Part 29 (1/2)

Ain't supposed to be any laughs in this for me, he thought. he thought. None at all. Not as far as she's concerned. None at all. Not as far as she's concerned.

”You wouldn't understand, babe. Just let it lie.”

”I be lettin you you lie before this be all over,” she said. ”Be lettin you and yo bad-a.s.s buddy there lie in pieces all ovah dis beach. Sho. Meantime you better save yo breaf to do yo pus.h.i.+n with. You already sound like you gettin a little sho't winded.” lie before this be all over,” she said. ”Be lettin you and yo bad-a.s.s buddy there lie in pieces all ovah dis beach. Sho. Meantime you better save yo breaf to do yo pus.h.i.+n with. You already sound like you gettin a little sho't winded.”

”Well, you talk for both of us, then,” Eddie panted. ”You never never seem to run out of wind.” seem to run out of wind.”

”I goan break break wind, graymeat! Goan break it ovah yo dead face!” wind, graymeat! Goan break it ovah yo dead face!”

”Promises, promises.” Eddie shoved the chair out of the sand and onto relatively easier going-for awhile, at least. The sun was not yet fully up, but he had already worked up a sweat.

This is going to be an amusing and informative day, he thought. he thought. I can see that already. I can see that already.

Stopping.

That was the next thing.

They had struck a firm stretch of beach. Eddie pushed the chair along faster, thinking vaguely that if he could keep this bit of extra speed, he might be able to drive right through the next sandtrap he happened to strike on pure impetus.

All at once the chair stopped. Stopped dead. The crossbar on the back hit Eddie's chest with a thump. He grunted. Roland looked around, but not even the gunslinger's cat-quick reflexes could stop the Lady's chair from going over exactly as it had threatened to do in each of the sandtraps. It went and Detta went with it, tied and helpless but cackling wildly. She still was when Roland and Eddie finally managed to right the chair again. Some of the ropes had drawn so tight they must be cutting cruelly into her flesh, cutting off the circulation to her extremities; her forehead was slashed and blood trickled into her eyebrows. She went on cackling just the same.

The men were both gasping, out of breath, by the time the chair was on its wheels again. The combined weight of it and the woman in it must have totaled two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it chair. It occurred to Eddie that if the gunslinger had s.n.a.t.c.hed Detta from his own when, when, 1987, the chair might have weighed as much as sixty pounds less. 1987, the chair might have weighed as much as sixty pounds less.

Detta giggled, snorted, blinked blood out of her eyes.

”Looky here, you boys done opsot me,” she said.

”Call your lawyer,” Eddie muttered. ”Sue us.”

”An got yoselfs all tuckered out gittin me back on top agin. Must have taken you ten minutes, too.”

The gunslinger took a piece of his s.h.i.+rt-enough of it was gone now so the rest didn't much matter-and reached forward with his left hand to mop the blood away from the cut on her forehead. She snapped at him, and from the savage click those teeth made when they came together, Eddie thought that, if Roland had been only one instant slower in drawing back, Detta Walker would have evened up the number of fingers on his hands for him again.

She cackled and stared at him with meanly merry eyes, but the gunslinger saw fear hidden far back in those eyes. She was afraid of him. Afraid because he was The Really Bad Man.

Why was he The Really Bad Man? Maybe because, on some deeper level, she sensed what he knew about her.

”Almos' got you, graymeat,” she said. ”Almos' got you that time.” And cackled, witchlike.

”Hold her head,” the gunslinger said evenly. ”She bites like a weasel.”

Eddie held it while the gunslinger carefully wiped the wound clean. It wasn't wide and didn't look deep, but the gunslinger took no chances; he walked slowly down to the water, soaked the piece of s.h.i.+rting in the salt water, and then came back.

She began to scream as he approached.

”Doan you be touchin me wid dat thing! Doan you be touchin me wid no water from where them poison things come from! Git it away! Git it away! away!”

”Hold her head,” Roland said in the same even voice. She was whipping it from side to side. ”I don't want to take any chances.”

Eddie held it... and squeezed it when she tried to shake free. She saw he meant business and immediately became still, showing no more fear of the damp rag. It had been only sham, after all.

She smiled at Roland as he bathed the cut, carefully was.h.i.+ng out the last clinging particles of grit.

”In fact, you you look look mo mo than jest tuckered out,” Detta observed. ”You look than jest tuckered out,” Detta observed. ”You look sick, sick, graymeat. I don't think you ready fo no long trip. I don't think you ready fo graymeat. I don't think you ready fo no long trip. I don't think you ready fo nuthin nuthin like dat.” like dat.”

Eddie examined the chair's rudimentary controls. It had an emergency hand-brake which locked both wheels. Detta had worked her right hand over there, had waited patiently until she thought Eddie was going fast enough, and then she had yanked the brake, purposely spilling herself over. Why? To slow them down, that was all. There was no reason to do such a thing, but a woman like Detta, Eddie thought, needed no reasons. A woman like Detta was perfectly willing to do such things out of sheer meanness.

Roland loosened her bonds a bit so the blood could flow more freely, then tied her hand firmly away from the brake.

”That be all right, Mister Man,” Detta said, offering him a bright smile filled with too many teeth. ”That be all right jest the same. There be other ways to slow you boys down. All sorts sorts of ways.” of ways.”

”Let's go,” the gunslinger said tonelessly.

”You all right, man?” Eddie asked. The gunslinger looked very pale.

”Yes. Let's go.”

They started up the beach again.

10.

The gunslinger insisted on pus.h.i.+ng for an hour, and Eddie gave way to him reluctantly. Roland got her through the first sandtrap, but Eddie had to pitch in and help get the wheelchair out of the second. The gunslinger was gasping for air, sweat standing out on his forehead in large beads.

Eddie let him go on a little further, and Roland was quite adept at weaving his way around the places where the sand was loose enough to bog the wheels, but the chair finally became mired again and Eddie could bear only a few moments of watching Roland struggle to push it free, gasping, chest heaving, while the witch (for so Eddie had come to think of her) howled with laughter and actually threw her body backwards in the chair to make the task that much more difficult-and then he shouldered the gunslinger aside and heaved the chair out of the sand with one angry lurching lunge. The chair tottered and now he saw/sensed her s.h.i.+fting forward forward as much as the ropes would allow, doing this with a weird prescience at the exactly proper moment, trying to topple herself again. as much as the ropes would allow, doing this with a weird prescience at the exactly proper moment, trying to topple herself again.

Roland threw his weight on the back of the chair next to Eddie's and it settled back.

Detta looked around and gave them a wink of such obscene conspiracy that Eddie felt his arms crawl up in gooseflesh.

”You almost opsot me agin, agin, boys,” she said. ”You want to look out for me, now. I ain't nuthin but a old crippled lady, so you want to have a care for me now.” boys,” she said. ”You want to look out for me, now. I ain't nuthin but a old crippled lady, so you want to have a care for me now.”

She laughed... laughed fit to split.

Although Eddie cared for the woman that was the other part of her-was near to loving her just on the basis of the brief time he had seen her and spoken with her-he felt his hands itch to close around her windpipe and choke that laugh, choke it until she could never laugh again.

She peered around again, saw what he was thinking as if it had been printed on him in red ink, and laughed all the harder. Her eyes dared him. Go on, graymeat. Go on. You want to do it? Go on and do it. Go on, graymeat. Go on. You want to do it? Go on and do it.

In other words, don't just tip the chair; tip the woman, Eddie thought. Eddie thought. Tip her over for good. That's what she wants. For Detta, being killed by a white man may be the only real goal she has in life. Tip her over for good. That's what she wants. For Detta, being killed by a white man may be the only real goal she has in life.

”Come on,” he said, and began pus.h.i.+ng again. ”We are gonna tour the seacoast, sweet thang, like it or not.”