Part 44 (2/2)

Do you know a place called ”The Village”?

Yes.

Go there.

Where in the Village?

For now, just drive.

We'll be able to go faster if I use the siren.

Fine. Turn it on. Those flas.h.i.+ng lights, too.

For the first time since he had seized control of him, Roland pulled back a little and allowed Mort to take over. When Mort's head turned to inspect the dashboard of Delevan's and O'Mearah's blue-and-white, Roland watched it turn but did not initiate the action. But if he had been a physical being instead of only his own disembodied ka, ka, he would have been standing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, ready to leap forward and take control again at the slightest sign of mutiny. he would have been standing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, ready to leap forward and take control again at the slightest sign of mutiny.

There was none, though. This man had killed and maimed G.o.d knew how many innocent people, but he had no intention of losing one of his own precious eyes. He flicked switches, pulled a lever, and suddenly they were in motion. The siren whined and the gunslinger saw red pulses of light kicking off the front of the carriage.

Drive fast, the gunslinger commanded grimly. the gunslinger commanded grimly.

9.

In spite of lights and siren and Jack Mort beating steadily on the horn, it took them twenty minutes to reach Greenwich Village in rush-hour traffic. In the gunslinger's world Eddie Dean's hopes were crumbling like d.y.k.es in a downpour. Soon they would collapse altogether.

The sea had eaten half the sun.

Well, Jack Mort said, Jack Mort said, we're here. we're here. He was telling the truth (there was no way he could lie) although to Roland everything here looked just as it had everywhere else: a choke of buildings, people, and carriages. The carriages choked not only the streets but the air itself-with their endless clamor and their noxious fumes. It came, he supposed, from whatever fuel it was they burned. It was a wonder these people could live at all, or the women give birth to children that were not monsters, like the Slow Mutants under the mountains. He was telling the truth (there was no way he could lie) although to Roland everything here looked just as it had everywhere else: a choke of buildings, people, and carriages. The carriages choked not only the streets but the air itself-with their endless clamor and their noxious fumes. It came, he supposed, from whatever fuel it was they burned. It was a wonder these people could live at all, or the women give birth to children that were not monsters, like the Slow Mutants under the mountains.

Now where do we go? Mort was asking. Mort was asking.

This would be the hard part. The gunslinger got ready-as ready as he could, at any rate.

Turn off the siren and the lights. Stop by the sidewalk.

Mort pulled the cruiser up beside a fire hydrant.

There are underground railways in this city, the gunslinger said. the gunslinger said. I want you to take me to a station where these trains stop to let pa.s.sengers on and off. I want you to take me to a station where these trains stop to let pa.s.sengers on and off.

Which one? Mort asked. The thought was tinged with the mental color of panic. Mort could hide nothing from Roland, and Roland nothing from Mort-not, at least, for very long. Mort asked. The thought was tinged with the mental color of panic. Mort could hide nothing from Roland, and Roland nothing from Mort-not, at least, for very long.

Some years ago-I don't know how many-you pushed a young woman in front of a train in one of those underground stations. That's the one I want you to take me to.

There ensued a short, violent struggle. The gunslinger won, but it was a surprisingly hard go. In his way, Jack Mort was as divided as Odetta. He was not a schizophrenic as she was; he knew well enough what he did from time to time. But he kept his secret self-the part of him that was The Pusher-as carefully locked away as an embezzler might lock away his secret skim.

Take me there, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, the gunslinger repeated. He slowly raised the thumb toward Mort's right eye again. It was less than half an inch away and still moving when he gave in. the gunslinger repeated. He slowly raised the thumb toward Mort's right eye again. It was less than half an inch away and still moving when he gave in.

Mort's right hand moved the lever by the wheel again and they rolled toward the Christopher Street station where that fabled A-train had cut off the legs of a woman named Odetta Holmes some three years before.

10.

”Well looky there,” foot patrolman Andrew Staunton said to his his partner, Norris Weaver, as Delevan's and O'Mearah's blue-and-white came to a stop halfway down the block. There were no parking s.p.a.ces, and the driver made no effort to find one. He simply double-parked and let the clog of traffic behind him inch its laborious way through the loophole remaining, like a trickle of blood trying to serve a heart hopelessly clogged with cholesterol. partner, Norris Weaver, as Delevan's and O'Mearah's blue-and-white came to a stop halfway down the block. There were no parking s.p.a.ces, and the driver made no effort to find one. He simply double-parked and let the clog of traffic behind him inch its laborious way through the loophole remaining, like a trickle of blood trying to serve a heart hopelessly clogged with cholesterol.

Weaver checked the numbers on the side by the right front headlight. 744. Yes, that was the number they'd gotten from dispatch, all right.

The flashers were on and everything looked kosher-until the door opened and the driver stepped out. He was wearing a blue suit, all right, but not the kind that came with gold b.u.t.tons and silver badge. His shoes weren't police issue either, unless Staunton and Weaver had missed a memo notifying officers that duty footwear would henceforth come from Gucci. That didn't seem likely. What seemed likely was that this was the creep who had hijacked the cops uptown. He got out oblivious to the honkings and cries of protest from the drivers trying to get by him.

”G.o.ddam,” Andy Staunton breathed.

Approach with extreme caution, the dispatcher had said. the dispatcher had said. This man is armed and This man is armed and extremely extremely dangerous. dangerous. Dispatchers usually sounded like the most bored human beings on earth-for all Andy Staunton knew, they were-and so the almost awed emphasis this one put on the word Dispatchers usually sounded like the most bored human beings on earth-for all Andy Staunton knew, they were-and so the almost awed emphasis this one put on the word extremely extremely had stuck to his consciousness like a burr. had stuck to his consciousness like a burr.

He drew his weapon for the first time in his four years on the force, and glanced at Weaver. Weaver had also drawn. The two of them were standing outside a deli about thirty feet from the IRT stairway. They had known each other long enough to be attuned to each other in a way only cops and professional soldiers can be. Without a word between them they stepped back into the doorway of the delicatessen, weapons pointing upward.

”Subway?” Weaver asked.

”Yeah.” Andy took one quick glance at the entrance. Rush hour was in high gear now, and the subway stairs were clogged with people heading for their trains. ”We've got to take him right now, before he can get close to the crowd.”

”Let's do it.”

They stepped out of the doorway in perfect tandem, gunslingers Roland would have recognized at once as adversaries much more dangerous than the first two. They were younger, for one thing; and although he didn't know it, some unknown dispatcher had labelled him extremely extremely dangerous, and to Andy Staunton and Norris Weaver, that made him the equivalent of a rogue tiger. dangerous, and to Andy Staunton and Norris Weaver, that made him the equivalent of a rogue tiger. If he doesn't stop the second I tell him to, he's dead, If he doesn't stop the second I tell him to, he's dead, Andy thought. Andy thought.

”Hold it!” he screamed, dropping into a crouch with his gun held out before him in both hands. Beside him, Weaver had done the same. he screamed, dropping into a crouch with his gun held out before him in both hands. Beside him, Weaver had done the same.

”Police! Get your hands on your he-”

That was as far as he got before the guy ran for the IRT stairway. He moved with a sudden speed that was uncanny. Nevertheless, Andy Staunton was wired, all his dials turned up to the max. He swivelled on his heels, feeling a cloak of emotionless coldness drop over him-Roland would have known this, too. He had felt it many times in similar situations.

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