.
She didn’t need to shoot Eddie, after all; she only needed to wait.
3
Her one fear was that the gunslinger would return before Eddie fell asleep, but he was still
gone. The limp body at the base of the door did not stir. Maybe he was having some trouble
getting the medicine he needed—some other kind of trouble, for all she knew. Men like
him seemed to find trouble easy as a bitch in heat finds a randy hound.
Two hours passed while Eddie hunted for the woman he called “Odetta” (oh how she hated
the sound of that name), ranging up and down the low hills and yelling until he had no
voice left to yell with.
At last Eddie did what she had been waiting for: he went back down to the little angle of
beach and sat by the wheel-chair, looking around disconsolately. He touched one of the
chair’s wheels, and the touch was almost a caress. Then his hand dropped away and he