She and Roland began to turn away. And that was when Feemalo and Fumalo, still down on their knees, reached inside the open baskets before them.
Susannah needed no instruction from Roland, not so much as a shouted word. She drew the revolver from her belt and shot down the one on her left-Fumalo-just as he swung a longbarreled silver gun out of the basket. What looked like a scarf was hanging from it. Roland drew from his holster, as blindingly fast as ever, and fired a single shot. Above them the rooks took wing, cawing affrightedly, turning the blue sky momentarily black.
Feemalo, also holding one of the silver guns, collapsed slowly forward across his basket of food with a dying expression of surprise on his face and a bullet-hole dead center in his forehead.
FIVE
Fimalo stood where he was, on the far side of the bridge. His hands were still clasped in front of him, but he no longer looked like Stephen King. He now wore the long, yellowcomplexioned face of an old man who is dying slowly and not well. What hair he had was a dirty gray rather than luxuriant black. His skull was a peeling garden of eczema. His cheeks, chin, and forehead were lumped with pimples and open sores, some pustulating and some bleeding.
"What are you, really?" Roland asked him.
"A hume, just as you are," said Fimalo, resignedly. "Rando Thoughtful was my name during my years as the Crimson King's Minister of State. Once upon a time, however, I was plain old Austin Cornwell, from upstate New York. Not the Keystone World, I regret to say, but another. I ran the Niagara Mall at one time, and before that I had a successful career in advertising. You might be interested to know I worked on accounts for both Nozz-A-La and the Takuro Spirit."
Susannah ignored this bizarre and unexpected resume.
"So he didn't have his top boy beheaded, after all," she said.
"What about the three Stephen Kings?"
"Just a glammer," said the old man. "Are you going to kill me? Go ahead. All I ask is that you make quick work of it. I'm not well, as you must see."
"Was any of what you told us true?" Susannah asked.
His old eyes looked at her with watery amazement. "All of it was," he said, and advanced onto the bridge, where two other old men-his assistants, once upon a time, she had no doubt-lay sprawled. "All of it, anyway, save for one lie... and this." He kicked the baskets over so that the contents spilled out.
Susannah gave an involuntary shout of horror. Oy was up in a flash, standing protectively in front of her with his short legs spread and his head lowered.
"It's all right," she said, but her voice was still trembling. "I was just... startled."
The wicker basket which had seemed to contain all sorts of freshly cooked roasts was actually filled with decaying human limbs-long pork, after all, and in bad shape even considering what it was. The flesh was mostly blue-black and a-teem with maggots.
And there were no clothes in the other basket. What Fimalo had spilled out of it was actually a shiny knot of dying snakes.
Their beady eyes were dull; their forked tongues flickered listlessly in and out; several had already ceased to move.
"You would have refreshed them wonderfully, if you'd pressed them against your skin," Fimalo said regretfully.
"You didn't really expect that to happen, did you?" Roland asked.
"No," the old man admitted. He sat on the bridge with a weary sigh. One of the snakes attempted to crawl into his lap and he pushed it away with a gesture that was both absent and impatient. "But I had my orders, so I did."
Susannah was looking at the corpses of the other two with horrified fascination. Feemalo and Fumalo, nowjust a couple of dead old men, were rotting with unnatural rapidity, their parchment skins deflating toward the bone and oozing slack rivulets of pus. As she watched, the sockets of Feemalo's skull surfaced like twin periscopes, giving the corpse a momentary expression of shock. Some of the snakes crawled and writhed around these decaying corpses. Others were crawling into the basket of maggoty limbs, seeking the undoubtedly warmer regions at the bottom of the heap. Decay brought its own temporary fevers, and she supposed that she herself might be tempted to luxuriate in it while she could. If she were a snake, that was.
"Are you going to kill me?" Fimalo asked.
"Nay," Roland said, "for your duties aren't done. You have another coming along behind."
Fimalo looked up, a gleam of interest in his rheumy old eyes. 'Your son?"
"Mine, and your master's, as well. Would you give him a word for me during your palaver?"
"If I'm alive to give it, sure."
"Tell him that I'm old and crafty, while he's but young.
Tell him that if he lies back, he may live awhile yet with his dreams of revenge... although what I've done to him requiring his vengeance, I know not. And tell him that if he comes forward, I'll kill him as I intend to kill his Red Father."
"Either you listen and don't hear or hear and don't believe,"