Suddenly Balazar didn’t care about his goods, about the unanswered questions, or anything except bringing this situation to a screeching halt before it could get any weirder.
“Kill him, Jack!” he shouted.
There was no response. Then he heard the kid say it again: “They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”
Balazar suddenly knew—knew—it wasn’t Jack the kid was talking to.
“Get all the gentlemen,” he said to ’Cimi. “All of them. We’re gonna burn his ass and when he’s dead we’re gonna take him in the kitchen and I’m gonna personally chop his head off.”
21
“They killed my brother,” the prisoner said. The gunslinger said nothing. He only watched and thought: The bottles. In the sink. That’s what I need, or what he thinks I need. The packets. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.
From the other room: “Kill him, Jack!”
Neither Eddie nor the gunslinger took any notice of this.
“They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”
In the other room Balazar was now talking about taking Eddie’s head as a trophy. The gunslinger found some odd comfort in this: not everything in this world was different from his own, it seemed.
The one called ’Cimi began shouting hoarsely for the others. There was an ungentlemanly thunder of running feet.
“Do you want to do something about it, or do you just want to stand here?” Roland asked.
“Oh, I want to do something about it,” Eddie said, and raised the gunslinger’s revolver. Although only moments ago he had believed he would need both hands to do it, he found that he could do it easily.
“And what is it you want to do?” Roland asked, and his voice seemed distant to his own ears. He was sick, full of fever, but what was happening to him now was the onset of a different fever, one which was all too familiar. It was the fever that had overtaken him in Tull. It was battle-fire, hazing all thought, leaving only the need to stop thinking and start shooting.
“I want to go to war,” Eddie Dean said calmly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roland said, “but you are going to find out. When we go through the door, you go right. I have to go left. My hand.”
Eddie nodded. They went to their war.
22
Balazar had expected Eddie, or Andolini, or both of them. He had not expected Eddie and an utter stranger, a tall man with dirty gray-black hair and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from obdurate stone by some savage god. For a moment he was not sure which way to fire.
’Cimi, however, had no such problems. Da Boss was mad at Eddie. Therefore, he would punch Eddie’s clock first and worry about the other catzarro later. ’Cimi turned ponderously toward Eddie and pulled the trigger of his automatic three times. The casings jumped and gleamed in the air. Eddie saw the big man turning and went into a mad slide along the floor, whizzing along like some kid in a disco contest, a kid so jived-up he didn’t realize he’d left his entire John Travolta outfit, underwear included, behind; he went with his wang wagging and his bare knees first heating and then scorching as the friction built up. Holes punched through plastic that was supposed to look like knotty pine just above him. Slivers of it rained down on his shoulders and into his hair.
Don’t let me die naked and needing a fix, God, he prayed, knowing such a prayer was more than blasphemous; it was an absurdity. Still he was unable to stop it. I’ll die, but please, just let me have one more—
The revolver in the gunslinger’s left hand crashed. On the open beach it had been loud; over here it was deafening.
“Oh Jeez!” Cimi Dretto screamed in a strangled, breathy voice. It was a wonder he could scream at all. His chest suddenly caved in, as if someone had swung a sledgehammer at a barrel. His white shirt began to turn red in patches, as if poppies were blooming on it. “Oh Jeez! Oh Jeez! Oh J—”