If they were scared you might die, why’d they try to get you to eat poison in the first place?
The question scared her the way that momentary feeling of pity had scared her. She wasn’t used to questioning herself, and furthermore, the questioning voice in her mind didn’t seem like her voice at all.
Wadn’t meanin to kill me wid dat poison food. Jes wanted to make me sick. Set there and laugh while I puked an moaned, I speck.
She waited twenty minutes and then started down toward the beach, pulling herself with her hands and strong arms, weaving like a snake, eyes never leaving Eddie. She would have preferred to have waited another hour, even another half; it would be better to have the little mahfah ten miles asleep instead of one or two. But waiting was a luxury she simply could not afford. That Really Bad Man might come back anytime.
As she drew near the place where Eddie lay （he was still snoring, sounded like a buzzsaw in a sawmill about to go tits up）， she picked up a chunk of rock that was satisfyingly smooth on one side and satisfyingly jagged on the other.
She closed her palm over the smooth side and continued her snake-crawl to where he lay, the flat sheen of murder in her eyes.
4
What Detta planned to do was brutally simple: smash Eddie with the jagged side of the rock until he was as dead as the rock itself. Then she’d take the gun and wait for Roland to come back.
When his body sat up, she would give him a choice: take her back to her world or refuse and be killed. You goan be quits wid me either way, toots, she would say, and wit yo boyfrien dead, ain’t nothin more you can do like you said you wanted to.
If the gun the Really Bad Man had given Eddie didn’t work—it was possible; she had never met a man she hated and feared as much as Roland, and she put no depth of slyness past him—she would do him just the same. She would do him with the rock or with her bare hands. He was sick and shy two fingers to boot. She could take him.
But as she approached Eddie, a disquieting thought came to her. It was another question, and again it seemed to be another voice that asked it.
What if he knows? What if he knows what you did the second you kill Eddie?
He ain’t goan know nuthin. He be too busy gittin his medicine. Gittin hisself laid, too, for all I know.
The alien voice did not respond, but the seed of doubt had been planted. She had heard them talking when they thought she was asleep. The Really Bad Man needed to do something. She didn’t know what it was. Had something to do with a tower was all Detta knew. Could be the Really Bad Man thought this tower was full of gold or jewels or something like that. He said he needed her and Eddie and some other one to get there, and Detta guessed maybe he did. Why else would these doors be here?
If it was magic and she killed Eddie, he might know. If she killed his way to the tower, she thought she might be killing the only thing graymeat mahfah was living for. And if he knew he had nothing to live for, mahfah might do anything, because the mahfah wouldn’t give a bug-turd for nothin no more.
The idea of what might happen if the Really Bad Man came back like that made Detta shiver.
But if she couldn’t kill Eddie, what was she going to do? She could take the gun while Eddie was asleep, but when the Really Bad Man came back, could she handle both of them?
She just didn’t know.
Her eyes touched on the wheelchair, started to move away, then moved back again, fast. There was a deep pocket in the leather backrest. Poking out of this was a curl of the rope they had used to tie her into the chair.
Looking at it, she understood how she could do everything.
Detta changed course and began to crawl toward the gunslinger’s inert body. She meant to take what she needed from the knapsack he called his “purse,” then get the rope, fast as she could . . . but for a moment she was held frozen by the door.