"But not this time," he whispered. "I'll have him. I'll have him."
He could not have explained why it was so important to have the retard; the rationality of the problem constantly eluded him. More and more he felt an urge to simply act, to move, to do. To destroy.
Last evening, when Lloyd had informed him of the helicopter explosions and the deaths of the three pilots, he had had to use every resource at his command to keep from going into an utter screaming rage. His first impulse had been to order an armored column assembled immediately-tanks, flametracks, armored trucks, the whole works. They could be in Boulder in five days. The whole stinking mess would be over in a week and a half.
Sure.
And if there was early snow in the mountains passes, that would be the end of the great Wehrmacht. And it was already September 14. Good weather was no longer a sure bet. How in hell's name had it gotten so late so fast?
But he was the strongest man on the face of the earth, wasn't he? There might be another like him in Russia or China or Iran, but that was a problem for ten years from now. Now all that mattered was that he was ascendant, he knew it, he felt it. He was strong, that was all the retard could tell them … if he managed to avoid getting lost in the desert or freezing to death in the mountains. He could only tell them that Flagg's people lived in fear of the Walkin Dude and would obey the Walkin Dude's least command. He could only tell them things that would demoralize their will further. So why did he have this steady, gnawing feeling that Cullen must be found and killed before he could leave the West?
Because it's what I want, and I am going to have what I want, and that is reason enough.
And Trashcan Man. He had thought he could dismiss Trash entirely. He had thought Trashcan Man could be thrown away like a defective tool. But he had succeeded in doing what the entire Free Zone could not have done. He had thrown dirt into the foolproof machinery of the dark man's conquest.
I misjudged -
It was a hateful thought, and he would not allow his mind to follow it to its conclusion. He threw his glass over the roof's low parapet and saw it twinkling, end over end, out and out, then descending. A randomly vicious thought, a petulant child's thought, streaked across his mind: Hope it hits someone on the head!
Far below, the glass struck the parking lot and exploded … so far below, the dark man could not even hear it.
They had found no more bombs at Indian Springs. The entire place had been turned upside down. Apparently Trash had booby-trapped the first things he had come to, the choppers in Hangar 9 and the trucks in the motor pool next door.
Flagg had reiterated his orders that the Trashcan Man was to be killed on sight. The thought of Trash wandering around out in all that government property, where God knew what might be stored, now made him distinctly nervous.
Nervous.
Yes. The beautiful surety was still evaporating. When had that evaporation begun? He could not say, not for sure. All he knew was that things were getting flaky. Lloyd knew it too. He could see it in the way that Lloyd looked at him. It might not be a bad idea if Lloyd had an accident before the winter was out. He was asshole buddies with too many of the people in the palace guard, people like Whitney Horgan and Ken DeMott. Even Burlson, who had spilled that business about the red list. He had thought idly about skinning Paul Burlson alive for that.
But if Lloyd had known about the red list, none of this would have -
"Shut up," he muttered. "Just … shut … up!"
But the thought wouldn't go away that easily. Why hadn't he given Lloyd the names of the top-echelon Free Zone people? He didn't know, couldn't remember. It seemed there had been a perfectly good reason at the time, but the more he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through his fingers. Had it only been a sly-stupid decision not to put too many of his eggs in one basket-a feeling that not too many secrets should be stored with any one person, even a person as stupid and loyal as Lloyd Henreid?
An expression of bewilderment rippled across his face. Had he been making such stupid decisions all along?
And just how loyal was Lloyd, anyway? That expression in his eyes-
Abruptly he decided to push it all aside and levitate. That always made him feel better. It made him feel stronger, more serene, and it cleared his head. He looked out at the desert sky.
(I am, I am, I am, I AM -)
His rundown bootheels left the surface of the sundeck, hovered, rose another inch. Then two. Peace came to him, and suddenly he knew he could find the answers. Everything was clearer. First he must-
"They're coming for you, you know."
He crashed back down at the sound of that soft, uninflected voice. The jarring shock went up his legs and his spine all the way to his jaw, which clicked. He whirled around like a cat. But his blooming grin withered when he saw Nadine. She was dressed in a white nightgown, yards of gauzy material that billowed around her body. Her hair, as white as the gown, blew about her face. She looked like some pallid deranged sibyl, and in spite of himself, Flagg was afraid. She took a delicate step closer. Her feet were bare.
"They're coming. Stu Redman, Glen Bateman, Ralph Brentner, and Larry Underwood. They're coming and they'll kill you like a chicken-stealing weasel."
"They're in Boulder," he said, "hiding under their beds and mourning their dead nigger woman."
"No," she said indifferently. "They're almost in Utah now. They'll be here soon. And they'll stamp you out like a disease."
"Shut up. Go downstairs."
"I'll go down," she said, approaching him, and now it was she who smiled-a smile that filled him with dread. The furious color faded from his cheeks, and his strange, hot vitality seemed to go with it. For a moment he seemed old and frail. "I'll go down … and so will you."
"Get out."
"We'll go down," she sang, smiling … it was horrible. "Down, doowwwn … "
"They're in Boulder!"
"They're almost here."
"Get downstairs! "
"Everything you made here is falling apart, and why not? The effective half-life of evil is always relatively short. People are whispering about you. They're saying you let Tom Cullen get away, just a simple retarded boy but smart enough to outwit Randall Flagg." Her words came faster and faster, now tumbling through a jeering smile. "They're saying your weapons expert has gone crazy and you didn't know it was going to happen. They're afraid that what he brings back from the desert next time may be for them instead of for the people in the East. And they're leaving. Did you know that?"
"You lie," he whispered. His face was parchment white, his eyes bulging. "They wouldn't dare. And if they were, I'd know."
Her eyes gazed blankly over his shoulder to the east. "I see them," she whispered. "They're leaving their posts in the dead of night, and your Eye doesn't see them. They're leaving their posts and sneaking away. A work-crew goes out with twenty people and comes back with eighteen. The border guards are defecting. They're afraid the balance of power is shifting op its arm. They're leaving you, leaving you, and the ones that are left won't lift a finger when the men from the East come to finish you once and for all-"
It snapped. Whatever there was inside him, it snapped.
"YOU LIE! " he screamed at her. His hands slammed down on her shoulders, snapping both collarbones like pencils. He lifted her body high over his head into the faded blue desert sky, and as he pivoted on his heels he threw her, up and out, as he had thrown the glass. He saw the great smile of relief and triumph on her face, the sudden sanity in her eyes, and understood. She had baited him into doing it, understanding somehow that only he could set her free-
And she was carrying his child.
He leaned over the low parapet, almost overbalancing, trying to call back the irrevocable. Her nightgown fluttered. His hand closed on the gauzy material and he felt it rip, leaving him only a scrap of cloth so diaphanous that he could see his fingers through it-the stuff of dreams on waking.
Then she was gone, plummeting straight down with her toes pointed toward the earth, her gown pillowing up her neck and over her face in drifts. She didn't scream.
She went down as silently as a defective skyrocket.
When he heard the indescribable thud of her hard landing, Flagg threw his head back to the sky and howled.
It made no difference, it made no difference.
It was still all in the palm of his hand.
He leaned over the parapet again and watched them come running, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Or maggots to a piece of offal.
They looked so small, and he was so high above them.
He would levitate, he decided, and regain his state of calm.
But it was a long, long time before his bootheels would leave the sundeck, and when they did they would only hover a quarter of an inch above the concrete. They would go no higher.
Tom awoke that night at eight o'clock, but there was still too much light to move. He waited. Nick had come to him again in his sleep, and they had talked. It was so good to talk to Nick.
He lay in the shade of the big rock and watched the sky darken. The stars began to peep out. He thought about Pringle's Potato Chips and wished he had some. When he got back to the Zone-if he did get back to the Zone-he would have all of them he wanted. He would gorge on Pringle's chips. And bask in the love of his friends. That was what was missing back there in Las Vegas, he decided-simple love. They were nice enough people and all, but there wasn't much love in them. Because they were too busy being afraid. Love didn't grow very well in a place where there was only fear, just as plants didn't grow very well in a place where it was always dark.