They moved to take her arms, but she stepped away, holding her arms across her body, and shook her head. "I'll walk," she said.
The casino was deserted except for a number of men with rifles, sitting or standing by the doors. They seemed to find interesting things to look at on the walls, the ceilings, and the bare gaming tables as the elevator doors opened and Lloyd's party stepped out, herding Dayna along.
She was taken to the gate at the end of the rank of cashiers' windows. Lloyd opened it with a small key and they stepped through. She was herded quickly through an area that looked like a bank: there were adding machines, wastebaskets full of paper tapes, jars of rubber bands and paper clips. Computer screens, now gray and blank. Cash drawers ajar. Money had spilled out some of them and lay on the tile floors. Most of the bills were fifties and hundreds.
At the rear of the cashiers' area, Whitney opened another door and Dayna was led down a carpeted hallway to an empty receptionist's office. Tastefully decorated. Free-form white desk for a tasteful secretary who had died, coughing and hacking up great green gobbets of phlegm, some months ago. A picture on the wall that looked like a Klee print. A mellow light-brown shag rug. The antechamber to the seat of power.
Fear trickled into the hollows of her body like cold water, stiffening her up, making her feel awkward. Lloyd leaned over the desk and flicked the toggle switch there. Dayna saw that he was sweating lightly. "We have her, R.F."
She felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her and was helpless to stop it - not that she cared. "R.F.! R.F.! Oh, that's good! Ready when you are, C.B.!" She went off into a gale of giggles, and suddenly Jenny slapped her.
"Shut up!" she hissed. "You don't know what you're in for."
"I know," Dayna said, looking at her. "You and the rest, you're the ones who don't know."
A voice came out of the intercom, warm and pleased and cheerful. "Very good, Lloyd, thanks. Send her in, please."
"Alone?"
"Yes indeed." There was an indulgent chuckle as the intercom cut off. Dayna felt her mouth dry up at the sound of it.
Lloyd turned around. A lot of sweat now, standing out on his forehead in large drops and running down his thin cheeks like tears. "You heard him. Go on."
She folded her arms below her br**sts, keeping the knife turned inward. "Suppose I decline."
"I'll drag you in."
"Look at you, Lloyd. You're so scared you couldn't drag a mongrel puppy in there." She looked at the others. "You're all scared. Jenny, you're practically making in your pants. Not good for your complexion, dear. Or your pants."
"Stop it, you filthy sneak," Jenny whispered.
"I was never scared like that in the Free Zone," Dayna said. "I felt good over there. I came over here because I wanted that good feeling to stay on. It was nothing more political than that. You ought to think it over. Maybe he sells fear because he's got nothing else to sell."
"Ma'am," Whitney said apologetically, "I'd sure like to listen to the rest of your sermon, but the man is waiting. I'm sorry, but you either got to say amen and go through that door on your own or I'll drag you. You can tell your tale to him once you get in there... if you can find enough spit to talk with, that is. But until then, you're our responsibility." And the odd thing is, she thought, he sounds genuinely sorry. Too bad he's also so genuinely scared.
"You won't have to do that."
She forced her feet to get started, and then it was a little easier. She was going to her death; she was quite sure of that. If so, let it be so. She had the knife. For him first, if she could, and then for herself, if necessary.
She thought: My name is Dayna Roberta Jurgens, and I am afraid, but I have been afraid before. All he can take from me is what I would have to give up someday anyhow - my life. I will not let him break me down. I will not let him make me less than I am, if I can possibly help it. I want to die well... and I am going to have what I want.
She turned the knob and stepped through into the inner office... and into the presence of Randall Flagg.
The room was large and mostly bare. The desk had been shoved up against the far wall, the executive swivel chair pinned behind it. The pictures were covered with dropcloths. The lights were off.
Across the room, a drape had been pulled back to uncover a window-wall of glass that looked out on the desert. Dayna thought she had never seen such a sterile and uninviting vista in her life. Overhead was a moon like a small, highly polished silver coin. It was nearly full.