I have to go, Roland’s voice had cut cleanly through whatever question they were currently throwing at him. I’ll only be a few moments. Don’t be afraid.
Why? Eddie asked. Why do you have to go?
“What’s wrong?” one of the Customs guys had asked him. “All of a sudden you look scared.”
All of a sudden he had felt scared, but of nothing this yo-yo would understand.
He looked over his shoulder, and the Customs men had also turned. They saw nothing but a blank white wall covered with white panels drilled with holes to damp sound; Eddie saw the door, its usual three feet away （now it was embedded in the room’s wall, an escape hatch none of his interrogators could see）。 He saw more. He saw things coming out of the waves, things that looked like refugees from a horror movie where the effects are just a little more special than you want them to be, special enough so everything looks real. They looked like a hideous cross-breeding of prawn, lobster, and spider. They were making some weird sound.
“You getting the jim-jams?” one of the Customs guys had asked. “Seeing a few bugs crawling down the wall, Eddie?”
That was so close to the truth that Eddie had almost laughed. He understood why the man named Roland had to go back, though; Roland’s mind was safe enough—at least for the time being—but the creatures were moving toward his body, and Eddie had a suspicion that if Roland did not soon vacate it from the area it currently occupied, there might not be any body left to go back to.
Suddenly in his head he heard David Lee Roth bawling: Oh Iyyyyy . . . ain’t got nobody . . . and this time he did laugh. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” the Customs agent who had wanted to know if he was seeing bugs asked him.
“This whole situation,” Eddie had responded. “Only in the sense of peculiar, not hilarious. I mean, if it was a movie it would be more like Fellini than Woody Allen, if you get what I mean.”
You’ll be all right? Roland asked.
Yeah, fine. TCB, man.
I don’t understand.
Go take care of business.
Oh. All right. I’ll not be long.
And suddenly that other had been gone. Simply gone. Like a wisp of smoke so thin that the slightest vagary of wind could blow it away. Eddie looked around again, saw nothing but drilled white panels, no door, no ocean, no weird monstrosities, and he felt his gut begin to tighten. There was no question of believing that it had all been a hallucination after all; the dope was gone, and that was all the proof Eddie needed. But Roland had . . . helped, somehow. Made it easier.
“You want me to hang a picture there?” one of the Customs guys asked.
“No,” Eddie said, and blew out a sigh. “I want you to let me out of here.”
“Soon as you tell us what you did with the skag,” another said, “or was it coke?” And so it started again: round and round she goes and where she stops nobody knows.
Ten minutes later—ten very long minutes—Roland was suddenly back in his mind. One second gone, next second there. Eddie sensed he was deeply exhausted.
Taken care of? he asked.
Yes. I’m sorry it took so long. A pause. I had to crawl.
Eddie looked around again. The doorway had returned, but now it offered a slightly different view of that world, and he realized that, as it moved with him here, it moved with Roland there. The thought made him shiver a little. It was like being tied to this other by some weird umbilicus. The gunslinger’s body lay collapsed in front of it as before, but now he was looking down a long stretch of beach to the braided hightide line where the monsters wandered about, growling and buzzing. Each time a wave broke all of them raised their claws. They looked like the audiences in those old documentary films where Hitler’s speaking and everyone is throwing that old seig heil! salute like their lives depended on it—which they probably did, when you thought about it. Eddie could see the tortured markings of the gunslinger’s progress in the sand.