“I think you did,” Roland said. He remembered the way Eddie had risen up from behind the desk, regardless of the risk, and felt an instant of doubt.
But only an instant.
“So? Peter pays Paul. One hand washes the other. All I want to do is go back for a few hours. Grab some take-out chicken, maybe a box of Dunkin Donuts.” Eddie nodded toward the doorway, where things had begun to move again. “So what do you say?”
“No,” the gunslinger said, but for a moment he was hardly thinking about Eddie. That movement up the aisle—the Lady, whoever she was, wasn’t moving the way an ordinary person moved—wasn’t moving, for instance, the way Eddie had moved when Roland looked through his eyes, or （now that he stopped to think of it, which he never had before, any more than he had ever stopped and really noticed the constant presence of his own nose in the lower range of his peripheral vision） the way he moved himself. When one walked, vision became a mild pendulum: left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg, the world rocking back and forth so mildly and gently that after awhile—shortly after you began to walk, he supposed—you simply ignored it. There was none of that pendulum movement in the Lady’s walk—she simple moved smoothly up the aisle, as if riding along tracks. Ironically, Eddie had had this same perception . . . only to Eddie it had looked like a Steadicam shot. He had found this perception comforting because it was familiar.
To Roland it was alien . . . but then Eddie was breaking in, his voice shrill.
“Well why not? Just why the fuck not?”
“Because you don’t want chicken,” the gunslinger said. “I know what you call the things you want, Eddie. You want to ‘fix.’ You want to ‘score.’ ”
“So what?” Eddie cried—almost shrieked. “So what if I do? I said I’d come back with you! You got my promise! I mean, you got my fuckin PROMISE! What else do you want? You want me to swear on my mother’s name? Okay, I swear on my mother’s name! You want me to swear on my brother Henry’s name? All right, I swear! I swear! I SWEAR!”
Enrico Balazar would have told him, but the gunslinger didn’t need the likes of Balazar to tell him this one fact of life: Never trust a junkie.
Roland nodded toward the door. “Until after the Tower, at least, that part of your life is done. After that I don’t care. After that you’re free to go to hell in your own way. Until then I need you.”
“Oh you fuckin shitass liar,” Eddie said softly. There was no audible emotion in his voice, but the gunslinger saw the glisten of tears in his eyes. Roland said nothing. “You know there ain’t gonna be no after, not for me, not for her, or whoever the Christ this third guy is. Probably not for you, either—you look as fuckin wasted as Henry did at his worst. If we don’t die on the way to your Tower we’ll sure as shit die when we get there so why are you lying to me?”
The gunslinger felt a dull species of shame but only repeated: “At least for now, that part of your life is done.”
“Yeah?” Eddie said. “Well, I got some news for you, Roland. I know what’s gonna happen to your real body when you go through there and inside of her. I know because I saw it before. I don’t need your guns. I got you by that fabled place where the short hairs grow, my friend. You can even turn her head the way you turned mine and watch what I do to the rest of you while you’re nothing but your goddam ka. I’d like to wait until nightfall, and drag you down by the water. Then you could watch the lobsters chow up on the rest of you. But you might be in too much of a hurry for that.”
Eddie paused. The graty breaking of the waves and the steady hollow conch of the wind both seemed very loud.
“So I think I’ll just use your knife to cut your throat.”
“And close that door forever?”
“You say that part of my life is done. You don’t just mean smack, either. You mean New York, America, my time, everything. If that’s how it is, I want this part done, too. The scenery sucks and the company stinks. There are times, Roland, when you make Jimmy Swaggart look almost sane.”