At least until ka tired of their antics and swatted them out of the world. Take the truck, take it and go! the shopkeeper was telling him. Its yours! Im giving it to you! Really! If you dont stop flashing those damned keys in my eyes, sai, what Ill take is your breath, Roland said. There was another clock behind the counter. He had already noticed that this world was full of clocks, as if the people who lived here thought that by having so many they could cage time. Ten minutes of four, which meant theyd been Americaside for nine minutes already. Time was racing, racing. Somewhere nearby Stephen King was almost certainly on his afternoon walk, and in desperate danger, although he didnt know it. Or had it happened already? TheyRoland, anywayhad always assumed that the writers death would hit them hard, like another Beamquake, but maybe not. Maybe the impact of his death would be more gradual. How far from here to Turtleback Lane? Roland rapped at the storekeeper. The elderly sai only stared, eyes huge and liquid with terror. Never in his life had Roland felt more like shooting a man  or at least pistolwhipping him. He looked as foolish as a goat with its foot stuck in a crevice. Then the woman lying in front of the meatcounter spoke. She was looking up at Roland and Jake, her hands clasped together at the small of her back. Thats in Lovell, mister. Its about five miles from here. One look in her eyeslarge and brown, fearful but not panickyand Roland decided this was the one he wanted, not the storekeeper. Unless, that was He turned to Jake. Can you drive the shopkeepers truck five miles? Roland saw the boy wanting to say yes, then realizing he couldnt afford to risk ultimate failure by trying to do a thing hecity boy that he washad never done in his life. No, Jake said. I dont think so. What about you? Roland had watched Eddie drive John Cullums car. It didnt look that hard  but there was his hip to consider. Rosa had told him that dry twist moved fastlike a fire driven by strong winds, shed saidand now he knew what shed meant. On the trail into Calla Bryn Sturgis, the pain in his hip had been no more than an occasional twinge. Now it was as if the socket had been injected with redhot lead, then wrapped in strands of barbed wire. The pain radiated all the way down his leg to the right ankle. Hed watched how Eddie manipulated the pedals, going back and forth between the one that made the car speed up and the one that made it slow down, always using the right foot. Which meant the ball of the right hip was always rolling in its socket. He didnt think he could do that. Not with any degree of safety. I think not, he said. He took the keys from the shopkeeper, then looked at the woman lying in front of the meatcounter. Stand up, sai, he said. Mrs. Tassenbaum did as she was told, and when she was on her feet, Roland gave her the keys. I keep meeting useful people in here, he thought. If this ones as good as Cullum turned out to be, we might still be all right. Youre going to drive my young friend and me to Lovell, Roland said. To Turtleback Lane, she said. You say true, I say thankya. Are you going to kill me after you get to where you want to go? Not unless you dawdle, Roland said. She considered this, then nodded. Then I wont. Lets go. Good luck, Mrs. Tassenbaum, the shopkeeper told her faintly as she started for the door. If I dont come back, she said, you just remember one thing it was my husband who invented the Internethim and his friends, partly at CalTech and partly in their own garages. Not Albert Gore. Rolands stomach rumbled again. He reached over the counter (the shopkeeper cringed away from him as if he suspected Roland of carrying the red plague), grabbed the womans pile of turkey, and folded three slices into his mouth. The rest he handed to Jake, who ate two slices and then looked down at Oy, who was looking up at the meat with great interest. Ill give you your share when we get in the truck, Jake promised. Ruck, Oy said; then, with much greater emphasis Share! Holy jumping Jesus Christ, the shopkeeper said. FOUR The Yankee shopkeepers accent might have been cute, but his truck wasnt. It was a standard shift, for one thing. Irene Tassenbaum of Manhattan hadnt driven a standard since she had been Irene Cantora of Staten Island. It was also a stick shift, and she had never driven one of those. Jake was sitting beside her with his feet placed around said stick and Oy (still chewing turkey) on his lap. Roland swung into the passenger seat, trying not to snarl at the pain in his leg. Irene forgot to depress the clutch when she keyed the ignition. The IH lurched forward, then stalled. Luckily it had been rolling the roads of western Maine since the midsixties and it was the sedate jump of an elderly mare rather than the spirited buck of a colt; otherwise Chip McAvoy would once more have lost at least one of his plateglass windows. Oy scrabbled for balance on Jakes lap and sprayed out a mouthful of turkey along with a word he had learned from Eddie. Irene stared at the bumbler with wide, startled eyes. Did that creature just say fuck, young man? Never mind what he said, Jake replied. His voice was shaking. The hands of the Boars Head clock in the window now stood at five to four. Like Roland, the boy had never had a sense of time as a thing so little in their control. Use the clutch and get us out of here. Luckily, the shifting pattern had been embossed on the head of the stick shift and was still faintly visible. Mrs. Tassenbaum pushed in the clutch with a sneakered foot, ground the gears hellishly, and finally found Reverse. The truck backed out onto Route 7 in a series of jerks, then stalled halfway across the white line. She turned the ignition key, realizing shed once more forgotten the clutch just a little too late to prevent another series of those spastic leaps. Roland and Jake were now bracing their hands against the dusty metal dashboard, where a faded sticker proclaimed AMERICA! LOVE IT OR LEAVE! in red white and blue. This series of jerks was actually a good thing, for at that moment a truck loaded with logsit was impossible for Roland not to think of the one that had crashed the last time theyd been herecrested the rise to the north of the store. Had the pickup not jerked its way back into the General Stores parking lot (bashing the fender of a parked car as it came to a stop), they would have been centerpunched. And very likely killed. The logging truck swerved, horn blaring, rear wheels spuming up dust. The creature in the boys lapit looked to Mrs. Tassenbaum like some weird mixture of dog and raccoonbarked again. Fuck. She was almost sure of it. The storekeeper and the other patrons were lined up on the other side of the glass, and she suddenly knew what a fish in an aquarium must feel like. Lady, can you drive this thing or not? the boy yelled. He had some sort of bag over his shoulder. It reminded her of a newsboys bag, only it was leather instead of canvas and there appeared to be plates inside. I can drive it, young man, dont you worry. She was terrified, and yet at the same time  was she enjoying this? She almost thought she was. For the last eighteen years shed been little more than the great David Tassenbaums ornament, a supporting character in his increasingly famous life, the lady who said Try one of these as she passed around hors doeuvres at parties. Now, suddenly, she was at the center of something, and she had an idea it was something very important indeed. Take a deep breath, said the man with the hard sunburned face. His brilliant blue eyes fastened upon hers, and when they did it was hard to think of anything else. Also, the sensation was pleasant. If this is hypnosis, she thought, they ought to teach it in the public schools. Hold it, then let it out. And then drive us, for your fathers sake. She pulled in a deep breath as instructed, and suddenly the day seemed brighternearly brilliant. And she could hear faint singing voices. Lovely voices. Was the trucks radio on, tuned to some opera program? No time to check. But it was nice, whatever it was. As calming as the deep breath. Mrs. Tassenbaum pushed in the clutch and restarted the engine. This time she found Reverse on the first try and backed into the road almost smoothly. Her first effort at a forward gear netted her Second instead of First and the truck almost stalled when she eased the clutch out, but then the engine seemed to take pity on her. With a wheeze of loose pistons and a manic rapping from beneath the hood, they began rolling north toward the StonehamLovell line. Do you know where Turtleback Lane is? Roland asked her. Ahead of them, near a sign marked MILLION DOLLAR CAMPGROUND, a battered blue minivan swung out onto the road. Yes, she said. Youre sure? The last thing the gunslinger wanted was to waste precious time casting about for the back road where King lived. Yes. We have friends who live there. The Beckhardts. For a moment Roland could only grope, knowing hed heard the name but not where. Then he got it. Beckhardt was the name of the man who owned the cabin where he and Eddie had had their final palaver with John Cullum. He felt a fresh stab of grief in his heart at the thought of Eddie as hed been on that thundery afternoon, still so strong and vital. All right, he said. I believe you. She glanced at him across the boy sitting between. Youre in one hell of a hurry, misterlike the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. What very important date are you almost too late for? Roland shook his head. Never mind, just drive. He looked at the clock on the dashboard, but it didnt work, had stopped in the longago with the hands pointed at (of course) 919. It may not be too late yet, he said, while ahead of them, unheeded, the blue van began to pull away. It strayed across the white line of Route 7 into the southbound lane and Mrs. Tassenbaum almost committed a bon motsomething about people who started drinking before fivebut then the blue van pulled back into the northbound lane, breasted the next hill, and was gone toward the town of Lovell. Mrs. Tassenbaum forgot about it. She had more interesting things to think about. For instance You dont have to answer what Im going to ask now if you dont want to, she said, but I admit that Im curious are you boys walkins? FIVE Bryan Smith has spent the last couple of nightsalong with his rottweilers, littertwins he has named Bullet and Pistolin the Million Dollar Campground, just over the LovellStoneham line. Its nice there by the river (the locals call the rickety wooden structure spanning the water Million Dollar Bridge, which Bryan understands is a joke, and a pretty funny one, by God). Also, folkshippietypes down from the woods in Sweden, Harrison, and Waterford, mostlysometimes show up there with drugs to sell. Bryan likes to get mellow, likes to get down, may it do ya, and hes down this Saturday afternoon  not a lot, not the way he likes, but enough to give him a good case of the munchies. They have those Marses Bars at the Center Lovell Store. Nothing better for the munchies than those. He pulls out of the campground and onto Route 7 without so much as a glance in either direction, then says Whoops, forgot again! No traffic, though. Later onespecially after the Fourth of July and until Labor Daytherell be plenty of traffic to contend with, even out here in the boonies, and hell probably stay closer to home. He knows he isnt much of a driver; one more speeding ticket or fenderbender and hell probably lose his license for six months. Again. No problem this time, though; nothing coming but an old pickemup, and that babys almost half a mile back. Eat my dust, cowboy! he says, and giggles. He doesnt know why he said cowboy when the word in his mind was muthafuckah, as in eat my dust muthafuckah, but it sounds good. It sounds right. He sees hes drifted into the other lane and corrects his course. Back on the road again! he cries, and lets loose another highpitched giggle. Back on the road again is a good one, and he always uses it on girls. Another good one is when you twist the wheel from side to side, making your car loop back and forth, and you say Ahh jeez, musta had too much coughsyrup! He knows lots of lines like this, even once thought of writing a book called Crazy Road Jokes, wouldnt that be a sketch, Bryan Smith writing a book just like that guy King over in Lovell! He turns on the radio (the van yawing onto the soft shoulder to the left of the tarvy, throwing up a roostertail of dust, but not quite running into the ditch) and gets Steely Dan, singing Hey Nineteen. Good one! Yassuh, wicked good one! He drives a little faster in response to the music. He looks into the rearview mirror and sees his dogs, Bullet and Pistol, looking over the rear seat, brighteyed. For a moment Bryan thinks theyre looking at him, maybe thinking what a good guy he is, then wonders how he can be so stupid. Theres a Styrofoam cooler behind the drivers seat, and a pound of fresh hamburger in it. He means to cook it later over a campfire back at Million Dollar. Yes, and a couple more Marses Bars for dessert, by the hairy old Jesus! Marses Bars are wicked good! You boys nemine that cooler, Bryan Smith says, speaking to the dogs he can see in the rearview mirror. This time the minivan pitches instead of yawing, crossing the white line as it climbs a blind grade at fifty miles an hour. Luckilyor unluckily, depending on your point of viewnothing is coming the other way; nothing puts a stop to Bryan Smiths northward progress. You nemine that hamburg, thats my supper. He says suppah, as John Cullum would, but the face looking back at the brighteyed dogs from the rearview mirror is the face of Sheemie Ruiz. Almost exactly. Sheemie could be Bryan Smiths littertwin. SIX Irene Tassenbaum was driving the truck with more assurance now, standard shift or not. She almost wished she didnt have to turn right a quarter of a mile from here, because that would necessitate using the clutch again, this time to downshift. But that was Turtleback Lane right up ahead, and Turtleback was where these boys wanted to go. Walkins! They said so, and she believed it, but who else would? Chip McAvoy, maybe, and surely the Reverend Peterson from that crazy Church of the WalkIns down in Stoneham Corners, but anyone else? Her husband, for instance? Nope. Never. If you couldnt engrave a thing on a microchip, David Tassenbaum didnt believe it was real. She wonderednot for the first time latelyif fortyseven was too old to think about a divorce. She shifted back to Second without grinding the gears too much, but then, as she turned off the highway, had to shift all the way down to First when the silly old pickup began to grunt and chug. She thought that one of her passengers would make some sort of smart comment (perhaps the boys mutant dog would even say fuck again), but all the man in the passenger seat said was, This doesnt look the same. When were you here last? Irene Tassenbaum asked him. She considered shifting up to second gear again, then decided to leave things just as they were. If it aint broke, dont fix it, David liked to say. Its been awhile, the man admitted. She had to keep sneaking glances at him. There was something strange and exotic about himespecially his eyes. It was as if theyd seen things shed never even dreamed of. Stop it, she told herself. Hes probably a drugstore cowboy all the way from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. But she kind of doubted that. The boy was odd, as well him and his exotic crossbreed dogbut they were nothing compared to the man with the haggard face and the strange blue eyes. Eddie said it was a loop, the boy said. Maybe last time you guys came in from the other end. The man considered this and nodded. Would the other end be the Bridgton end? he asked the woman. Yes indeed. The man with the odd blue eyes nodded. Were going to the writers house. Cara Laughs, she said at once. Its a beautiful house. Ive seen it from the lake, but I dont know which driveway Its nineteen, the man said. They were currently passing the one marked 27. From this end of Turtleback Lane, the numbers would go down rather than up. What do you want with him, if I may I be so bold? It was the boy who answered. We want to save his life. SEVEN Roland recognized the steeply descending driveway at once, even though hed last seen it under black, thundery skies, and much of his attention had been taken by the brilliant flying taheen. There was no sign of taheen or other exotic wildlife today. The roof of the house below had been dressed with copper instead of shingles at some point during the intervening years, and the wooded area beyond it had become a lawn, but the driveway was the same, with a sign reading CARA LAUGHS on the lefthand side and one bearing the number 19 in large numerals on the right. Beyond was the lake, sparkling blue in the strong afternoon light. From the lawn came the blat of a hardworking small engine. Roland looked at Jake and was dismayed by the boys pale cheeks and wide, frightened eyes. What? Whats wrong? Hes not here, Roland. Not him, not any of his family. Just the man cutting the grass. Nonsense, you cant Mrs. Tassenbaum began. I know! Jake shouted at her. I know, lady! Roland was looking at Jake with a frank and horrified sort of fascination  but in his current state, the boy either did not understand the look or missed it entirely. Why are you lying, Jake? the gunslinger thought. And then, on the heels of that Hes not. What if its already happened? Jake demanded, and yes, he was worried about King, but Roland didnt think that was all he was worried about. What if hes dead and his familys not here because the police called them, and It hasnt happened, Roland said, but that was all of which he was sure. What do you know, Jake, and why wont you tell me? There was no time to wonder about it now. EIGHT The man with the blue eyes sounded calm as he spoke to the boy, but he didnt look calm to Irene Tassenbaum; not at all. And those singing voices shed first noticed outside the East Stoneham General Store had changed. Their song was still sweet, but wasnt there a note of desperation in it now, as well? She thought so. A high, pleading quality that made her temples throb. How can you know that? the boy called Jake shouted at the manhis father, she assumed. How can you be so fucking sure? Instead of answering the kids question, the one called Roland looked at her. Mrs. Tassenbaum felt the skin of her arms and back break out in gooseflesh. Drive down, sai, may it do ya. She looked doubtfully at the steep slope of the Cara Laughs driveway. If I do, I might not get this bucket of bolts back up. Youll have to, Roland said. NINE The man cutting the grass was Kings bondservant, Roland surmised, or whatever passed for such in this world. He was whitehaired under his straw hat but straightbacked and hale, wearing his years with little effort. When the truck drove down the steep driveway to the house, the man paused with one arm resting on the handle of the mower. When the passenger door opened and the gunslinger got out, he used the switch to turn the mower off. He also removed his hatwithout being exactly aware that he was doing it, Roland thought. Then his eyes registered the gun that hung at Rolands hip, and widened enough to make the crowsfeet around them disappear. Howdy, mister, he said cautiously. He thinks Im a walkin, Roland thought. Just as she did. And they were walkins of a sort, he and Jake; they just happened to have come to a time and place where such things were common. And where time was racing. Roland spoke before the man could go on. Where are they? Where is he? Stephen King? Speak, man, and tell me the truth! The hat slipped from the old mans relaxing fingers and fell beside his feet on the newly cut grass. His hazel eyes stared into Rolands, fascinated the bird looking at the snake. Famblys across the lake, at that place they gut on tother side, he said. Told Schindler place. Havin some kind of paty, they are. Steve said hed drive over after his walk. And he gestured to a small black car parked on the driveway extension, its nose just visible around the side of the house. Where is he walking? Do ya know, tell this lady! The old man looked briefly over Rolands shoulder, then back to the gunslinger. Be easier was I tdrive ya there mself. Roland considered this, but only briefly. Easier to begin with, yes. Maybe harder on the other end, where King would either be saved or lost. Because theyd found the woman in kas road. However minor a role she might have to play, it was her they had found first on the Path of the Beam. In the end it was as simple as that. As for the size of her part, it was better not to judge such things in advance. Hadnt he and Eddie believed John Cullum, met in that same roadside store some three wheels north of here, would have but a minor role to play in their story? Yet it had turned out to be anything but. All of this crossed his consciousness in less than a second, information (hunch, Eddie would have called it) delivered in a kind of brilliant mental shorthand. No, he said, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. Tell her. Now. TEN The boy  Jake  had fallen back against the seat with his hands lying limp at his sides. The peculiar dog was looking anxiously up into the kids face, but the kid didnt see him. His eyes were closed, and Irene Tassenbaum at first thought hed fainted. Son?  Jake? I have him, the boy said without opening his eyes. Not Stephen KingI cant touch himbut the other one. I have to slow him down. How can I slow him down? Mrs. Tassenbaum had listened to her husband enough at work  holding long, muttered dialogues with himself to know a selfdirected enquiry when she heard one. Also, she had no idea of whom the boy was speaking, only that it wasnt Stephen King. Which left about six billion other possibilities, globally speaking. Nevertheless, she did answer, because she knew what always slowed her down. Too bad he doesnt need to go to the bathroom, she said. ELEVEN Strawberries arent out in Maine, not this early in the season, but there are raspberries. Justine Anderson (of Maybrook, New York) and Elvira Toothaker (her Lovell friend) are walking along the side of Route 7 (which Elvira still calls The Old Fryeburg Road) with their plastic buckets, harvesting from the bushes which run for at least half a mile along the old rock wall. Garrett McKeen built that wall a hundred years ago, and it is to Garretts greatgrandson that Roland Deschain of Gilead is speaking at this very moment. Ka is a wheel, do ya not kennit. The two women have enjoyed their hours walk, not because either of them has any great love of raspberries (Justine reckons she wont even eat hers; the seeds get caught in her teeth) but because its given them a chance to catch up on their respective families and to laugh a little together about the years when their friendship was new and probably the most important thing in either girls life. They met at Vassar College (a thousand years ago, so it does seem) and carried the Daisy Chain together at graduation the year they were juniors. This is what they are talking about when the blue minivanit is a 1985 Dodge Caravan, Justine recognizes the make and model because her oldest son had one just like it when his tribe started growingcomes around the curve by Melders German Restaurant and Brathaus. Its all over the road, looping from side to side, first spuming up dust from the southbound shoulder, then plunging giddily across the tar and spuming up more from the northbound one. The second time it does thisrolling toward them now, and coming at a pretty damned good clipJustine thinks it may actually go into the ditch and turn over (turn turtle, they used to say back in the forties, when she and Elvira had been at Vassar), but the driver hauls it back on the road just before that can happen. Look out, that persons drunk or something! Justine says, alarmed. She pulls Elvira back, but they find their way blocked by the old wall with its dressing of raspberry bushes. The thorns catch at their slacks ( thank goodness neither of us was wearing shorts, Justine will think later  when she has time to think) and pull out little puffs of cloth. Justine is thinking she should put an arm around her friends shoulder and tumble them both over the thighhigh walldo a backflip, just like in gym class all those years agobut before she can make up her mind to do it, the blue van is by them, and at the moment it passes, its more or less on the road and not a danger to them. Justine watches it go by in a muffled blare of rock music, her heart thumping heavily in her chest, the taste of something her body has dumpedadrenaline would be the most likely possibilityflat and metallic on her tongue. And halfway up the hill the little blue van once again lurches across the white line. The driver corrects the drift no, overcorrects . Once more the blue van is on the righthand shoulder, spuming up yellow dust for fifty yards. Gosh, I hope Stephen King sees that asshole, Elvira says. They have passed the writer half a mile or so back, and said hello. Probably everyone in town has seen him on his afternoon walk, at one time or another. As if the driver of the blue van has heard Elvira Toothaker call him an asshole, the vans brakelights flare. The van suddenly pulls all the way off the road and stops. When the door opens, the ladies hear a louder blast of rock and roll music. They also hear the drivera manyelling at someone (Elvira and Justine just pity the person stuck driving with that guy on such a beautiful June afternoon). You leave at alone! he shouts. That aint yoahs, yhear? And then the driver reaches back into the van, brings out a cane, and uses it to help him over the rock wall and into the bushes. The van sits rumbling on the soft shoulder, drivers door open, emitting blue exhaust from one end and rock from the other. Whats he doing? Justine asks, a little nervously. Taking a leak would be my guess, her friend replies. But if Mr. King back there is lucky, maybe doing Number Two, instead. That might give him time to get off Route 7 and back onto Turtleback Lane. Suddenly Justine doesnt feel like picking berries anymore. She wants to go back home and have a strong cup of tea. The man comes limping briskly out of the bushes and uses his cane to help him back over the rock wall. I guess he didnt need to Number Two, Elvira says, and as the bad driver climbs back into his blue van, the two goingonold women look at each other and burst into giggles. TWELVE Roland watched the old man give the woman instructions something about using Warringtons Road as a shortcutand then Jake opened his eyes. To Roland the boy looked unutterably weary. I was able to make him stop and take a leak, he said. Now hes fixing something behind his seat. I dont know what it is, but it wont keep him busy for long. Roland, this is bad. Were awfully late. We have to go. Roland looked at the woman, hoping that his decision not to replace her behind the wheel with the old man had been the right one. Do you know where to go? Do you understand? Yes, she said. Up Warringtons to Route 7. We sometimes go to dinner at Warringtons. I know that road. Cant guarantee youll cut his path goin that way, said the caretaker, but it seems likely. He bent down to pick up his hat and began to brush bits of freshly cut grass from it. He did this with long, slow strokes, like a man caught in a dream. Ayuh, seems likely tme. And then, still like a man who dreams awake, he tucked his hat beneath his arm, raised a fist to his forehead, and bent a leg to the stranger with the big revolver on his hip. Why would he not? The stranger was surrounded by white light. THIRTEEN When Roland pulled himself back into the cab of the storekeepers trucka chore made more difficult by the rapidly escalating pain in his right hiphis hand came down on Jakes leg, and just like that he knew what Jake had been keeping back, and why. He had been afraid that knowing might cause the gunslingers focus to drift. It was not kashume the boy had felt, or Roland would have felt it, too. How could there be kashume among them, with the tet already broken? Their special power, something greater than all of them, perhaps drawn from the Beam itself, was gone. Now they were just three friends (four, counting the bumbler) united by a single purpose. And they could save King. Jake knew it. They could save the writer and come a step closer to saving the Tower by doing so. But one of them was going to die doing it. Jake knew that, too. FOURTEEN An old sayingone taught to him by his fathercame to Roland then If ka will say so, let it be so. Yes; all right; let it be so. During the long years he had spent on the trail of the man in black, the gunslinger would have sworn nothing in the universe could have caused him to renounce the Tower; had he not literally killed his own mother in pursuit of it, back at the start of his terrible career? But in those years he had been friendless, childless, and (he didnt like to admit it, but it was true) heartless. He had been bewitched by that cold romance the loveless mistake for love. Now he had a son and he had been given a second chance and he had changed. Knowing that one of them must die in order to save the writerthat their fellowship must be reduced again, and so soonwould not make him cry off. But he would make sure that Roland of Gilead, not Jake of New York, provided the sacrifice this time. Did the boy know that hed penetrated his secret? No time to worry about that now. Roland slammed the truckomobiles door shut and looked at the woman. Is your name Irene? he asked. She nodded. Drive, Irene. Do it as if Lord High Splitfoot were on your trail with rape on his mind, do ya I beg. Out Warringtons Road. If we dont see him there, out the SevenRoad. Will you? Youre fucking right, said Mrs. Tassenbaum, and shoved the gearshift into First with real authority. The engine screamed, but the truck began to roll backward, as if so frightened by the job ahead that it would rather finish up in the lake. Then she engaged the clutch and the old International Harvester leaped ahead, charging up the steep incline of the driveway and leaving a trail of blue smoke and burnt rubber behind. Garrett McKeens greatgrandson watched them go with his mouth hanging open. He had no idea what had just happened, but he felt sure that a great deal depended on what would happen next. Maybe everything. FIFTEEN Needing to piss that bad was weird, because pissing was the last thing Bryan Smith had done before leaving the Million Dollar Campground. And once hed clambered over the fucking rock wall, he hadnt been able to manage more than a few drops, even though it had felt like a real bladderbuster at the time. Bryan hopes hes not going to have trouble with his prostrate; trouble with the old prostrate is the last thing he needs. Hes got enough other problems, by the hairy old Jesus. Oh well, now that hes stopped he might as well try to fix the Styrofoam cooler behind the seatthe dogs are still staring at it with their tongues hanging out. He tries to wedge it underneath the seat, but it wont gotheres not quite enough clearance. What he does instead is to point a dirty finger at his rotties and tell them again to nemine the cooler and the meat inside, thats his, thats gonna be his suppah. This time he even thinks to add a promise that later on hell mix a little of the hamburger in with their Purina, if theyre good. This is fairly deep thinking for Bryan Smith, but the simple expedient of swinging the cooler up front and putting it in the unoccupied passenger seat never occurs to him. You leave it alone ! he tells them again, and hops back behind the wheel.


He slams the door, takes a brief glance in the rearview mirror, sees two old ladies back there (he didnt notice them before because he wasnt exactly looking at the road when he passed them), gives them a wave they never see through the Caravans filthy rear window, and then pulls back onto Route 7. Now the radio is playing Gangsta Dream 19, by OwtRayJuss, and Bryan turns it up (once more swerving across the white line and into the northbound lane as he does sothis is the sort of person who simply cannot fix the radio without looking at it). Rap rules! And metal rules, too! All he needs now to make his day complete is a tune by OzzyCrazy Train would be good. And some of those Marses bars. SIXTEEN Mrs. Tassenbaum came bolting out of the Cara Laughs driveway and onto Turtleback Lane in second gear, the old pickup trucks engine overcranking (if thered been an RPM gauge on the dashboard, the needle would undoubtedly have been redlining), the few tools in the back tapdancing crazily in the rusty bed. Roland had only a bit of the touchhardly any at all, compared to Jakebut he had met Stephen King, and taken him down into the false sleep of hypnosis. That was a powerful bond to share, and so he wasnt entirely surprised when he touched the mind Jake hadnt been able to reach. It probably didnt hurt that King was thinking about them. He often does on his walks, Roland thought. When hes alone, he hears the Song of the Turtle and knows that he has a job to do. One hes shirking. Well, my friend, that ends today. If, that was, they could save him. He leaned past Jake and looked at the woman. Cant you make this godscursed thing go faster? Yes, she said. I believe I can. And then, to Jake Can you really read minds, son, or is that only a game you and your friend play? I cant read them, exactly, but I can touch them, Jake said. I hope to hell thats the truth, she said, because Turtlebacks hilly and only one lane wide in places. If you sense someone coming the other way, you have to let me know. I will. Excellent, said Irene Tassenbaum. She bared her teeth in a grin. Really, there was no longer any doubt this was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The most exciting thing. Now, as well as hearing those singing voices, she could see faces in the leaves of the trees on the sides of the road, as if they were being watched by a multitude. She could feel some tremendous force gathering all around them, and she was possessed by a sudden giddy notion that if she floored the gaspedal of Chip McAvoys old rusty pickup, it might go faster than the speed of light. Powered by the energy she sensed around them, it might outrace time itself. Well, lets just see about that, she thought. She swung the IH into the middle of Turtleback Lane, then punched the clutch and yanked the gearshift into Third. The old truck didnt go faster than the speed of light, and it didnt outrace time, but the speedometer needle climbed to fifty  and then past. The truck crested a hill, and when it started down the other side it flew briefly into the air. At least someone was happy; Irene Tassenbaum shouted in excitement. SEVENTEEN Stephen King takes two walks, the short one and the long one. The short one takes him out to the intersection of Warringtons Road and Route 7, then back to his house, Cara Laughs, the same way. That one is three miles. The long walk (which also happens to be the name of a book he once wrote under the Bachman name, back before the world moved on) takes him past the Warringtons intersection, down Route 7 as far as the Slab City Road, then all the way back Route 7 to Berry Hill, bypassing Warringtons Road. This walk returns him to his house by way of the north end of Turtleback Lane, and is four miles. This is the one he means to take today, but when he gets back to the intersection of 7 and Warringtons he stops, playing with the idea of going back the short way. Hes always careful about walking on the shoulder of the public road, though traffic is light on Route 7, even in summer; the only time this highway ever gets busy is when the Fryeburg Fairs going on, and that doesnt start until the first week of October. Most of the sightlines are good, anyway. If a bad drivers coming (or a drunk) you can usually spot him half a mile away, which gives you plenty of time to vacate the area. Theres only one blind hill, and thats the one directly beyond the Warringtons intersection. Yet thats also an aerobic hill, one that gets the old heart really pumping, and isnt that what hes doing all these stupid walks for? To promote what the TV talking heads call heart healthiness? Hes quit drinking, hes quit doping, hes almost quit smoking, he exercises. What else is there? Yet a voice whispers to him just the same. Get off the main road, it says. Go on back to the house. Youll have an extra hour before you have to meet the rest of them for the party on the other side of the lake. You can do some work. Maybe start the next Dark Tower story; you know its been on your mind. Aye, so it has, but he already has a story to work on, and he likes it fine. Going back to the tale of the Tower means swimming in deep water. Maybe drowning there. Yet he suddenly realizes, standing here at this crossroads, that if he goes back early he will begin. He wont be able to help himself. Hell have to listen to what he sometimes thinks of as VesKa Gan, the Song of the Turtle (and sometimes as Susannahs Song). Hell junk the current story, turn his back on the safety of the land, and swim out into that dark water once again. Hes done it four times before, but this time hell have to swim all the way to the other side. Swim or drown. No, he says. He speaks aloud, and why not? Theres no one to hear him out here. He perceives, faintly, the attenuate sound of an approaching vehicleor is it two? one on Route 7 and one on Warringtons Road?but thats all. No, he says again. Im gonna walk, and then Im gonna party. No more writing today. Especially not that. And so, leaving the intersection behind, he begins making his way up the steep hill with its short sightline. He begins to walk toward the sound of the oncoming Dodge Caravan, which is also the sound of his oncoming death. The ka of the rational world wants him dead; that of the Prim wants him alive, and singing his song. So it is that on this sunny afternoon in western Maine, the irresistible force rushes toward the immovable object, and for the first time since the Prim receded, all worlds and all existence turn toward the Dark Tower which stands at the far end of CanKa No Rey, which is to say the Red Fields of None. Even the Crimson King ceases his angry screaming. For it is the Dark Tower that will decide. Resolution demands a sacrifice, King says, and although no one hears but the birds and he has no idea what this means, he is not disturbed. Hes always muttering to himself; its as though there is a Cave of Voices in his head, one full of brilliantbut not necessarily intelligentmimics. He walks, swinging his arms beside his bluejeaned thighs, unaware that his heart is (isnt) finishing its last few beats, that his mind is (isnt) thinking its last few thoughts, that his voices are (arent) making their last Delphic pronouncements. VesKa Gan, he says, amused by the sound of ityet attracted, too. He has promised himself that hell try not to stuff his Dark Tower fantasies with unpronounceable words in some madeup (not to say fuckedup) languagehis editor, Chuck Verrill in New York, will only cut most of them if he doesbut his mind seems to be filling up with such words and phrases all the same ka, katet, sai, soh, cantoi (that one at least is from another book of his, Desperation ), taheen. Can Tolkiens Cirith Ungol and H. P. Lovecrafts Great Blind Fiddler, Nyarlathotep, be far behind? He laughs, then begins to sing a song one of his voices has given him. He thinks he will certainly use it in the next gunslinger book, when he finally allows the Turtle its voice again. Commalacomeone, he sings as he walks, theres a young man with a gun. That young man lost his honey when she took it on the run. And is that young man Eddie Dean? Or is it Jake Chambers? Eddie, he says out loud. Eddies the gunny with the honey. Hes so deep in thought that at first he doesnt see the roof of the blue Dodge Caravan as it comes over the short horizon ahead of him and so does not realize this vehicle is not on the highway at all, but on the soft shoulder where he is walking. Nor does he hear the oncoming roar of the pickup truck behind him. EIGHTEEN Bryan hears the scrape of the coolers lid even over the funky riprap beat of the music, and when he looks in the rearview mirror hes both dismayed and outraged to see that Bullet, always the more forward of the two rotties, has leaped from the storage area at the rear of the van into the passenger compartment. Bullets rear legs are up on the dirty seat, his stubby tail is wagging happily, and his nose is buried in Bryans cooler. At this point any reasonable driver would pull over to the side of the road, stop his vehicle, and take care of his wayward animal. Bryan Smith, however, has never gotten high marks for reason when behind the wheel, and has the driving record to prove it. Instead of pulling over, he twists around to the right, steering with his left hand and shoving ineffectually at the top of the rottweilers flat head with his right. Leave at alone! he shouts at Bullet as his minivan drifts first toward the righthand shoulder and then onto it. Din you hear me, Bullet? Are you foolish? Leave at alone! He actually succeeds in shoving the dogs head up for a moment, but theres no fur for his fingers to grasp and Bullet, while no genius, is smart enough to know he has at least one more chance to grab the stuff in the white paper, the stuff radiating that entrancing red smell. He dips beneath Bryans hand and seizes the wrapped package of hamburger in his jaws. Drop it! Bryan screams. You drop it right  NOW! In order to gain the purchase necessary to twist further in the drivers bucket, he presses down firmly with both feet. One of them, unfortunately, is on the accelerator. The van puts on a burst of speed as it rushes toward the top of the hill. At this moment, in his excitement and outrage, Bryan has completely forgotten where he is (Route 7) and what hes supposed to be doing (driving a van). All he cares about is getting the package of meat out of Bullets jaws. Gimme it! he shouts, tugging. Tail wagging more furiously than ever (to him its now a game as well as a meal), Bullet tugs back. Theres the sound of ripping butchers paper. The van is now all the way off the road. Beyond it is a grove of old pines lit by lovely afternoon light a haze of green and gold. Bryan thinks only of the meat. Hes not going to eat hamburg with dogdrool on it, and you best believe it. Gimme it! he says, not seeing the man in the path of his van, not seeing the truck that has now pulled up just behind the man, not seeing the trucks passenger door open or the lanky cowboytype who leaps out, a revolver with big yellow grips spilling from the holster on his hip and onto the ground as he does; Bryan Smiths world has narrowed to one very bad dog and one package of meat. In the struggle for the meat, bloodroses are blooming on the butchers paper like tattoos. NINETEEN There he is! the boy named Jake shouted, but Irene Tassenbaum didnt need him to tell her. Stephen King was wearing jeans, a chambray workshirt, and a baseball cap. He was well beyond the place where the road to Warringtons intersected with Route 7, about a quarter of the way up the slope. She punched the clutch, downshifted to Second like a NASCAR driver with the checkered flag in view, then turned hard left, hauling on the wheel with both hands. Chip McAvoys pickup truck teetered but did not roll. She saw the twinkle of sun on metal as a vehicle coming the other way reached the top of the hill King was climbing. She heard the man sitting by the door shout, Pull in behind him! She did as he told her, even though she could now see that the oncoming vehicle was off the road and thus apt to broadside them. Not to mention crushing Stephen King in a metal sandwich between them. The door popped open and the one named Roland halfrolled, halfjumped out of the truck. After that, things happened very, very fast. CHAPTER II VESKA GAN ONE What happened was lethally simple Rolands bad hip betrayed him. He went to his knees with a cry of mingled rage, pain, and dismay. Then the sunlight was blotted out as Jake leaped over him without so much as breaking stride. Oy was barking crazily from the cab of the truck AkeAke! AkeAke! Jake, no! Roland shouted. He saw it all with a terrible clarity. The boy seized the writer around the waist as the blue vehicleneither a truck nor a car but seemingly a cross between the twobore down upon them in a roar of dissonant music. Jake turned King to the left, shielding him with his body, and so it was Jake the vehicle struck. Behind the gunslinger, who was now on his knees with his bleeding hands buried in the dirt, the woman from the store screamed. JAKE, NO! Roland bellowed again, but it was too late. The boy he thought of as his son disappeared beneath the blue vehicle. The gunslinger saw one small upraised handwould never forget itand then that was gone, too. King, struck first by Jake and then by the weight of the van behind Jake, was thrown to the edge of the little grove of trees, ten feet from the point of impact. He landed on his right side, hitting his head on a stone hard enough to send the cap flying from his head. Then he rolled over, perhaps intending to try for his feet. Or perhaps intending nothing at all; his eyes were shocked zeroes. The driver hauled on his vehicles steering wheel and it slipped past on Rolands left, missing him by inches, merely throwing dust into his face instead of running him down. By then it was slowing, the driver perhaps applying the machines brake now that it was too late. The side squalled across the hood of the pickup truck, slowing the van further, but it was not done doing damage even so. Before coming to a complete stop it struck King again, this time as he lay on the ground. Roland heard the snap of a breaking bone. It was followed by the writers cry of pain. And now Roland knew for sure about the pain in his own hip, didnt he? It had never been dry twist at all. He scrambled to his feet, only peripherally aware that his pain was entirely gone. He looked at Stephen Kings unnaturally twisted body beneath the left front wheel of the blue vehicle and thought Good! with unthinking savagery. Good! If someone has to die here, let it be you! To hell with Gans navel, to hell with the stories that come out of it, to hell with the Tower, let it be you and not my boy! The bumbler raced past Roland to where Jake lay on his back at the rear of the van with blue exhaust blowing into his open eyes. Oy did not hesitate; he seized the Oriza pouch that was still slung over Jakes shoulder and used it to pull the boy away from the van, doing it inch by inch, his short strong legs digging up puffs of dust. Blood was pouring from Jakes ears and the corners of his mouth. The heels of his shorboots left a double line of tracks in the dirt and crisp brown pine needles. Roland staggered to Jake and fell on his knees beside him. His first thought was that Jake was all right after all. The boys limbs were straight, thank all the gods, and the mark running across the bridge of his nose and down one beardless cheek was oil flecked with rust, not blood as Roland had first assumed. There was blood coming out of his ears, yes, and his mouth, too, but the latter stream might only be flowing from a cut in the lining of his cheek, or Go and see to the writer, Jake said. His voice was calm, not at all constricted by pain. They might have been sitting around a little cookfire after a day on the trail, waiting for what Eddie liked to call vittles or, if he happened to be feeling particularly humorous (as he often was), wittles. The writer can wait, Roland said curtly, thinking Ive been given a miracle. One made by the combination of a boys yielding, notquitefinished body, and the soft earth that gave beneath him when that bastards truckomobile ran over him. No, Jake said. He cant. And when he moved, trying to sit up, his shirt pulled a little tighter against the top half of his body and Roland saw the dreadful concavity of the boys chest. More blood poured from Jakes mouth, and when he tried to speak again he began to cough, instead. Rolands heart seemed to twist like a rag inside his chest, and there was a moment to wonder how it could possibly go on beating in the face of this. Oy voiced a moaning cry, Jakes name expressed in a halfhowl that made Rolands arms burst out in gooseflesh. Dont try to talk, Roland said. Something may be sprung inside of you. A rib, mayhap two. Jake turned his head to the side. He spat out a mouthful of bloodsome of it ran down his cheek like chewing tobacco and took a hold on Rolands wrist. His grip was strong; so was his voice, each word clear. Everythings sprung. This is dyingI know because Ive done it before. What he said next was what Roland had been thinking just before they started out from Cara Laughs If ka will say so, let it be so. See to the man we came to save! It was impossible to deny the imperative in the boys eyes and voice. It was done, now, the Ka of Nineteen played out to the end. Except, perhaps, for King. The man they had come to save. How much of their fate had danced from the tips of his flying, tobaccostained fingers? All? Some? This? Whatever the answer, Roland could have killed him with his bare hands as he lay pinned beneath the machine that had struck him, and never mind that King hadnt been driving the van; if he had been doing what ka had meant him to be doing, he never would have been here when the fool came calling, and Jakes chest wouldnt have that terrible sunken look. It was too much, coming so soon after Eddie had been bushwhacked. And yet Dont move, he said, getting up. Oy, dont let him move. I wont move. Every word still clear, still sure. But now Roland could see blood also darkening the bottom of Jakes shirt and the crotch of his jeans, blooming there like roses. Once before he died and had come back. But not from this world. In this one, death was always for keeps. Roland turned to where the writer lay. TWO When Bryan Smith tried to get out from behind the wheel of his van, Irene Tassenbaum pushed him rudely back in. His dogs, perhaps smelling blood or Oy or both, were barking and capering wildly behind him. Now the radio was pounding out some new and utterly hellish heavy metal tune. She thought her head would split, not from the shock of what had just happened but from pure racket. She saw the mans revolver lying on the ground and picked it up. The small part of her mind still capable of coherent thought was amazed by the weight of the thing. Nevertheless, she pointed it at the man, then reached past him and punched the power button on the radio. With the blaring fuzztone guitars gone, she could hear birds as well as two barking dogs and one howling  well, one howling whateveritwas. Back your van off the guy you hit, she said. Slowly. And if you run over the kid again when you do it, I swear Ill blow your jackass head off. Bryan Smith stared at her with bloodshot, bewildered eyes. What kid? he asked. THREE When the vans front wheel rolled slowly off the writer, Roland saw that his lower body was twisted unnaturally to the right and a lump pushed out the leg of his jeans on that side. His thighbone, surely. In addition, his forehead had been split by the rock against which it had fetched up, and the right side of his face was drowned in blood. He looked worse than Jake, worse by far, but a single glance was enough to tell the gunslinger that if his heart was strong and the shock didnt kill him, hed probably live through this. Again he saw Jake seizing the man about the waist, shielding him, taking the impact with his own smaller body. You again, King said in a low voice. You remember me. Yes. Now. King licked his lips. Thirsty. Roland had nothing to drink, and wouldnt have given more than enough to wet Kings lips even if he had. Liquid could induce vomiting in a wounded man, and vomiting could lead to choking. Sorry, he said. No. Youre not. He licked his lips again. Jake? Over there, on the ground. You know him? King tried to smile. Wrote him. Wheres the one that was with you before? Wheres Eddie? Dead, Roland said. In the DevarToi. King frowned. Devar  ? I dont know that. No. Thats why were here. Why we had to come here. One of my friends is dead, another may be dying, and the tet is broken. All because one lazy, fearful man stopped doing the job for which ka intended him. No traffic on the road. Except for the barking dogs, the howling bumbler, and the chirping birds, the world was silent. They might have been frozen in time. Perhaps we are, Roland thought. He had now seen enough to believe that might be possible. Anything might be possible. I lost the Beam, King said from where he lay on the carpet of needles at the edge of the trees. The light of early summer streamed all around him, that haze of green and gold. Roland reached under King and helped him to sit up. The writer cried out in pain as the swollen ball of his right hip grated in the shattered, compressed remains of its socket, but he did not protest. Roland pointed into the sky. Fat white fairweather cloudslos ngeles, the cowpokes of Mejis had called themhung motionless in the blue, except for those directly above them. There they hied rapidly across the sky, as if blown by a narrow wind. There! Roland whispered furiously into the writers scraped, dirtclogged ear. Directly above you! All around you! Does thee not feel it? Does thee not see it? Yes, King said. I see it now. Aye, and twas always there. You didnt lose it, you turned your cowards eye away. My friend had to save you for you to see it again. Rolands left hand fumbled in his belt and brought out a shell. At first his fingers wouldnt do their old, dexterous trick; they were trembling too badly. He was only able to still them by reminding himself that the longer it took him to do this, the greater the chance that they would be interrupted, or that Jake would die while he was busy with this miserable excuse for a man. He looked up and saw the woman holding his gun on the driver of the van. That was good. She was good why hadnt Gan given the story of the Tower to someone like her? In any case, his instinct to keep her with them had been true. Even the infernal racket of dogs and bumbler had quieted. Oy was licking the dirt and oil from Jakes face, while in the van, Pistol and Bullet were gobbling up the hamburger, this time without interference from their master. Roland turned back to King, and the shell did its old sure dance across the backs of his fingers. King went under almost immediately, as most people did when theyd been hypnotized before. His eyes were still open, but now they seemed to look through the gunslinger, beyond him. Rolands heart screamed at him to get through this as quickly as he could, but his head knew better. You must not botch it. Not unless you want to render Jakes sacrifice worthless. The woman was looking at him, and so was the vans driver as he sat in the open door of his vehicle. Sai Tassenbaum was fighting it, Roland saw, but Bryan Smith had followed King into the land of sleep. This didnt surprise the gunslinger much. If the man had the slightest inkling of what hed done here, hed be apt to seize any opportunity for escape. Even a temporary one. The gunslinger turned his attention back to the man who was, he supposed, his biographer. He started just as he had before. Days ago in his own life. Over two decades ago in the writers. Stephen King, do you see me? Gunslinger, I see you very well. When did you last see me? When we lived in Bridgton. When my tet was young. When I was just learning how to write. A pause, and then he gave what Roland supposed was, for him, the most important way of marking time, a thing that was different for every man When I was still drinking. Are you deep asleep now? Deep. Are you under the pain? Under it, yes. I thank you. The billybumbler howled again. Roland looked around, terribly afraid of what it might signify. The woman had gone to Jake and was kneeling beside him. Roland was relieved to see Jake put an arm around her neck and draw her head down so he could speak into her ear. If he was strong enough to do that Stop it! You saw the changed shape of him under his shirt. You cant afford to waste time on hope. There was a cruel paradox here because he loved Jake, he had to leave the business of Jakes dying to Oy and a woman they had met less than an hour ago. Never mind. His business now was with King. Should Jake pass into the clearing while his back was turned if ka will say so, let it be so. Roland summoned his will and concentration. He focused them to a burning point, then turned his attention to the writer once more. Are you Gan? he asked abruptly, not knowing why this question came to himonly that it was the right question. No, King said at once. Blood ran into his mouth from the cut on his head and he spat it out, never blinking. Once I thought I was, but that was just the booze. And pride, I suppose. No writer is Ganno painter, no sculptor, no maker of music. We are kaska Gan. Not kaGan but kaska Gan. Do you understand? Do you  do you ken? Yes, Roland said. The prophets of Gan or the singers of Gan it could signify either or both. And now he knew why he had asked. And the song you sing is VesKa Gan. Isnt it? Oh, yes! King said, and smiled. The Song of the Turtle. Its far too lovely for the likes of me, who can hardly carry a tune! I dont care, Roland said. He thought as hard and as clearly as his dazed mind would allow. And now youve been hurt. Am I paralyzed? I dont know. Nor care. All I know is that youll live, and when you can write again, youll listen for the Song of the Turtle, VesKa Gan, as you did before. Paralyzed or not. And this time youll sing until the song is done. All right. Youll And UrsKa Gan, the Song of the Bear, King interrupted him. Then he shook his head, although this clearly hurt him despite the hypnotic state he was in. UrsAKa Gan. The Cry of the Bear? The Scream of the Bear? Roland didnt know which. He would have to hope it didnt matter, that it was no more than a writers quibble. A car hauling a motor home went past the scene of the accident without slowing, then a pair of large motorbicycles sped by heading the other way. And an oddly persuasive thought came to Roland time hadnt stopped, but they were, for the time being, dim. Being protected in that fashion by the Beam, which was no longer under attack and thus able to help, at least a little. FOUR Tell him again. There must be no misunderstanding. And no weakening, as he weakened before. He bent down until his face was before Kings face, their noses nearly touching. This time youll sing until the song is done, write until the tale is done. Do you truly ken? And they lived happily ever after until the end of their days, King said dreamily. I wish I could write that. So do I. And he did, more than anything. Despite his sorrow, there were no tears yet; his eyes felt like hot stones in his head. Perhaps the tears would come later, when the truth of what had happened here had a chance to sink in a little. Ill do as you say, gunslinger. No matter how the tale falls when the pages grow thin. Kings voice was itself growing thin. Roland thought he would soon fall into unconsciousness. Im sorry for your friends, truly I am. Thank you, Roland said, still restraining the urge to put his hands around the writers neck and choke the life out of him. He started to stand, but King said something that stopped him. Did you listen for her song, as I told you to do? For the Song of Susannah? I  yes. Now King forced himself up on one elbow, and although his strength was clearly failing, his voice was dry and strong. She needs you. And you need her. Leave me alone now. Save your hate for those who deserve it more. I didnt make your ka any more than I made Gan or the world, and we both know it. Put your foolishness behind youand your griefand do as youd have me do. Kings voice rose to a rough shout; his hand shot out and gripped Rolands wrist with amazing strength. Finish the job! At first nothing came out when Roland tried to reply. He had to clear his throat and start again. Sleep, saisleep and forget everyone here except the man who hit you. Kings eyes slipped closed. Forget everyone here except the man who hit me. You were taking your walk and this man hit you. Walking  and this man hit me. No one else was here. Not me, not Jake, not the woman. No one else, King agreed. Just me and him. Will he say the same? Yar. Very soon youll sleep deep. You may feel pain later, but you feel none now. No pain now. Sleep deep. Kings twisted frame relaxed on the pine needles. Yet before you sleep, listen to me once more, Roland said. Im listening. A woman may come to ywait. Doee dream of love with men? Are you asking if Im gay? Maybe a latent homosexual? King sounded weary but amused. I dont know. Roland paused. I think so. The answer is no, King said. Sometimes I dream of love with women. A little less now that Im older  and probably not at all for awhile, now. That fucking guy really beat me up. Not near so bad as he beat up mine, Roland thought bitterly, but he didnt say this. Ifee dream only of love with women, its a woman that may come to you. Do you say so? King sounded faintly interested. Yes. If she comes, shell be fair. She may speak to you about the ease and pleasure of the clearing. She may call herself Morphia, Daughter of Sleep, or Selena, Daughter of the Moon. She may offer you her arm and promise to take you there. You must refuse. I must refuse. Even if you are tempted by her eyes and breasts. Even then, King agreed. Why will you refuse, sai? Because the Song isnt done. At last Roland was satisfied. Mrs. Tassenbaum was kneeling by Jake. The gunslinger ignored both her and the boy and went to the man sitting slumped behind the wheel of the motorcarriage that had done all the damage. This mans eyes were wide and blank, his mouth slack. A line of drool hung from his beardstubbly chin. Do you hear me, sai? The man nodded fearfully. Behind him, both dogs had grown silent. Four bright eyes regarded the gunslinger from between the seats. Whats your name? Bryan, do it please youBryan Smith. No, it didnt please him at all. Here was yet one more hed like to strangle. Another car passed on the road, and this time the person behind the wheel honked the horn as he or she passed. Whatever their protection might be, it had begun to grow thin. Sai Smith, you hit a man with your car or truckomobile or whatever it is thee calls it. Bryan Smith began to tremble all over. I aint never had so much as a parking ticket, he whined, and I have to go and run into the most famous man in the state! My dogs us fightin Your lies dont anger me, Roland said, but the fear which brings them forth does. Shut thy mouth. Bryan Smith did as told. The color was draining slowly but steadily from his face. You were alone when you hit him, Roland said. No one here but you and the storyteller. Do you understand? I was alone. Mister, are you a walkin? Never mind what I am. You checked him and saw that he was still alive. Still alive, good, Smith said. I didnt mean to hurt nobody, honest. He spoke to you. Thats how you knew he was alive. Yes! Smith smiled. Then he frowned. Whatd he say? You dont remember. You were excited and scared. Scared and excited. Excited and scared. Yes I was. You drive now.


As you drive, youll wake up, little by little. And when you get to a house or a store, youll stop and say theres a man hurt down the road. A man who needs help. Tell it back, and be true. Drive, he said. His hands caressed the steering wheel as if he longed to be gone immediately. Roland supposed he did. Wake up, little by little. When I get to a house or store, tell them Stephen Kings hurt side o the road and he needs help. I know hes still alive because he talked to me. It was an accident. He paused. It wasnt my fault. He was walking in the road. A pause. Probably. Do I care upon whom the blame for this mess falls? Roland asked himself. In truth he did not. King would go on writing either way. And Roland almost hoped he would be blamed, for it was indeed Kings fault; hed had no business being out here in the first place. Drive away now, he told Bryan Smith. I dont want to look at you anymore. Smith started the van with a look of profound relief. Roland didnt bother watching him go. He went to Mrs. Tassenbaum and fell on his knees beside her. Oy sat by Jakes head, now silent, knowing his howls could no longer be heard by the one for whom he grieved. What the gunslinger feared most had come to pass. While he had been talking to two men he didnt like, the boy whom he loved more than all othersmore than hed loved anyone ever in his life, even Susan Delgadohad passed beyond him for the second time. Jake was dead. FIVE He talked to you, Roland said. He took Jake in his arms and began to rock him gently back and forth. The Rizas clanked in their pouch. Already he could feel Jakes body growing cool. Yes, she said. What did he say? He told me to come back for you after the business here is done. Those were his exact words. And he said, Tell my father I love him. Roland made a sound, choked and miserable, deep in his throat. He was remembering how it had been in Fedic, after they had stepped through the door. Hile, Father, Jake had said. Roland had taken him in his arms then, too. Only then he had felt the boys beating heart. He would give anything to feel it beat again. There was more, she said, but do we have time for it now, especially when I could tell you later? Roland took her point immediately. The story both Bryan Smith and Stephen King knew was a simple one. There was no place in it for a lank, travelscoured man with a big gun, nor a woman with graying hair; certainly not for a dead boy with a bag of sharpedged plates slung over his shoulder and a machinepistol in the waistband of his pants. The only question was whether or not the woman would come back at all. She was not the first person he had attracted into doing things they might not ordinarily have done, but he knew things might look different to her once she was away from him. Asking for her promiseDo you swear to come back for me, sai? Do you swear on this boys stilled heart?would do no good. She could mean every word here and then think better of it once she was over the first hill. Yet when hed had a chance to take the shopkeeper who owned the truck, he didnt. Nor had he swapped her for the old man cutting the grass at the writers house. Later will do, he said. For now, hurry on your way. If for some reason you feel you cant come back here, Ill not hold it against you. Where would you go on your own? she asked him. Where would you know to go? This isnt your world. Is it? Roland ignored the question. If there are people still here the first time you come backpeace officers, guards o the watch, bluebacks, I dont knowdrive past without stopping. Come back again in half an hours time. If theyre still here, drive on again. Keep doing that until theyre gone. Will they notice me going back and forth? I dont know, he said. Will they? She considered, then almost smiled. The cops in this part of the world? Probably not. He nodded, accepting her judgment. When you feel its safe, stop. You wont see me, but Ill see you. Ill wait until dark. If youre not here by then, I go. Ill come for you, but I wont be driving that miserable excuse for a truck when I do, she said. Ill be driving a MercedesBenz S600. She said this with some pride. Roland had no idea what a MercedesBends was, but he nodded as though he did. Go. Well talk later, after you come back. If you come back, he thought. I think you may want this, she said, and slipped his revolver back into its holster. Thankeesai. Youre welcome. He watched her go to the old truck (which he thought shed rather come to like, despite her dismissive words) and haul herself up by the wheel. And as she did, he realized there was something he needed, something that might be in the truck. Whoa! Mrs. Tassenbaum had put her hand on the key in the ignition. Now she took it off and looked at him inquiringly. Roland settled Jake gently back to the earth beneath which he must soon lie (it was that thought which had caused him to call out) and got to his feet. He winced and put his hand to his hip, but that was only habit. There was no pain. What? she asked as he approached. If I dont go soon It wouldnt matter if she went at all. Yes. I know. He looked in the bed of the truck. Along with the careless scatter of tools there was a square shape under a blue tarpaulin. The edges of the tarp had been folded beneath the object to keep it from blowing away. When Roland pulled the tarp free, he saw eight or ten boxes made of the stiff paper Eddie called cardboard. Theyd been pushed together to make the square shape. The pictures printed on the cardboard told him they were boxes of beer. He wouldnt have cared if they had been boxes of high explosive. It was the tarpaulin he wanted. He stepped back from the truck with it in his arms and said, Now you can go. She grasped the key that started the engine once more, but did not immediately turn it. Sir, said she, I am sorry for your loss. I just wanted to tell you that. I can see what that boy meant to you. Roland Deschain bowed his head and said nothing. Irene Tassenbaum looked at him for a moment longer, reminded herself that sometimes words were useless things, then started the engine and slammed the door. He watched her drive into the road (her use of the clutch had already grown smooth and sure), making a tight turn so she could drive north, back toward East Stoneham. Sorry for your loss. And now he was alone with that loss. Alone with Jake. For a moment Roland stood surveying the little grove of trees beside the highway, looking at two of the three who had been drawn to this place a man, unconscious, and a boy dead. Rolands eyes were dry and hot, throbbing in their sockets, and for a moment he was sure that he had again lost the ability to weep. The idea horrified him. If he was incapable of tears after all of thisafter what hed regained and then lost againwhat good was any of it? So it was an immense relief when the tears finally came. They spilled from his eyes, quieting their nearly insane blue glare. They ran down his dirty cheeks. He cried almost silently, but there was a single sob and Oy heard it. He raised his snout to the corridor of fastmoving clouds and howled a single time at them. Then he too was silent. SIX Roland carried Jake deeper into the woods, with Oy padding at his heel. That the bumbler was also weeping no longer surprised Roland; he had seen him cry before. And the days when he had believed Oys demonstrations of intelligence (and empathy) might be no more than mimicry had long since passed. Most of what Roland thought about on that short walk was a prayer for the dead he had heard Cuthbert speak on their last campaign together, the one that had ended at Jericho Hill. He doubted that Jake needed a prayer to send him on, but the gunslinger needed to keep his mind occupied, because it did not feel strong just now; if it went too far in the wrong direction, it would certainly break. Perhaps later he could indulge in hysteriaor even irina, the healing madnessbut not now. He would not break now. He would not let the boys death come to nothing. The hazy greengold summerglow that lives only in forests (and old forests, at that, like the one where the Bear Shardik had rampaged), deepened. It fell through the trees in dusky beams, and the place where Roland finally stopped felt more like a church than a clearing. He had gone roughly two hundred paces from the road on a westerly line. Here he set Jake down and looked about. He saw two rusty beercans and a few ejected shellcasings, probably the leavings of hunters. He tossed them further into the woods so the place would be clean. Then he looked at Jake, wiping away his tears so he could see as clearly as possible. The boys face was as clean as the clearing, Oy had seen to that, but one of Jakes eyes was still open, giving the boy an evil winky look that must not be allowed. Roland rolled the lid closed with a finger, and when it sprang back up again (like a balky windowshade, he thought), he licked the ball of his thumb and rolled the lid shut again. This time it stayed closed. There was dust and blood on Jakes shirt. Roland took it off, then took his own off and put it on Jake, moving him like a doll in order to get it on him. The shirt came almost to Jakes knees, but Roland made no attempt to tuck it in; this way it covered the bloodstains on Jakes pants. All of this Oy watched, his goldringed eyes bright with tears. Roland had expected the soil to be soft beneath the thick carpet of needles, and it was. He had a good start on Jakes grave when he heard the sound of an engine from the roadside. Other motorcarriages had passed since hed carried Jake into the woods, but he recognized the dissonant beat of this one. The man in the blue vehicle had come back. Roland hadnt been entirely sure he would. Stay, he murmured to the bumbler. Guard your master. But that was wrong. Stay and guard your friend. It wouldnt have been unusual for Oy to repeat the command (Say! was about the best he could manage) in the same low voice, but this time he said nothing. Roland watched him lie down beside Jakes head, however, and snap a fly out of the air when it came in for a landing on the boys nose. Roland nodded, satisfied, then started back the way he had come. SEVEN Bryan Smith was out of his motorcarriage and sitting on the rock wall by the time Roland got back in view of him, his cane drawn across his lap. (Roland had no idea if the cane was an affectation or something the man really needed, and didnt care about this, either.) King had regained some soupy version of consciousness, and the two men were talking. Please tell me its just sprained, the writer said in a weak, worried voice. Nope! Id say that legs broke in six, maybe seven places. Now that hed had time to settle down and maybe work out a story, Smith sounded not just calm but almost happy. Cheer me up, why dont you, King said. The visible side of his face was very pale, but the flow of blood from the gash on his temple had slowed almost to a stop. Have you got a cigarette? Nope, Smith said in that same weirdly cheerful voice. Gave em up. Although not particularly strong in the touch, Roland had enough of it to know this wasnt so. But Smith only had three and didnt want to share them with this man, who could probably afford enough cigarettes to fill Smiths entire van with them. Besides, Smith thought Besides, folks who been in a accident aint supposed to smoke, Smith said virtuously. King nodded. Hard to breathe, anyway, he said. Prolly bust a rib or two, too. My names Bryan Smith. Im the one who hit you. Sorry. He held out his hand and  incrediblyKing shook it. Nothin like this ever happened to me before, Smith said. I aint ever had so much as a parkin ticket. King might or might not have known this for the lie it was, but chose not to comment on it; there was something else on his mind. Mr. SmithBryanwas anyone else here? In the trees, Roland stiffened. Smith actually appeared to consider this. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Mars bar and began to unwrap it. Then he shook his head. Just you n me. But I called 911 and Rescue, up to the store. They said someone was real close. Said theyd be here in no time. Dont you worry. You know who I am. God yeah! Bryan Smith said, and chuckled. He took a bite of the candy bar and talked through it. Reckonized you right away. I seen all your movies. My favorite was the one about the Saint Bernard. What was that dogs name? Cujo, King said. This was a word Roland knew, one Susan Delgado had sometimes used when they were alone together. In Mejis, cujo meant sweet one. Yeah! That was great! Scary as hell! Im glad that little boy lived! In the book he died. Then King closed his eyes and lay back, waiting. Smith took another bite, a humongous one this time. I liked the show they made about the clown, too! Very cool! King made no reply. His eyes stayed closed, but Roland thought the rise and fall of the writers chest looked deep and steady. That was good. Then a truck roared toward them and swerved to a stop in front of Smiths van. The new motorcarriage was about the size of a funeral bucka, but orange instead of black and equipped with flashing lights. Roland was not displeased to see it roll over the tracks of the storekeepers truck before coming to a stop. Roland halfexpected a robot to get out of the coach, but it was a man. He reached back inside for a black sawbones bag. Satisfied that everything here would be as well as it could be, Roland returned to where he had laid Jake, moving with all his old unconscious grace he cracked not a single twig, surprised not a single bird into flight. EIGHT Would it surprise you, after all weve seen together and all the secrets weve learned, to know that at quarter past five that afternoon, Mrs. Tassenbaum pulled Chip McAvoys old truck into the driveway of a house weve already visited? Probably not, because ka is a wheel, and all it knows how to do is roll. When last we visited here, in 1977, both it and the boathouse on the shore of Keywadin Pond were white with green trim. The Tassenbaums, who bought the place in 94, had painted it an entirely pleasing shade of cream (no trim; to Irene Tassenbaums way of thinking, trim is for folks who cant make up their minds). They have also put a sign reading SUNSET COTTAGE on a post at the head of the driveway, and as far as Uncle Sams concerned its part of their mailing address, but to the local folk, this house at the south end of Keywadin Pond will always be the old John Cullum place. She parked the truck beside her dark red Benz and went inside, mentally rehearsing what shed tell David about why she had the local shopkeepers pickup, but Sunset Cottage hummed with the peculiar silence only empty places have; she picked up on it immediately. She had come back to a lot of empty places apartments at the beginning, bigger and bigger houses as time went byover the years. Not because David was out drinking or womanizing, good Lord forbid. No, he and his friends had usually been out in one garage or another, one basement workshop or another, drinking cheap wine and discount beer from the Beverage Barn, creating the Internet plus all the software necessary to support it and make it userfriendly. The profits, although most would not believe it, had only been a sideeffect. The silence to which their wives so often came home was another. After awhile all that humming silence kind of got to you, made you mad, even, but not today. Today she was delighted the house was just hers. Are you going to sleep with Marshal Dillon, if he wants you? It wasnt a question she even had to think about. The answer was yes, she would sleep with him if he wanted her sideways, backward, doggystyle, or straightup fuck, if that was his pleasure. He wouldnteven if he hadnt been grieving for his young (sai? son?) friend, he wouldnt have wanted to sleep with her, she with her wrinkles, she with her hair going gray at the roots, she with the spare tire which her designer clothes could not quite conceal. The very idea was ludicrous. But yes. If he wanted her, she would. She looked on the fridge and there, under one of the magnets that dotted it (WE ARE POSITRONICS, BUILDING THE FUTURE ONE CIRCUIT AT A TIME, this one said) was a brief note. Ree You wanted me to relax, so Im relaxing (dammit!). I.e. gone fishin with Sonny Emerson, tother end of the lake, ayuh, ayuh. Will be back by 7 unless the bugs are too bad. If I bring you a bass, will you cook  clean? D. PS Something going on at the store big enuf to rate 3 police cars. WALKINS, maybe???? If you hear, fill me in. Shed told him she was going to the store this afternoon eggs and milk that shed of course never gottenand he had nodded. Yes dear, yes dear. But his note held no hint of worry, no sense that he even remembered what shed said. Well, what else did she expect? When it came to David, info entered ear A, info exited ear B. Welcome to GeniusWorld. She turned the note over, plucked a pen from a teacup filled with them, hesitated, then wrote David, Something has happened, and I have to be gone for awhile. 2 days at least, I think maybe 3 or 4. Please dont worry about me and dont call anyone. ESPECIALLY NOT POLICE. Its a stray cat thing. Would he understand that? She thought he would if he remembered how theyd met. At the Santa Monica ASPCA, that had been, among the stacked rows of kennels in back love blooms as the mongrels yap. It sounded like James Joyce to her, by God. He had brought in a stray dog hed found on a suburban street near the apartment where he was staying with half a dozen egghead friends. Shed been looking for a kitten to liven up what was an essentially friendless life. Hed had all his hair then. As for her, shed thought women who dyed theirs mildly amusing. Time was a thief, and one of the first things it took was your sense of humor. She hesitated, then added Love you, Ree Was that true any longer? Well, let it stand, either way. Crossing out what youd written in ink always looked ugly. She put the note back on the fridge with the same magnet to hold it in place. She got the keys to the Mercedes out of the basket by the door, then remembered the rowboat, still tied up at the little stub of dock behind the store. It would be all right there. But then she thought of something else, something the boy had told her. He doesnt know about money. She went into the pantry, where they always kept a slim roll of fifties (there were places out here in the boondocks where she would be willing to swear theyd never even heard of MasterCard) and took three. She started away, shrugged, went back, and took the other three, as well. Why not? She was living dangerously today. On her way out, she paused again to look at the note. And then, for absolutely no reason she could understand, she took the Positronics magnet away and replaced it with an orange slice. Then she left. Never mind the future. For the time being, she had enough to keep her occupied in the present. NINE The emergency bucka was gone, bearing the writer to the nearest hospital or infirmary, Roland assumed. Peace officers had come just as it left, and they spent perhaps half an hour talking with Bryan Smith. The gunslinger could hear the palaver from where he was, just over the first rise. The bluebacks questions were clear and calm, Smiths answers little more than mumbles. Roland saw no reason to stop working. If the blues came back here and found him, he would deal with them. Just incapacitate them, unless they made that impossible; gods knew there had been enough killing. But he would bury his dead, one way or another. He would bury his dead. The lovely greengold light of the clearing deepened. Mosquitoes found him but he did not stop what he was doing in order to slap them, merely let them drink their fill and then lumber off, heavy with their freight of blood. He heard engines starting as he finished handdigging the grave, the smooth roar of two cars and the more uneven sound of Smiths vanmobile. He had heard the voices of only two peace officers, which meant that, unless there had been a third blueback with nothing to say, they were allowing Smith to drive away by himself. Roland thought this rather odd, butlike the question of whether or not King was paralyzedit was none of his matter or mind. All that mattered was this; all that mattered was seeing to his own. He made three trips to collect stones, because a grave dug by hand must necessarily be a shallow one and animals, even in such a tame world as this, are always hungry. He stacked the stones at the head of the hole, a scar lined with earth so rich it could have been black satin. Oy lay by Jakes head, watching the gunslinger come and go, saying nothing. Hed always been different from his kind as they were since the world had moved on; Roland had even speculated that it was Oys extraordinary chattiness that had caused the others in his tet to expel him, and not gently, either. When theyd come upon this fellow, not too far from the town of River Crossing, hed been scrawny to the point of starvation, and with a halfhealed bitemark on one flank. The bumbler had loved Jake from the first Thats as clear as Earth needs, Cort might have said (or Rolands own father, for that matter). And it was to Jake the bumbler had talked the most. Roland had an idea that Oy might fall mostly silent now that the boy was dead, and this thought was another way of defining what was lost. He remembered the boy standing before the people of Calla Bryn Sturgis in the torchlight, his face young and fair, as if he would live forever. I am Jake Chambers, son of Elmer, the Line of Eld, the katet of the Ninety and Nine, he had said, and oh, aye, for here he was in the Ninety and Nine, with his grave all dug, clean and ready for him. Roland began to weep again. He put his hands over his face and rocked back and forth on his knees, smelling the sweet aromatic needles and wishing he had cried off before ka, that old and patient demon, had taught him the real price of his quest. He would have given anything to change what had happened, anything to close this hole with nothing in it, but this was the world where time ran just one way. TEN When he had gained control of himself again, he wrapped Jake carefully in the blue tarpaulin, fashioning a kind of hood around the still, pale face. He would close that face away for good before refilling the grave, but not until. Oy? he asked. Will you say goodbye? Oy looked at Roland, and for a moment the gunslinger wasnt sure he understood. Then the bumbler extended his neck and caressed the boys cheek a last time with his tongue. I, Ake, he said Bye, Jake or I ache, it came to the same. The gunslinger gathered the boy up (how light he was, this boy who had jumped from the barn loft with Benny Slightman, and stood against the vampires with Pere Callahan, how curiously light; as if the growing weight of him had departed with his life) and lowered him into the hole. A crumble of dirt spilled down one cheek and Roland wiped it away. That done, he closed his eyes again and thought. Then, at lasthaltingly he began. He knew that any translation into the language of this place would be clumsy, but he did the best he could. If Jakes spiritman lingered near, it was this language that he would understand. Time flies, knells call, life passes, so hear my prayer. Birth is nothing but death begun, so hear my prayer. Death is speechless, so hear my speech. The words drifted away into the haze of green and gold. Roland let them, then set upon the rest. He spoke more quickly now. This is Jake, who served his ka and his tet. Say true. May the forgiving glance of Smana heal his heart. Say please. May the arms of Gan raise him from the darkness of this earth. Say please. Surround him, Gan, with light. Fill him, Chloe, with strength. If he is thirsty, give him water in the clearing. If he is hungry, give him food in the clearing. May his life on this earth and the pain of his passing become as a dream to his waking soul, and let his eyes fall upon every lovely sight; let him find the friends that were lost to him, and let every one whose name he calls call his in return. This is Jake, who lived well, loved his own, and died as ka would have it. Each man owes a death. This is Jake. Give him peace. He knelt a moment longer with his hands clasped between his knees, thinking he had not understood the true power of sorrow, nor the pain of regret, until this moment. I cannot bear to let him go. But once again, that cruel paradox if he didnt, the sacrifice was in vain. Roland opened his eyes and said, Goodbye, Jake. I love you, dear. Then he closed the blue hood around the boys face against the rain of earth that must follow. ELEVEN When the grave was filled and the rocks placed over it, Roland walked back to the clearing by the road and examined the tale the various tracks told, simply because there was nothing else to do. When that meaningless task was finished, he sat down on a fallen log. Oy had stayed by the grave, and Roland had an idea he might bide there. He would call the bumbler when Mrs. Tassenbaum returned, but knew Oy might not come; if he didnt, it meant that Oy had decided to join his friend in the clearing. The bumbler would simply stand watch by Jakes grave until starvation (or some predator) took him. The idea deepened Rolands sorrow, but he would bide by Oys decision. Ten minutes later the bumbler came out of the woods on his own and sat down by Rolands left boot. Good boy, Roland said, and stroked the bumblers head. Oy had decided to live. It was a small thing, but it was a good thing. Ten minutes after that, a dark red car rolled almost silently up to the place where King had been struck and Jake killed. It pulled over. Roland opened the door on the passenger side and got in, still wincing against pain that wasnt there. Oy jumped up between his feet without being asked, lay down with his nose against his flank, and appeared to go to sleep. Did you see to your boy? Mrs. Tassenbaum asked, pulling away. Yes. Thankeesai. I guess I cant put a marker there, she said, but later on I could plant something. Is there something you think he might like? Roland looked up, and for the first time since Jakes death, he smiled. Yes, he said. A rose. TWELVE They rode for almost twenty minutes without speaking. She stopped at a small store over the Bridgton town line and pumped gas MOBIL, a brand Roland recognized from his wanderings. When she went in to pay, he looked up at los ngeles, running clear and true across the sky. The Path of the Beam, and stronger already, unless that was just his imagination. He supposed it didnt matter if it was. If the Beam wasnt stronger now, it soon would be. They had succeeded in saving it, but Roland felt no gladness at the idea. When Mrs. Tassenbaum came out of the store, she was holding a singletstyle shirt with a picture of a buckawagon on it  a real buckawagon  and words written in a circle. He could make out HOME, but nothing else. He asked her what the words said. BRIDGTON OLD HOME DAYS, JULY 27TH TO JULY 30TH, 1999, she told him. It doesnt really matter what it says as long as it covers your chest. Sooner or later well want to stop, and theres a saying we have in these parts No shirt, no shoes, no service. Your boots look beatup and busted down, but I guess theyll get you through the door of most places. But topless? Huhuh, no way Jos. Ill get you a better shirt later onone with a collar and some decent pants, too. Those jeans are so dirty I bet theyd stand up on their own. She engaged in a brief (but furious) interior debate, then plunged. Youve got Im going to say roughly two billion scars. And thats just on the part of you I can see. Roland did not respond to this. Do you have money? he asked. I got three hundred dollars when I went back to the house to get my car, and I had thirty or forty with me. Also credit cards, but your late friend said to use cash as long as I could. Until you go on by yourself, if possible. He said there might be folks looking for you. He called them low men. Roland nodded. Yes, there would be low men out there, and after all he and his katet had done to thwart the plans of their master, theyd be twice as eager to have his head. Preferably smoking, and on the end of a stick. Also the head of sai Tassenbaum, if they found out about her. What else did Jake tell you? Roland asked. That I must take you to New York City, if you wanted to go there. He said theres a door there that will take you to a place called Faydag. Was there more? Yes. He said there was another place you might want to go before you used the door. She gave him a timid little sideways glance. Is there? He considered this, then nodded. He also spoke to the dog. It sounded as if he was giving the dog orders? Instructions? She looked at him doubtfully. Could that be? Roland thought it could. The woman Jake could only ask. As for Oy  well, it might explain why the bumbler hadnt stayed by the grave, much as he might have wanted to. For awhile they traveled in silence. The road they were on led to a much busier one, filled with cars and trucks running at high speed in many lanes. She had to stop at a tollbooth and give money to get on. The tolltaker was a robot with a basket for an arm. Roland thought he might be able to sleep, but he saw Jakes face when he closed his eyes. Then Eddies, with the useless bandage covering his forehead. If this is what comes when I close my eyes, he thought, what will my dreams be like? He opened his eyes again and watched as she drove down a smooth, paved ramp, slipping into the heavy flow of traffic without a pause. He leaned over and looked up through the window on his side. There were the clouds, los ngeles, traveling above them, in the same direction. They were still on the Path of the Beam. THIRTEEN Mister? Roland? She thought he had been dozing with his eyes open. Now he turned to her from where he sat in the passenger bucket seat with his hands in his lap, the good one folded over the mutilated one, hiding it. She thought she had never seen anyone who looked less like he belonged in a MercedesBenz. Or any automobile. She also thought she had never seen a man who looked so tired. But hes not used up. I dont think hes anywhere near used up, although he may think otherwise. The animal  Oy? Oy, yes. The bumbler looked up at the sound of his name, but didnt repeat it as he might have done only yesterday. Is it a dog? It isnt, exactly, is it? He, not it. And no, hes not a dog. Irene Tassenbaum opened her mouth, then closed it again. This was difficult, because silence in company did not come naturally to her. And she was with a man she found attractive, even in his grief and exhaustion (perhaps to some degree because of those things). A dying boy had asked her to take this man to New York City, and get him to the places he needed to go once they were there. Hed said that his friend knew even less about New York than he did about money, and she believed that was true. But she also believed this man was dangerous. She wanted to ask more questions, but what if he answered them? She understood that the less she knew, the better her chance, once he was gone, of merging into the life shed been living at quarter to four this afternoon. To merge the way you merged onto the turnpike from a side road. That would be best. She turned on the radio and found a station playing Amazing Grace. The next time she looked at her strange companion, she saw that he was looking out at the darkening sky and weeping. Then she chanced to look down and saw something much odder, something that moved her heart as it had not been moved in fifteen years, when she had miscarried her one and only effort to have a child. The animal, the notdog, the Oy  he was crying, too.