His wound was worse than Eddies, Roland judged, yet he seemed unaware of it. Maybe that was good. Out back, the gunslinger said to Eddie. Now. Good call. Roland grabbed the man in the flannel shirt by the arm. The mans eyes immediately left the truck and went to the gunslinger. Roland nodded toward the back, and the elderly gent nodded back. His unquestioning quickness was an unexpected gift. Outside, the trucks load finally overturned, mashing one of the parked cars (and the harriers hiding behind it, Roland dearly hoped), spilling logs first off the top and then simply spilling them all. There was a gruesome, endless sound of scraping metal that made the gunfire seem puny by comparison. TWO Eddie grabbed the storekeeper just as Roland had grabbed the other man, but Chip showed none of his customers awareness or instinct for survival. He merely went on staring through the jagged hole where his windows had been, eyes wide with shock and awe as the pulptruck out there entered the final phase of its selfdestructive ballet, the cab twisting free of the overloaded carrier and bouncing down the hill beyond the store and into the woods. The load itself went sliding up the right side of the road, creating a huge bowwave of dirt and leaving behind a deep groove, a flattened Chevrolet, and two more flattened harriers. There were plenty more where those came from, though. Or so it seemed. The gunfire continued. Come on, Chip, time to split, Eddie said, and this time when he tugged the shopkeeper toward the back of the store Chip came, still looking back over his shoulder and wiping blood from the side of his face. At the rear of the market, on the left, was an addedon lunchroom with a counter, a few patched stools, three or four tables, and an old lobsterpot over a newsstand which seemed to contain mostly outofdate girlie magazines. As they reached this part of the building, the gunfire from outside intensified. Then it was dwarfed again, this time by an explosion. The pulpers fueltank, Eddie assumed. He felt the droning passage of a bullet and saw a round black hole appear in the picture of a lighthouse mounted on the wall. Who are those guys? Chip asked in a perfectly conversational voice. Who are you? Am I hit? My son was in Viet Nam, you know. Did you see that truck? Eddie answered none of his questions, just smiled and nodded and hustled Chip along in Rolands wake. He had absolutely no idea where they were going or how they were going to get out of this fuckaree. The only thing he was completely sure of was that Calvin Tower wasnt here. Which was probably good. Tower might or might not have brought down this particular batch of hellfire and brimstone, but the hellfire and brimstone was about old Cal, of that Eddie had no doubt. If old Cal had only A darningneedle of heat suddenly tore through his arm and Eddie shouted in surprise and pain. A moment later another punched him in the calf. His lower right leg exploded into serious pain, and he cried out again. Eddie! Roland chanced a look back. Are you Yeah, fine, go, go! Ahead of them now was a cheap fiberboard back wall with three doors in it. One was marked BUOYS, one GULLS, one EMPLOYEES ONLY. EMPLOYEES ONLY! Eddie shouted. He looked down and saw a bloodringed hole in his bluejeans about three inches below his right knee. The bullet hadnt exploded the knee itself, which was to the good, but oh Mama, it hurt like the veriest motherfucker of creation. Over his head, a lightglobe exploded. Glass showered down on Eddies head and shoulders. Im insured, but God knows if it covers somethin like this, Chip said in his perfectly conversational voice. He wiped more blood from his face, then slatted it off his fingertips and onto the floor, where it made a Rorschach inkblot. Bullets buzzed around them. Eddie saw one flip up Chips collar. Somewhere behind them, Jack Andoliniold DoubleUglywas hollering in Italian. Eddie somehow didnt think he was calling retreat. Roland and the customer in the flannel shirt went through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. Eddie followed, pumped up on the wine of adrenaline and still dragging Chip. This was a storeroom, and of quite a good size. Eddie could smell different kinds of grain, some sort of minty tang, and, most of all, coffee. Now Mr. Flannel Shirt had taken the lead. Roland followed him quickly down the storerooms center aisle and between pallets stacked high with canned goods. Eddie limped gamely along after, still hauling the shopkeeper. Old Chip had lost a lot of blood from the wound on the side of his head and Eddie kept expecting him to pass out, but Chip actually seemed  well, chipper. He was currently asking Eddie what had happened to Ruth Beemer and her sister. If he meant the two women whod been in the store (Eddie was pretty sure he did), Eddie hoped that Chip wouldnt suddenly regain his memory. There was another door at the back. Mr. Flannel Shirt opened it and started out. Roland hauled him back by the shirt, then went out himself, low. Eddie stood Chip beside Mr. Flannel Shirt and himself just in front of them. Behind them, bullets smacked through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, creating startled white eyes of daylight. Eddie! Roland grunted. To me! Eddie limped out. There was a loading dock here, and beyond it about an acre of unlovely, churnedup ground. Trash barrels had been stacked haphazardly to the right of the dock and there were two Dumpsters to the left, but it didnt look to Eddie Dean as if anyone had worried too much about putting litter in its place. There were also several piles of beercans almost big enough to qualify as archaeological middens. Nothing like relaxing on the back porch after a hard day at the store, Eddie thought. Roland was pointing his gun at another oilpump, this one rustier and older than the ones out front. On it was a single word. Diesel, Roland said. Does that mean fuel? It does, doesnt it? Yeah, Eddie said. Chip, does the diesel pump work? Sure, sure, Chip said in a disinterested tone of voice. Lotsa guys fill up back here. I can run it, mister, said Flannel Shirt. You better let me, tooits tetchy. Can you and your buddy cover me? Yes, Roland said. Pour it in there. And jerked a thumb at the storeroom. Hey, no! Chip said, startled. How long did all these things take? Eddie could not have said, not for sure. All he was aware of was a clarity he had known only once before while riddling Blaine the Mono. It overwhelmed everything with its brilliance, even the pain in his lower leg, where the tibia might or might not have been chipped by a bullet. He was aware of how funky it smelled back hererotted meat and moldy produce, the yeasty scent of a thousand departed brewskis, the odors of dontcare lazinessand the divinely sweet firperfume of the woods just beyond the perimeter of this dirty little roadside store. He could hear the drone of a plane in some distant quadrant of the sky. He knew he loved Mr. Flannel Shirt because Mr. Flannel Shirt was here, was with them, linked to Roland and Eddie by the strongest of bonds for these few minutes. But time? No, he had no true sense of that. But it couldnt have been much more than ninety seconds since Roland had begun their retreat, or surely they would have been overwhelmed, crashed truck or no crashed truck. Roland pointed left, then turned right himself. He and Eddie stood back to back on the loading dock with about six feet between them, guns raised to their cheeks like men about to commence a duel. Mr. Flannel Shirt hopped off the end of the dock, spry as a cricket, and seized the chrome crank on the side of the old diesel pump. He began to spin it rapidly. The numbers in their little windows spun backward, but instead of returning to all zeros, they froze at 0 0 1 9. Mr. Flannel Shirt tried the crank again. When it refused to turn, he shrugged and yanked the nozzle out of its rusty cradle. John, no! Chip cried. He was still standing in the doorway of his storeroom and holding up his hands, one clean and the other bloody all the way up the forearm. Get out of the way, Chip, or youre gonna Two men dashed around Eddies side of the East Stoneham General Store. Both were dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, but unlike Chips shirt, these looked brandnew, with the creases still in the sleeves. Purchased especially for the occasion, Eddie had no doubt. And one of the goons Eddie recognized quite well; had last seen him in The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind, Calvin Towers bookshop. Eddie had also killed this fellow once before. Ten years in the future, if you could believe it. In The Leaning Tower, Balazars joint, and with the same gun he now held in his hand. A snatch of old Bob Dylan lyric occurred to him, something about the price you had to pay to keep from going through everything twice. Hey, Big Nose! Eddie cried (as he seemed to each time he saw this particular piece of pond scum). How you doing, pal? In truth, George Biondi did not appear to be doing well at all. Not even his mother would have considered him much more than presentable, even on his best day (that humungous beak), and now his features were puffed and discolored by bruises that had only just begun to fade. The worst of them was right between the eyes. I did that, Eddie thought. In the back of Towers bookstore. It was true, but it also seemed like something that had happened a thousand years ago. You, said George Biondi. He seemed too stunned to even raise his gun. You. Here. Me here, Eddie agreed. As for you, you should have stayed in New York. With that said, he blew George Biondis face off. His friends face, too. Flannel Shirt squeezed the pump handles pistol grip and dark diesel sprayed from the nozzle. It doused Chip, who cawed indignantly and then staggered out onto the loading dock. Stings! he shouted. Gorry, dont that sting! Quit it, John! John did not. Another three men came dashing around Rolands side of the store, took one look at the gunslingers calm and awful face, tried to backtrack. They were dead before they could do more than get the heels of their new country walking shoes planted. Eddie thought of the halfdozen cars and the big Winnebago that had been parked across the street and had time to wonder just how many men Balazar had sent on this little expedition. Certainly not just his own guys. How had he paid for the imports? He didnt have to, Eddie thought. Someone loaded him up with dough and told him to go buy the farm. As many outoftown goons as he could get. And somehow convinced him the guys they were going after deserved that kind of coverage. From inside the store there came a dull, percussive thud. Soot blew out of the chimney and was lost against the darker, oilier cloud rising from the crashed pulp truck. Eddie thought somebody had tossed a grenade. The door to the storeroom blew off its hinges, walked halfway down the aisle surrounded by a cloud of smoke, and fell flat. Soon the fellow whod thrown the grenade would throw another, and with the floor of the storeroom now covered in an inch of diesel fuel Slow him down if you can, Roland said. Its not wet enough in there yet. Slow down Andolini? Eddie asked. How do I do that? With your everlasting mouth! Roland cried, and Eddie saw a wonderful, heartening thing Roland was grinning. Almost laughing. At the same time he looked at Flannel ShirtJohnand made a spinning gesture with his right hand keep pumping. Jack! Eddie shouted. He had no idea where Andolini might be at this point, and so simply yelled as loud as he could. Having grown up ramming around Brooklyns less savory streets, this was quite loud. There was a pause. The gunfire slowed, then stopped. Hey, Jack Andolini called back. He sounded surprised, but in a goodhumored way. Eddie doubted he was really surprised at all, and he had no doubt whatsoever that what Jack wanted was payback. Hed been hurt in the storage area behind Towers bookshop, but that wasnt the worst of it. Hed also been humiliated. Hey, Slick! Are you the guy who was gonna send my brains to Hoboken, then stuck a gun under my chin? Man, I got a mark there! Eddie could see him making this rueful little speech, all the time gesturing with his hands, moving his remaining men into position. How many was that? Eight? Maybe ten? Theyd already taken out a bunch, God knew. And where would the remainder be? A couple on the left of the store. A couple more on the right. The rest with Monsieur Grenades R Us. And when Jack was ready, those guys would charge. Right into the new shallow lake of diesel fuel. Or so Eddie hoped. Ive got the same gun with me today! he called to Jack. This time Ill jam it up your ass, howd that be? Jack laughed. It was an easy, relaxed sound. An act, but a good one. Inside, Jack would be redlining heartrate up over onethirty, bloodpressure up over oneseventy. This was it, not just payback for some little punk daring to blindside him but the biggest job of his stinking badguy career, the Super Bowl. Balazar gave the orders, undoubtedly, but Jack Andolini was the one on the spot, the field marshal, and this time the job wasnt just beating up a dicedopey bartender who wouldnt pay the vig on what he owed or convincing some Yid jewelrystore owner on Lenox Avenue that he needed protection; this was an actual war. Jack was smartat least compared to most of the streethoods Eddie had met while doped up and running with his brother Henrybut Jack was also stupid in some fundamental way that had nothing to do with IQ scores. The punk who was currently taunting him had already beaten him once, and quite handily, but Jack Andolini had contrived to forget that. Diesel sloshed quietly over the loading dock and rippled along the old warped boards of the mercantiles storeroom. John, aka Sai Yankee Flannel Shirt, gave Roland a questioning look. Roland responded by first shaking his head and then twirling his right hand again more. Wheres the bookstore guy, Slick? Andolinis voice just as pleasant as before, but closer now. Hed crossed the road, then. Eddie put him just outside the store. Too bad diesel fuel wasnt more explosive. Wheres Tower? Give him to us and well leave you and the other guy alone until next time. Sure, Eddie thought, and remembered something Susannah sometimes said (in her best growling Detta Walker voice) to indicate utter disbelief Also I wont come in yo mouth or get any in yo hair. This ambush had been set up especially for visiting gunslingers, Eddie was almost sure of it. The bad boys might or might not know where Tower was (he trusted what came out of Jack Andolinis mouth not at all), but someone had known to exactly which where and when the Unfound Door was going to deliver Eddie and Roland, and had passed that knowledge on to Balazar. You want the boy who embarrassed your boy, Mr. Balazar? The kid who peeled Jack Andolini and George Biondi off Tower before Tower had time to give in and give you what you wanted? Fine. Heres where hes going to show up. Him and one other. And by the way, heres enough dough to buy an army of mercenaries in tutone shoes. Might not be enough, the kids hard and his buddys worse, but you might get lucky. Even if you dont, even if the one named Roland gets away and leaves a bunch of dead guys behind  well, getting the kids a start. And there are always more gunnies, arent there? Sure. The worlds full of them. The worlds. And what about Jake and Callahan? Had there been a reception party waiting for them, too, and had it been twentytwo years up the line from this when? The little poem on the fence surrounding the vacant lot suggested that, if theyd followed his wife, it had beenSUSANNAHMIO, DIVIDED GIRL OF MINE, the poem had said. PARKED HER RIG IN THE DIXIE PIG IN THE YEAR OF 99. And if there had been a reception party waiting, could they possibly still be alive? Eddie clung to one idea if any member of the katet diedSusannah, Jake, Callahan, even Oyhe and Roland would know. If he was kidding himself about that, succumbing to some romantic fallacy, so be it. THREE Roland caught the eye of the man in the flannel shirt and drew the side of his hand across his throat. John nodded and let go of the oilpumps squeezehandle at once. Chip, the store owner, was now standing beside the loading dock, and where his face wasnt lathered with blood, he was looking decidedly gray. Roland thought he would pass out soon. No loss there. Jack! the gunslinger shouted. Jack Andolini! His pronunciation of the Italian name was a pretty thing to listen to, both precise and rippling. You Slicks big brother? Andolini asked. He sounded amused. And he sounded closer. Roland put him in front of the store, perhaps on the very spot where he and Eddie had come through. He wouldnt wait long to make his next move; this was the countryside, but there were still people about. The rising black plume of smoke from the overturned woodwaggon would already have been noticed. Soon they would hear sirens. I suppose youd call me his foreman, Roland said. He pointed at the gun in Eddies hand, then pointed into the storeroom, then pointed at himself Wait for my signal. Eddie nodded. Why dont you send him out, mi amigo? This doesnt have to be your concern. Ill take him and let you go. Slicks the one I want to talk to. Getting the answers I need from him will be a pleasure. You could never take us, Roland said pleasantly. Youve forgotten the face of your father. Youre a bag of shit with legs. Your own kadaddy is a man named Balazar, and you lick his dirty ass. The others know and they laugh at you. Look at Jack, they say, all that asslicking only makes him uglier. There was a brief pause. Then You got a mean mouth on you, mister. Andolinis voice was level, but all the bogus good humor had gone out of it. All the laughter. But you know what they say about sticks and stones. In the distance, at last, a siren rose. Roland nodded first to John (who was watching him alertly) and then at Eddie. Soon, that nod said. Balazar will be building his towers of cards long after youre nothing but bones in an unmarked grave, Jack. Some dreams are destiny, but not yours. Yours are only dreams. Shut up! Hear the sirens? Your times almost u Vai! Jack Andolini shouted. Vai! Get em! I want that old fuckers head, do you hear me? I want his head! A round black object arced lazily through the hole where the EMPLOYEES ONLY door had been. Another grenado. Roland had been expecting it. He fired once, from the hip, and the grenado exploded in midair, turning the flimsy wall between the storeroom and the lunchroom into a storm of destructive, splintery blowback. There were screams of surprise and agony. Now, Eddie! Roland shouted, and began to fire into the diesel. Eddie joined in. At first Roland didnt think anything was going to happen, but then a sluggish ripple of blue flame appeared in the center aisle and went snaking toward where the rear wall had been. Not enough! Gods, how he wished it had been the kind they called gasoline! Roland tipped out the cylinder of his gun, dropped the spent casings around his boots, and reloaded. On your right, mister, John said, almost conversationally, and Roland dropped flat. One bullet passed through the place where hed been. The second flipped at the ends of his long hair. Hed only had time to reload three of his revolvers six chambers, but that was one more bullet than he needed. The two harriers flew backward with identical holes in the center of their brows, just below the hairline. Another hoodlum dashed around the corner of the store on Eddies side and saw Eddie waiting for him with a grin on his bloody face. The fellow dropped his gun immediately and began to raise his hands. Eddie put a bullet through his chest before they got as high as his shoulders. Hes learning, Roland thought. Gods help him, but he is. That fires a little slow for my taste, boys, said John, and leaped up onto the loading dock. The store was barely visible through the rolling smoke of the deflected grenado, but bullets came flying through it. John seemed not to notice them, and Roland thanked ka for putting such a good man in their path. Such a hard man. John took a square silver object from his pants pocket, flipped up the lid, and produced a good flame with the flick of his thumb on a small wheel. He tossed the little flaming tinderbox underhand into the storeroom. Flames burst up all around it with a whoomp sound. Whats the matter with you? Andolini screamed. Get them! Come and do it yourself! Roland called. At the same time he pulled on Johns pants leg. John jumped off the loading dock backward and stumbled. Roland caught him. Chip the storekeeper chose this moment to faint, pitching forward to the trashlittered earth with a groan so soft it was almost a sigh. Yeah, come on! Eddie goaded. Come on Slick, whatsamatta Slick, dont send a boy to do a mans work, you ever hear that one? How many guys did you have over there, two dozen? And were still standing! So come on! Come on and do it yourself! Or do you want to lick Enrico Balazars ass for the rest of your life? More bullets came through the smoke and flame, but the harriers in the store showed no interest in trying to charge through the growing fire. No more came around the sides of the store, either. Roland pointed at Eddies lower right leg, where the hole was. Eddie gave him a thumbsup, but the leg of his jeans now seemed too full below the kneeswollenand when he moved, his shorboot squelched. The pain had settled to a steady hard ache that seemed to cycle with the beat of his heart. Yet he was coming to believe it might have missed the bone. Maybe, he admitted to himself, because I want to believe it. The first siren had been joined by two or three others, and they were closing in. Go! Jack screamed. He now sounded on the verge of hysterics. Go, you chickenshit motherfuckers, go get them! Roland thought that the remaining badmen might have attacked a couple of minutes agomaybe even thirty seconds agoif Andolini had led their charge personally. But now the frontalassault option had been closed off, and Andolini must surely know that if he led men around either side of the store, Roland and Eddie would pick them off like clay birds in a FairDay shooting contest. The only workable strategies left to him were siege or a long flanking movement through the woods, and Jack Andolini had no time for either. Standing their ground back here, however, would present its own problems. Dealing with the local constabulary, for instance, or the fire brigade if that showed up first. Roland pulled John to him so he could speak quietly. We need to get out of here right now. Can you help us? Oh, ayuh, I think so. The wind shifted. A draft blew through the mercantiles broken front windows, through the place where the back wall had been, and out the back door. The diesel smoke was black and oily. John coughed and waved it away. Follow me. Lets step lively. John hurried across the ugly acre of waste ground behind the store, stepping over a broken crate and weaving his way between a rusty incinerator and a pile of even rustier machine parts. There was a name on the biggest of these that Roland had seen before in his wanderings JOHN DEERE. Roland and Eddie walked backward, protecting Johns back, taking little glances over their own shoulders to keep from tripping. Roland hadnt entirely given up hope that Andolini would make a final charge and he could kill him, as he had done once before. On the beach of the Western Sea, that had been, and here he was again, not only back but ten years younger. While I, Roland thought, feel at least a thousand years older. Yet that was not really true. Yes, he was now sufferingfinallythe ills an old man could reasonably expect. But he had a katet to protect again, and not just any katet but one of gunslingers, and they had refreshed his life in a way he never would have expected. It all meant something to him again, not just the Dark Tower but all of it. So he wanted Andolini to come. And if he killed Andolini in this world, he had an idea Andolini would stay dead. Because this world was different. It had a resonance all the others, even his own, lacked. He felt it in every bone and every nerve. Roland looked up and saw exactly what he expected clouds in a line. At the rear of the barren acre, a path slipped into the woods, its head marked by a pair of goodsized granite rocks. And here the gunslinger saw herringbone patterns of shadows, overlapping but all pointing the same way. You had to look to see it, but once seen it was unmistakable. As in the version of New York where they had found the empty bag in the vacant lot and Susannah had seen the vagrant dead, this was the true world, the one where time always ran in a single direction. They might be able to hop into the future if they could find a door, as he was sure Jake and Callahan had done (for Roland also remembered the poem on the fence, and now understood at least part of it), but they could never return to the past. This was the true world, the one where no roll of the dice could ever be taken back, the one closest to the Dark Tower. And they were still on the Path of the Beam. John led them onto the way into the woods and quickly down it, away from the rising pillars of thick dark smoke and the approaching whine of the sirens. FOUR They hadnt gone even a quarter of a mile before Eddie began seeing blue glints through the trees. The path was slippery with pine needles, and when they came to the final slopethe one leading down to a long and narrow lake of surpassing lovelinessEddie saw that someone had built a birch railing. Beyond it was a stub of dock jutting out into the water. Tied to the dock was a motorboat. Thats mine, John said. I come over for mgroceries and a bite of lunch. Didnt expect no excitement. Well, you got it, Eddie said. Ayuh, thats a true thing. Mind this last bit, if you dont want to go on your keister. John went nimbly down the final slope, holding the rail for balance and sliding rather than walking. On his feet was a pair of old scuffed workboots that would have looked perfectly at home in MidWorld, Eddie thought. He went next himself, favoring his bad leg. Roland brought up the rear. From behind them came a sudden explosion, as sharp and limber as that first highpowered rifleshot but far louder. Thatd be Chips propane, John said. Cry pardon? Roland asked. Gas, Eddie said quietly. He means gas. Ayuh, stovegas, John agreed. He stepped into his boat, grabbed the Evinrudes startercord, gave it a yank. The engine, a sturdy little twentyhorse sewing machine of a thing, started on the first pull. Get in here, boys, and lets us vacate t area, he grunted. Eddie got in. Roland paused for a moment to tap his throat three times. Eddie had seen him perform this ritual before when about to cross open water, and reminded himself to ask about it. He never got the chance; before the question occurred to him again, death had slipped between them. FIVE The skiff moved as quietly and as gracefully over the water as any motorpowered thing can, skating on its own reflection beneath a sky of summers most pellucid blue. Behind them the plume of dark smoke sullied that blue, rising higher and higher, spreading as it went. Dozens of folk, most of them in shorts or bathing costumes, stood upon the banks of this little lake, turned in the smokes direction, hands raised to shade against the sun. Few if any marked the steady (and completely unshowy) passage of the motorboat. This is Keywadin Pond, just in case you were wonderin, John said. He pointed ahead of them, where another gray tongue of dock stuck out. Beside this one was a neat little boathouse, white with green trim, its overhead door open. As they neared it, Roland and Eddie could see both a canoe and a kayak bobbing inside, at tether. Boathouse is mine, the man in the flannel shirt added. The boat in boathouse came out in a way impossible to reproduce with mere lettersbwut would probably come closestbut which both men recognized. It was the way the word was spoken in the Calla. Looks wellkept, Eddie said. Mostly to be saying something. Oh, ayuh, John said. I do caretakin, campcheckin, some rough carpenterin. Wouldnt look good fbusiness if I had a fallindown boathouse, would it? Eddie smiled. Suppose not. My place is about half a mile back from the water. Names John Cullum. He held out his right hand to Roland, continuing to steer a straight course away from the rising pillar of smoke and toward the boathouse with the other. Roland took the hand, which was pleasantly rough. Im Roland Deschain, of Gilead. Long days and pleasant nights, John. Eddie put out his own hand in turn. Eddie Dean, from Brooklyn. Nice to meet you. John shook with him easily enough but his eyes studied Eddie closely. When their hands parted, he said Young fella, did somethin just happen? It did, didnt it? I dont know, Eddie said. Not with complete honesty. You aint been to Brooklyn for a long time, son, have you? Aint been to Morehouse or to no house, Eddie Dean said, and then quickly, before he could lose it Mias locked Susannah away. Locked her away in the year of 99. Suze can get to the Dogan, but going theres no good. Mias locked off the controls. Theres nothing Suze can do. Shes kidnapped. She  she  He stopped. For a moment everything had been so clear, like a dream upon the instant of waking. Then, as so often happens with dreams, it faded. He didnt even know if it had been a real message from Susannah, or pure imagination. Young fella, did somethin just happen? So Cullum had felt it, too. Not imagination, then. Some form of the touch seemed more likely. John waited, and when there was no more from Eddie, turned to Roland. Does your pal come over funny that way often? Not often, no. Sai  Mister, I mean. Mister Cullum, I thank you for helping us when we needed help. I thank ya bigbig. It would be monstrous impudent of us to ask for more, but But youre gonna. Ayuh, figgered. John made a minute course correction toward the little boathouse with its square open mouth. Roland estimated theyd be there in five minutes. That was fine by him. He had no objection to riding in this tight little motorpowered boat (even though it rode rather low in the water with the weight of three grown men inside), but Keywadin Pond was far too exposed for his taste. If Jack Andolini (or his successor, should Jack be replaced) asked enough of those shoregawkers, he would eventually find a few who remembered the little skiff with the three men in it. And the boathouse with the neat green trim. John Cullums bwuthuss, may it do ya fine, these witnesses would say. Best they should be farther along the Beam before that happened, with John Cullum packed off to somewhere safe. Roland judged safe in this case to be perhaps three looks to the horizonline, or about a hundred wheels. He had no doubt that Cullum, a total stranger, had saved their lives by stepping in decisively at the right moment. The last thing he wanted was for the man to lose his own as a result. Well, Ill do what I can for ya, already made up mmind to that, but I got to ask you somethin now, while I got the chance. Eddie and Roland exchanged a brief look. Roland said, Well answer if we can. Which is to say, John of East Stoneham, if we judge that the answer wont cause you harm. John nodded. He seemed to gather himself. I know youre not ghosts, because we all saw you back at the store and I just now touched you to shake hands. I can see the shadders you cast. He pointed at where they lay across the side of the boat. Real as real. So my question is this are you walkins? Walkins, Eddie said. He looked at Roland, but Rolands face was completely blank. Eddie looked back at John Cullum, sitting in the stern of the boat and steering them toward the boathouse. Im sorry, but I dont  Been a lot of em around here, last few years, John said.


Waterford, Stoneham, East Stoneham, Lovell, Sweden  even over in Bridgton and Denmark. This last township name came out Denmaaaaak. He saw they were still puzzled. Walkinsre people who just appear, he said. Sometimes theyre dressed in oldfashioned clothes, as if they came from  ago, I guess youd say. One was nekkid as a jaybird, walkin right up the middle of Route 5. Junior Angstrom seen im. Last November this was. Sometimes they talk other languages. One came to Don Russerts house over in Waterford. Sat right there in the kitchen! Donnies a retired history professor from Vanderbilt College and he taped the fella. Fella jabbered quite awhile, then went into the laundry room. Donnie figured he musta taken it for the bathroom and went after him to turn him around, but the fella was already gone. No door for him to go out of, but gone he was. Donnie played that tape of his for just about everyone in the Vandy Languages Department (Depaaaaatment), and wasnt none of em recognized it. One said it must be a completely madeup language, like Esperanto. Do you sabby Esperanto, boys? Roland shook his head. Eddie said (cautiously), Ive heard of it, but I dont really know what it i And sometimes, John said, his voice lowering as they glided into the shadows of the boathouse, sometimes theyre hurt. Or disfigured. Roont. Roland started so suddenly and so hard that the boat rocked. For a moment they were actually in danger of being tipped out. What? What do you say? Speak again, John, for I would hear it very well. John apparently thought it was purely an issue of verbal comprehension, because this time he was at pains to pronounce the word more carefully. Ruined. Like folks whod been in a nuclear war, or a fallout zone, or something. Slow mutants, Roland said. I think he might be talking about slow muties. Here in this town. Eddie nodded, thinking about the Grays and Pubes in Lud. Also thinking about a misshapen beehive and the monstrous insects which had been crawling over it. John killed the little Evinrude engine, but for a moment the three of them sat where they were, listening to water slap hollowly against the aluminum sides of the boat. Slow mutants, the old fellow said, almost seeming to taste the words. Ayuh, I guess thatd be as good a name for em as any. But they aint the only ones. Theres been animals, too, and kinds of birds no ones ever seen in these parts. But mostly its the walkins thatve got people worried and talkin amongst themselves. Donnie Russert called someone he knew at Duke University, and that fella called someone in their Department of Psychic Studiesamazin theyve got such a thing as that in a real college, but it appears they doand the Psychic Studies woman said thats what such folks are called walkins. And then, when they disappear againwhich they always do, except for one fella over in East Conway Village, who diedtheyre called walkouts. The lady said that some scientists who study such thingsI guess you could call em scientists, although I know a lot of folks might argueblieve that walkins are aliens from other planets, that spaceships drop em off and then pick em up again, but most of em think theyre timetravelers, or from different Earths that lie in a line with ours. How long has this been going on? Eddie asked. How long have the walkins been showing up? Oh, two or three years. And its gettin worse ruthern better. I seen a couple of such fellas myself, and once a woman with a bald head who looked like she had this bleedin eye in the middle of her forread. But they was all at a distance, and you fellas are up close. John leaned toward them over his bony knees, his eyes (as blue as Rolands own) gleaming. Water slapped hollowly at the boat. Eddie felt a strong urge to take John Cullums hand again, to see if something else would happen. There was another Dylan song called Visions of Johanna. What Eddie wanted was not a vision of Johanna, but the name was at least close to that. Ayuh, John was saying, you boys are right up close and personal. Now, Ill help you along your way if I can, because I dont sense nothing the least bit bad about either of you (although Im going to tell you flat out that I aint never seen such shooting), but I want to know are you walkins or not? Once more Roland and Eddie exchanged looks, and then Roland answered. Yes, he said. I suppose we are. Gorry, John whispered. In his awe, not even his seamed face could keep him from looking like a child. Walkins! And where is it youre from, can you tell me that? He looked at Eddie, laughed the way people do when they are admitting youve put a good one over on them, and said Not Brooklyn. But I am from Brooklyn, Eddie said. The only thing was it hadnt been this worlds Brooklyn, and he knew that now. In the world he came from, a childrens book named Charlie the ChooChoo had been written by a woman named Beryl Evans; in this one it had been written by someone named Claudia y Inez Bachman. Beryl Evans sounded real and Claudia y Inez Bachman sounded phony as a threedollar bill, yet Eddie was coming more and more to believe that Bachman was the true handle. And why? Because it came as part of this world. I am from Brooklyn, though. Just not the  well  the same one. John Cullum was still looking at them with that wideeyed childs expression of wonder. What about those other fellas? The ones who were waiting for you? Are they ? No, Roland said. Not they. No more time for this, Johnnot now. He got cautiously to his feet, grabbed an overhead beam, and stepped out of the boat with a little wince of pain. John followed and Eddie came last. The two other men had to help him. The steady throb in his right calf had receded a little bit, but the leg was stiff and numb, hard to control. Lets go to your place, Roland said. Theres a man we need to find. With the blessing, you may be able to help us do that. He may be able to help us in more ways than that, Eddie thought, and followed them back into the sunlight, gimping along on his bad leg with his teeth gritted. At that moment, Eddie thought he would have slain a saint in exchange for a dozen aspirin tablets. STAVE Commalaloafleaven! They go to hell or up to heaven! When the guns are shot and the fires hot, You got to poke em in the oven. RESPONSE Commalacomeseven! Salt and yow for leaven! Heat em up and knock em down And poke em in the oven. 8TH STANZA A GAME OF TOSS ONE In the winter of 198485, when Eddies heroin use was quietly sneaking across the border from the Land of Recreational Drugs and into the Kingdom of Really Bad Habits, Henry Dean met a girl and fell briefly in love. Eddie thought Sylvia Goldover was a Skank El Supremo (smelly armpits and dragon breath wafting out from between a pair of Mick Jagger lips), but kept his mouth shut because Henry thought she was beautiful, and Eddie didnt want to hurt Henrys feelings. That winter the young lovers spent a lot of time either walking on the windswept beach at Coney Island or going to the movies in Times Square, where they would sit in the back row and wank each other off once the popcorn and the extralarge box of Goobers were gone. Eddie was philosophic about the new person in Henrys life; if Henry could work his way past that awful breath and actually tangle tongues with Sylvia Goldover, more power to him. Eddie himself spent a lot of those mostly gray three months alone and stoned in the Dean family apartment. He didnt mind; liked it, in fact. If Henry had been there, he would have insisted on TV and would have ragged Eddie constantly about his storytapes. (Oh boy! Eddies gonna wissen to his wittle stowy about the elves and the ogs and the cute wittle midgets!) Always calling the orcs the ogs, and always calling the Ents the scawwy walking twees. Henry thought madeup shit was queer. Eddie had sometimes tried to tell him there was nothing more madeup than the crud they showed on afternoon TV, but Henry wasnt having any of that; Henry could tell you all about the evil twins on General Hospital and the equally evil stepmother on The Guiding Light. In many ways, Henry Deans great love affairwhich ended when Sylvia Goldover stole ninety bucks out of his wallet, left a note saying Im sorry, Henry in its place, and took off for points unknown with her old boyfriendwas a relief to Eddie. Hed sit on the sofa in the living room, put on the tapes of John Gielgud reading Tolkiens Rings trilogy, skinpop along the inside of his right arm, and nod off to the Forests of Mirkwood or the Mines of Moria along with Frodo and Sam. Hed loved the hobbits, thought he could have cheerfully spent the rest of his life in Hobbiton, where the worst drug going was tobacco and big brothers did not spend entire days ragging on little brothers, and John Cullums little cottage in the woods returned him to those days and that darktoned story with surprising force. Because the cottage had a hobbithole feel about it. The furniture in the living room was small but perfect a sofa and two overstuffed chairs with those white doilies on the arms and where the back of your head would rest. The goldframed blackandwhite photograph on one wall had to be Cullums folks, and the one opposite it had to be his grandparents. There was a framed Certificate of Thanks from the East Stoneham Volunteer Fire Department. There was a parakeet in a cage, twittering amiably, and a cat on the hearth. She raised her head when they came in, gazed greenly at the strangers for a moment, then appeared to go back to sleep. There was a standing ashtray beside what had to be Cullums easy chair, and in it were two pipes, one a corncob and the other a briar. There was an oldfashioned Emerson recordplayerradio (the radio of the type featuring a multiband dial and a large knurled tuning knob) but no television. The room smelled pleasantly of tobacco and potpourri. As fabulously neat as it was, a single glance was enough to tell you that the man who lived here wasnt married. John Cullums parlor was a modest ode to the joys of bachelorhood. Hows your leg? John asked. Pears to have stopped bleeding, at least, but you got a pretty good hitch in your gitalong. Eddie laughed. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I can walk on it, so I guess that makes me lucky. Bathrooms in there, if you want to wash up, Cullum said, and pointed. Think I better, Eddie said. The washingup was painful but also a relief. The wound in his leg was deep, but seemed to have totally missed the bone. The one in his arm was even less of a problem; the bullet had gone right through, praise God, and there was hydrogen peroxide in Cullums medicine cabinet. Eddie poured it into the hole, teeth bared at the pain, and then went ahead and used the stuff on both his leg and the laceration in his scalp before he could lose his courage. He tried to remember if Frodo and Sam had had to face anything even close to the horrors of hydrogen peroxide, and couldnt come up with anything. Well, of course theyd had elves to heal them, hadnt they? I got somethin might help out, Cullum said when Eddie reappeared. The old guy disappeared into the next room and returned with a brown prescription bottle. There were three pills inside it. He tipped them into Eddies palm and said, This is from when I fell down on the ice last winter and busted my goddam collarbone. Percodan, its called. I dunno if theres any good left in em or not, but Eddie brightened. Percodan, huh? he asked, and tossed the pills into his mouth before John Cullum could answer. Dont you want some water with those, son? Nope, Eddie said, chewing enthusiastically. Neats a treat. A glass case full of baseballs stood on a table beside the fireplace, and Eddie wandered over to look at it. Oh my God, he said, youve got a signed Mel Parnell ball! And a Lefty Grove! Holy shit! Those aint nothing, Cullum said, picking up the briar pipe. Look up on t top shelf. He took a sack of Prince Albert tobacco from the drawer of an endtable and began to fill his pipe. As he did so, he caught Roland watching him. Do ya smoke? Roland nodded. From his shirt pocket he took a single bit of leaf. Praps I might roll one. Oh, I can do ya better than that, Cullum said, and left the room again. The room beyond was a study not much bigger than a closet. Although the Dickens desk in it was small, Cullum had to sidle his way around it. Holy shit, Eddie said, seeing the baseball Cullum must have meant. Autographed by the Babe! Ayuh, Cullum said. Not when he was a Yankee, either, I got no use for baseballs autographed by Yankees. That us signed when Ruth was still wearing a Red Sox  He broke off. Here they are, knew I had em. Might be stale, but its a lot staler where theres none, my mother used to say. Here you go, mister. My nephew left em. He aint hardly old enough to smoke, anyway. Cullum handed the gunslinger a package of cigarettes, threequarters full. Roland turned them thoughtfully over in his hand, then pointed to the brand name. I see a picture of a dromedary, but that isnt what this says, is it? Cullum smiled at Roland with a kind of cautious wonder. No, he said. That words Camel. It means about the same. Ah, Roland said, and tried to look as if he understood. He took one of the cigarettes out, studied the filter, then put the tobacco end in his mouth. No, turn it around, Cullum said. Say true? Ayuh. Jesus, Roland! Hes got a Bobby Doerr  two Ted Williams balls  a Johnny Pesky  a Frank Malzone  Those names dont mean anything to you, do they? John Cullum asked Roland. No, Roland said. My friend  thank you. He took a light from the match sai Cullum offered. My friend hasnt been on this side very much for quite awhile. I think he misses it. Gorry, Cullum said. Walkins! Walkins in my house! I cant hardly believe it! Wheres Dewey Evans? Eddie asked. You dont have a Dewey Evans ball. Pardon? Cullum asked. It came out paaaaaadon. Maybe they dont call him that yet, Eddie said, almost to himself. Dwight Evans? Right fielder? Oh. Cullum nodded. Well, I only have the best in that cabinet, dont you know. Dewey fills the bill, believe me, Eddie said. Maybe hes not worthy of being in the John Cullum Hall of Fame yet, but wait a few years. Wait until 86. And by the way, John, as a fan of the game, I want to say two words to you, okay? Sure, Cullum said. It came out exactly as the word was said in the Calla SHOah. Roland, meanwhile, had taken a drag from his smoke. He blew it out and looked at the cigarette, frowning. The words are Roger Clemens, Eddie said. Remember that name. Clemens, John Cullum said, but dubiously. Faintly, from the far side of Keywadin Pond, came the sound of more sirens. Roger Clemens, ayuh, Ill remember. Who is he? Youre gonna want him in here, leave it at that, Eddie said, tapping the case. Maybe on the same shelf with the Babe. Cullums eyes gleamed. Tell me somethin, son. Have the Red Sox won it all yet? Have they This isnt a smoke, its nothing but murky air, Roland said. He gave Cullum a reproachful look that was so unRoland that it made Eddie grin. No taste to speak of at all. People here actually smoke these? Cullum took the cigarette from Rolands fingers, broke the filter off the end, and gave it back to him. Try it now, he said, and returned his attention to Eddie. So? I got you out of a jam on tother side of the water. Seems like you owe me one. Have they ever won the Series? At least up to your time? Eddies grin faded and he looked at the old man seriously. Ill tell you if you really want me to, John. But do ya? John considered, puffing his pipe. Then he said, I spose not. Knowind spoil it. Tell you one thing, Eddie said cheerfully. The pills John had given him were kicking in and he felt cheerful. A little bit, anyway. You dont want to die before 1986. That ones gonna be a corker. Ayuh? Say absolutely true. Then Eddie turned to the gunslinger. What are we going to do about our gunna, Roland? Roland hadnt even thought about it until this moment. All their few worldly possessions, from Eddies fine new whittling knife, purchased in Tooks Store, to Rolands ancient growbag, given to him by his father far on the other side of times horizon, had been left behind when they came through the door. When they had been blown through the door. The gunslinger assumed their gunna had been left lying in the dirt in front of the East Stoneham store, although he couldnt remember for sure; hed been too fiercely focused on getting Eddie and himself to safety before the fellow with the longsighted rifle blew their heads off. It hurt to think of all those companions of the long trek burned up in the fire that had undoubtedly claimed the store by now. It hurt even worse to think of them in the hands of Jack Andolini. Roland had a brief but vivid picture of his growbag hanging on Andolinis belt like a backypouch (or an enemys scalp) and winced. Roland? What about our We have our guns, and thats all the gunna we need, Roland said, more roughly than he had intended. Jake has the ChooChoo book, and I can make another compass should we need one. Otherwise But If youre talkin about your goods, sonny, I cn ask some questions about em when the time comes, Cullum said. But for the time being, I think your friends right. Eddie knew his friend was right. His friend was almost always right, which was one of the few things Eddie still hated about him. He wanted his gunna, goddammit, and not just for the one clean pair of jeans and the two clean shirts. Nor for extra ammo or the whittling knife, fine as it was. There had been a lock of Susannahs hair in his leather swagbag, and it had still carried a faint whiff of her smell. That was what he missed. But done was done. John, he said, what day is this? The mans bristly gray eyebrows went up. You serious? And when Eddie nodded Ninth of July. Year of our Lord nineteenseventyseven. Eddie made a soundless whistling noise through his pursed lips. Roland, the last stub of the Dromedary cigarette smoldering between his fingers, had gone to the window for a looksee. Nothing behind the house but trees and a few seductive blue winks from what Cullum called the Keywadin. But that pillar of black smoke still rose in the sky, as if to remind him that any sense of peace he might feel in these surroundings was only an illusion. They had to get out of here. And no matter how terribly afraid he was for Susannah Dean, now that they were here they had to find Calvin Tower and finish their business with him. And theyd have to do it quickly. Because As if reading his mind and finishing his thought, Eddie said Roland? Its speeding up. Time on this side is speeding up. I know. It means that whatever we do, we have to get it right the first time, because in this world you can never come back earlier. There are no doovers. Roland knew that, too. TWO The man were looking for is from New York City, Eddie told John Cullum. Ayuh, plenty of those around in the summertime. His names Calvin Tower. Hes with a friend of his named Aaron Deepneau. Cullum opened the glass case with the baseballs inside, took out one with Carl Yastrzemski written across the sweet spot in that weirdly perfect script of which only professional athletes seem capable (in Eddies experience it was the spelling that gave most of them problems), and began to toss it from hand to hand. Folks from away really pile in once June comesyou know that, dont ya? I do, Eddie said, feeling hopeless already. He thought it was possible old DoubleUgly had already gotten to Cal Tower. Maybe the ambush at the store had been Jacks idea of dessert. I guess you cant If I cant, I guess I better goddam retire, Cullum said with some spirit, and tossed the Yaz ball to Eddie, who held it in his right hand and ran the tips of his lefthand fingers over the red stitches. The feel of them raised a wholly unexpected lump in his throat. If a baseball didnt tell you that you were home, what did? Only this world wasnt home anymore. John was right, he was a walkin. What do you mean? Roland asked. Eddie tossed him the ball and Roland caught it without ever taking his eyes off John Cullum. I dont bother with names, but I know most everyone who comes into this town just the same, he said. Know em by sight. Same with any other caretaker worth his salt, I spose. You want to know whos in your territory. Roland nodded at this with perfect understanding. Tell me what this guy looks like. Eddie said, He stands about fivenine and weighs  oh, Im gonna say twothirty. Heavyset, then. Do ya. Also, most of his hairs gone on the sides of his forehead. Eddie raised his hands to his own head and pushed his hair back, exposing the temples (one of them still oozing blood from his nearfatal passage through the Unfound Door). He winced a little at the pain this provoked in his upper left arm, but there the bleeding had already stopped. Eddie was more worried about the round hed taken in the leg. Right now Cullums Percodan was dealing with the pain, but if the bullet was still in thereand Eddie thought it might beit would eventually have to come out. How old is he? Cullum asked. Eddie looked at Roland, who only shook his head. Had Roland ever actually seen Tower? At this particular moment, Eddie couldnt remember. He thought not. I think in his fifties. Hes the book collector, aint he? Cullum asked, then laughed at Eddies expression of surprise. Told you, I keep a weather eye out on the summah folk. You never know when ones gonna turn out to be a deadbeat. Maybe an outright thief. Or, eight or nine years ago, we had this woman from New Jersey who turned out to be a firebug. Cullum shook his head. Looked like a smalltown librarian, the sort of lady who wouldnt say boo to a goose, and she was lightin up barns all over Stoneham, Lovell, and Waterford. How do you know hes a book dealer? Roland asked, and tossed the ball back to Cullum, who immediately tossed it to Eddie. Didnt know that, he said. Only that he collects em, because he told Jane Sargus. Janes got a little shop right where Dimity Road branches off from Route 5. Thats about a mile south of here. Dimity Roads actually where that fella and his friend are stayin, if were talking about the right ones. I guess we are. His friends name is Deepneau, Eddie said, and tossed the Yaz ball to Roland. The gunslinger caught it, tossed it to Cullum, then went to the fireplace and dropped the last shred of his cigarette onto the little pile of logs stacked on the grate. Dont bother with names, like I told you, but the friends skinny and looks about seventy. Walks like his hips pain him some. Wears steelrimmed glasses. Thats the guy, all right, Eddie said. Janey has a little place called Country Collectibles. She gut some furniture in the barn, dressers and armoires and such, but what she specializes in is quilts, glassware, and old books. Sign says so right out front. So Cal Tower  what? Just went in and started browsing? Eddie couldnt believe it, and at the same time he could. Tower had been balky about leaving New York even after Jack and George Biondi had threatened to burn his most valuable books right in front of his eyes. And once he and Deepneau got here, the fool had signed up for general delivery at the post officeor at least his friend Aaron had, and as far as the bad guys were concerned, one was as good as the other. Callahan had left him a note telling him to stop advertising his presence in East Stoneham. How stupid can you be??? had been the Peres final communication to sai Tower, and the answer seemed to be more stupid than a bag of hammers. Ayuh, Cullum said. Only he did a lot moren browse. His eyes, as blue as Rolands, were twinkling. Bought a couple of hundred dollars worth of readin material. Paid with travelers checks. Then he gut her to give him a list of other used bookstores in the area. Theres quite a few, if you add in Notions in Norway and that Your Trash, My Treasure place over in Fryeburg. Plus he got her to write down the names of some local folks who have book collections and sometimes sell out of their houses. Jane was awful excited. Talked about it all over town, she did. Eddie put a hand to his forehead and groaned. That was the man hed met, all right, that was Calvin Tower to the life. What had he been thinking? That once he gut north of Boston he was safe? Can you tell us how to find him? Roland asked. Oh, I cn do bettern that. I can take you right to where theyre stayin. Roland had been tossing the ball from hand to hand. Now he stopped and shook his head. No. Youll be going somewhere else. Where? Anyplace youll be safe, Roland said. Beyond that, sai, I dont want to know. Neither of us do. Well call me Sam, I say goddam. Dunnos I like that much. Doesnt matter. Time is short. Roland considered, then said Do you have a cartomobile? Cullum looked momentarily puzzled, then grinned. Yep, a cartomobile and a truckomobile both. Im loaded. The last word came out ludded. Then youll lead us to Towers Dimity Road place in one while Eddie  Roland paused for a moment. Eddie, do you still remember how to drive? Roland, youre hurtin my feelings. Roland, never a very humorous fellow even at the best of times, didnt smile. He returned his attention to the dantetelittle saviorka had put in their way, instead. Once weve found Tower, youll go your course, John. Thats any course that isnt ours. Take a little vacation, if it does ya. Two days should be enough, then you can return to your business. Roland hoped their own business here in East Stoneham would be done by sundown, but didnt want to hex them by saying so. I dont think you understand that this is my busy season, Cullum said. He held out his hands and Roland tossed him the ball. I got a boathouse to paint  a barn that needs shinglin If you stay with us, Roland said, youll likely never shingle another barn. Cullum looked at him with an eyebrow cocked, clearly trying to gauge Rolands seriousness and not much liking what he saw. While this was going on, Eddie found himself returning to the question of whether or not Roland had ever actually seen Tower with his own eyes. And now he realized that his first answer to that question had been wrongRoland had seen Tower. Sure he did. It was Roland who pulled that bookcase full of Towers first editions into the Doorway Cave. Roland was looking right at him. What he saw was probably distorted, but  That train of thought drifted away, and by the seemingly inevitable process of association, Eddies mind returned to Towers precious books, such rarities as The Dogan, by Benjamin Slightman, Jr., and Salems Lot, by Stephen King. Ill just get mkeys and were off, Cullum said, but before he could turn away, Eddie said Wait. Cullum looked at him quizzically. Weve got a little more to talk about, I think. And he held up his hands for the baseball. Eddie, our time is short, Roland said. I know that, Eddie said. Probably better than you, since its my woman the clocks running out on. If I could, Id leave that asshole Tower to Jack and concentrate on getting back to Susannah. But ka wont let me do that. Your damned old ka. We need Shut up. He had never said such a thing to Roland in his life, but now the words came out on their own, and he felt no urge to call them back. In his mind, Eddie heard a ghostly Callachant Commalacomecome, the palavers not done. Whats on your mind? Cullum asked him. A man named Stephen King. Do you know that name? And saw by Cullums eyes that he did. THREE Eddie, Roland said. He spoke in an oddly tentative way the younger man had never heard before. Hes as at sea as I am. Not a comforting thought. Andolini may still be looking for us. More important, he may be looking for Tower, now that weve slipped through his fingers  and as sai Cullum has made perfectly clear, Tower has made himself easy to find. Listen to me, Eddie replied. Im playing a hunch here, but a hunch is not all this is. Weve met one man, Ben Slightman, who wrote a book in another world. Towers world. This world. And weve met another one, Donald Callahan, who was a character in a book from another world. Again, this world. Cullum had tossed him the ball and now Eddie flipped it underhand, and hard, to Roland. The gunslinger caught it easily. This might not seem like such a big deal to me, except weve been haunted by books, havent we? The Dogan. The Wizard of Oz. Charlie the ChooChoo. Even Jakes Final Essay. And now Salems Lot. I think that if this Stephen King is real Oh, hes real, all right, Cullum said. He glanced out his window toward Keywadin Pond and the sound of the sirens on the other side. At the pillar of smoke, now diffusing the blue sky with its ugly smudge. Then he held his hands up for the baseball. Roland threw it in a soft arc whose apogee almost skimmed the ceiling. And I read that book youre all het up about. Got it up to the City, at Bookland. Thought it was a corker, too. A story about vampires. Ayuh, I heard him talkin about it on the radio. Said he got the idea from Dracula. You heard the writer on the radio, Eddie said. He was having that throughthelookingglass, downtherabbithole, offonacomet feeling again, and tried to ascribe it to the Percodan. It wouldnt work. All at once he felt strangely unreal to himself, a shade you could almost see through, as thin as  well, as thin as a page in a book. It was no help to realize that this world, lying in the summer of 1977 on times beam, seemed real in a way all the other wheres and whensincluding his owndid not. And that feeling was totally subjective, wasnt it? When you came right down to it, how did anyone know they werent a character in some writers story, or a transient thought in some busriding schmoes head, or a momentary mote in Gods eye? Thinking about such stuff was crazy, and enough such thinking could drive you crazy. And yet  Dadachum, dadachee, not to worry, youve got the key. Keys, my specialty, Eddie thought. And then Kings a key, isnt he? Calla, Callahan. Crimson King, Stephen King. Is Stephen King the Crimson King of this world? Roland had settled. Eddie was sure it hadnt been easy for him, but the difficult had ever been Rolands specialty. If you have questions to ask, have at it. And made the twirling gesture with his right hand. Roland, I hardly know where to start. The ideas Ive got are so big  so  I dont know, so fundamentally fucking scary  Best to keep it simple, then. Roland took the ball when Eddie tossed it to him but now looked more than a little impatient with the game of toss. We really do have to move on. How Eddie knew it. He would have asked his questions while they were rolling, if they all could have ridden in the same vehicle. But they couldnt, and Roland had never driven a motor vehicle, which made it impossible for Eddie and Cullum to ride in the same one. All right, he said. Who is he? Lets start with that. Who is Stephen King? A writer, Cullum said, and gave Eddie a look that said, Are you a fool, son? He lives over in Bridgton with his family. Nice enough fella, from what Ive heard. How far away is Bridgton? Oh  twenty, twentyfive miles. How old is he? Eddie was groping, maddeningly aware that the right questions might be out there, but he had no clear idea of what they were. John Cullum squinted an eye and seemed to calculate. Not that old, I shd think. If hes thirty, he just got there. This book  Salems Lot  was it a bestseller? Dunno, Cullum said. Lots of people around here read it, tell you that much. Because its set in Maine. And because of the ads they had on TV, you know. Also there was a movie made out of his first book, but I never went to see it. Looked too bloody. What was it called? Cullum thought, then shook his head. Cant quite remember. Twas just one word, and Im pretty sure it was a girls name, but thats the best I can do. Maybe itll come to me. Hes not a walkin, you dont think? Cullum laughed. Born and raised right here in the State of Maine. Guess that makes him a livein.


Roland was looking at Eddie with increasing impatience, and Eddie decided to give up. This was worse than playing Twenty Questions. But goddammit, Pere Callahan was real and he was also in a book of fiction written by this man King, and King lived in an area that was a magnet for what Cullum called walkins. One of those walkins had sounded very much to Eddie like a servant of the Crimson King. A woman with a bald head who seemed to have a bleeding eye in the center of her forehead, John had said. Time to drop this for now and get to Tower. Irritating he might be, but Calvin Tower owned a certain vacant lot where the most precious rose in the universe was growing wild. Also, he knew all sorts of stuff about rare books and the folks who had written them. Very likely he knew more about the author of Salems Lot than sai Cullum. Time to let it go. But Okay, he said, tossing the ball back to the caretaker. Lock that thing up and well head off to the Dimity Road, if it does ya. Just a couple more questions. Cullum shrugged and put the Yaz ball back into the case. Its your nickel. I know, Eddie said  and suddenly, for the second time since hed come through the door, Susannah seemed weirdly close. He saw her sitting in a room filled with antiqueylooking science and surveillance equipment. Jakes Dogan, for sure  only as Susannah must have imagined it. He saw her speaking into a mike, and although he couldnt hear her, he could see her swollen belly and her frightened face. Now very pregnant, wherever she was. Pregnant and ready to pop. He knew well enough what she was saying Come, Eddie, save me, Eddie, save both of us, do it before its too late. Eddie? Roland said. Youve come over all gray. Is it your leg? Yeah, Eddie said, although right now his leg didnt hurt at all. He thought again of whittling the key. The dreadful responsibility of knowing it had to be just right. And here he was again, in much the same situation. He had hold of something, he knew he did  but what? Yeah, my leg. He armed sweat from his forehead. John, about the name of the book. Salems Lot. Thats actually Jerusalems Lot, right? Ayuh. Its the name of the town in the book. Ayuh. Stephen Kings second book. Ayuh. His second novel. Eddie, Roland said, surely thats enough. Eddie waved him aside, then winced at the pain in his arm. His attention was fixed on John Cullum. There is no Jerusalems Lot, right? Cullum looked at Eddie as if he were crazy. Course not, he said. Its a madeup story about madeup folks in a madeup town. Its about vampires. Yes, Eddie thought, and if I told you I have reason to believe that vampires are real  not to mention invisible demons, magic balls, and witches  youd be absolutely positive I was nuts, wouldnt you? Do you happen to know if Stephen King has been living in this Bridgton town his whole life? No, he hasnt. He n his family moved down here two, maybe three years ago. I blieve they lived in Windham first when they got down from the northern part of the state. Or maybe twas Raymond. One of the towns on Big Sebago, anyway. Would it be fair to say that these walkins you mentioned have been turning up since the guy moved into the area? Cullums bushy eyebrows went up, then knitted together. A loud and rhythmic hooting began to come to them from over the water, a sound like a foghorn. You know, Cullum said, you might have somethin there, son. It might only be coincidence, but maybe not. Eddie nodded. He felt emotionally wrung out, like a lawyer at the end of a long and difficult crossexamination. Lets blow this popshop, he said to Roland. Might be a good idea, Cullum said, and tipped his head in the direction of the rhythmic foghorn blasts. Thats Teddy Wilsons boat. Hes the county constable. Also a game warden. This time he tossed Eddie a set of carkeys instead of a baseball. Im givin you the automatic transmission, he said. Just in case youre a little rusty. The trucks a stick shift. You follow me, and if you get in trouble, honk the horn. I will, believe me, Eddie said. As they followed Cullum out, Roland said Was it Susannah again? Is that why you lost all the color out of your face? Eddie nodded. Well help her if we can, Roland said, but this may be our only way back to her. Eddie knew that. He also knew that by the time they got to her, it might be too late. STAVE Commalakakate Youre in the hands of fate. No matter if youre real or not, The hour groweth late. RESPONSE Commalacomeeight! The hour groweth late! No matter what the shade ya cast Youre in the hands of fate. 9TH STANZA EDDIE BITES HIS TONGUE ONE Pere Callahan had made a brief visit to the East Stoneham Post Office almost two weeks before the shootout at Chip McAvoys store, and there the former Jerusalems Lot parish priest had written a hurried note. Although addressed to both Aaron Deepneau and Calvin Tower, the note inside the envelope had been aimed at the latter, and its tone had not been particularly friendly 62777 Tower Im a friend of the guy who helped you with Andolini. Wherever you are, you need to move right away. Find a barn, unused camp, even an abandoned shed if it comes down to that. You probably wont be comfortable but remember that the alternative is being dead. I mean every word I say! Leave some lights on where you are staying now and leave your car in the garage or driveway. Hide a note with directions to your new location under the driversside floormat, or under the backporch step. Well be in touch. Remember that we are the only ones who can relieve you of the burden you carry. But if we are to help you, you must help us. Callahan, of the Eld And make this trip to the post office your LAST! How stupid can you be??? Callahan had risked his life to leave that note, and Eddie, under the spell of Black Thirteen, had nearly lost his. And the net result of those risks and close calls? Why, Calvin Tower had gone jaunting merrily around the western Maine countryside, looking for buys on rare and outofprint books. Following John Cullum up Route 5 with Roland sitting silently beside him, then turning to follow Cullum onto the Dimity Road, Eddie felt his temper edging up into the red zone. Gonna have to put my hands in my pockets and bite my tongue, he thought, but in this case he wasnt sure even those old reliables would work. TWO About two miles from Route 5, Cullums Ford F150 made a right off Dimity Road. The turn was marked by two signs on a rusty pole. The top one said ROCKET RD. Below it was another (rustier still) which promised LAKESIDE CABINS BY THE WK MO OR SEAS. Rocket Road was little more than a trail winding through the trees, and Eddie hung well behind Cullum to avoid the roostertail of dust their new friends old truck was kicking up. The cartomobile was another Ford, some anonymous twodoor model Eddie couldnt have named without looking at the chrome on the back or in the owners manual. But it felt most religiously fine to be driving again, with not a single horse between his legs but several hundred of them ready to run at the slightest motion of his right foot. It was also good to hear the sound of the sirens fading farther and farther behind. The shadows of overhanging trees swallowed them. The smell of fir and pinesap was simultaneously sweet and sharp. Pretty country, the gunslinger said. A man could take his long ease here. It was his only comment. Cullums truck began to pass numbered driveways. Below each number was a small legend reading JAFFORDS RENTALS. Eddie thought of pointing out to Roland that theyd known a Jaffords in the Calla, known him very well, and then didnt. It would have been belaboring the obvious. They passed 15, 16, and 17. Cullum paused briefly to consider at 18, then stuck his arm out the cabs window and motioned them on again. Eddie had been ready to move on even before the gesture, knowing perfectly well that Cabin 18 wasnt the one they wanted. Cullum turned in at the next drive. Eddie followed, the tires of the sedan now whispering on a thick bed of fallen pine needles. Winks of blue once more began to appear between the trees, but when they finally reached Cabin 19 and a view of the water, Eddie saw that this, unlike Keywadin, was a true pond. Probably not much wider than a football field. The cabin itself looked like a tworoom job. There was a screenedin porch facing the water with a couple of tatty but comfortablelooking rockers on it. A tin stovestack poked up from the roof. There was no garage and no car parked in front of the cabin, although Eddie thought he could see where one had been. With the cover of duff, it was hard to tell for sure. Cullum killed the trucks engine. Eddie did likewise. Now there was only the lap of water against the rocks, the sigh of a breeze through the pines, and the mild sound of birdsong. When Eddie looked to the right, he saw that the gunslinger was sitting with his talented, longfingered hands folded peaceably in his lap. How does it feel to you? Eddie asked. Quiet. The word was spoken Callafashion Cahhit. Anyone here? I think so, yes. Danger? Yar. Beside me. Eddie looked at him, frowning. You, Eddie. You want to kill him, dont you? After a moment, Eddie admitted it was so. This uncovered part of his nature, as simple as it was savage, sometimes made him uneasy, but he could not deny it was there. And who, after all, had brought it out and honed it to a keen edge? Roland nodded. There came into my life, after years during which I wandered in the desert as solitary as any anchorite, a whining and selfinvolved young man whose only ambition was to continue taking a drug which did little but make him sniffle and feel sleepy. This was a posturing, selfish, loudmouthed loutkin with little to recommend him But goodlooking, Eddie said. Dont forget that. The cat was a true sex mochine. Roland looked at him, unsmiling. If I could manage not to kill you then, Eddie of New York, you can manage not to kill Calvin Tower now. And with that, Roland opened the door on his side and got out. Well, says you, Eddie told the interior of Cullums car, and then got out himself. THREE Cullum was still behind the wheel of his truck when first Roland and then Eddie joined him. Place feels empty to me, he said, but I see a light on in the kitchen. Uhhuh, Eddie said. John, Ive got Dont tell me, you got another question. Only person I know whos got more of em is my grandnephew Aidan. He just went three. Go on, ask. Could you pinpoint the center of the walkin activity in this area over the last few years? Eddie had no idea why he was asking this question, but it suddenly seemed vitally important to him. Cullum considered, then said Turtleback Lane, over in Lovell. You sound pretty sure of that. Ayuh. Do you remember me mentionin my friend Donnie Russert, the history prof from Vandy? Eddie nodded. Well, after he met one of these fellas in person, he got interested in the phenomenon. Wrote several articles about it, although he said no reputable magazined publish em no matter how well documented his facts were. He said that writin about the walkins in western Maine taught him something hed never expected to learn in his old age that some things people just wont believe, not even when you can prove em. He used to quote a line from some Greek poet. The column of truth has a hole in it. Anyway, he had a map of the seventown area mounted on one wall of his study Stoneham, East Stoneham, Waterford, Lovell, Sweden, Fryeburg, and East Fryeburg. With pins stuck in it for each walkin reported, do ya see? See very well, say thank ya, Eddie said. And Id have to say  yeah, Turtleback Lanes the heart of it. Why, there were six or eight pins right there, and the whole damn rud cant be moren two miles long; its just a loop that runs off Route 7, along the shore of Kezar Lake, and then back to 7 again. Roland was looking at the house. Now he turned to the left, stopped, and laid his left hand on the sandalwood butt of his gun. John, he said, were wellmet, but its time for you to roll out of here. Ayuh? You sure? Roland nodded. The men who came here are fools. It still has the smell of fools, which is partly how I know that they havent moved on. Youre not one of that kind. John Cullum smiled faintly. Shd hope not, he said, but I gut tthankya for the compliment. Then he paused and scratched his gray head. If tis a compliment. Dont get back to the main road and start thinking I didnt mean what I said. Or worse, that we werent here at all, that you dreamed the whole thing. Dont go back to your house, not even to pack an extra shirt. Its no longer safe. Go somewhere else. At least three looks to the horizon. Cullum closed one eye and appeared to calculate. In the fifties, I spent ten miserable years as a guard at the Maine State Prison, he said, but I met a hell of a nice man there named Roland shook his head and then put the two remaining fingers of his right hand to his lips. Cullum nodded. Well, I fgit what his name is, but he lives over in Vermont, and Im sure Ill remember itmaybe where he lives, tooby the time I get acrost the New Hampshire state line. Something about this speech struck Eddie as a little false, but he couldnt put his finger on just why, and he decided in the end that he was just being paranoid. John Cullum was a straight arrow  wasnt he? May you do well, he said, and gripped the old mans hand. Long days and pleasant nights. Same to you boys, Cullum said, and then shook with Roland. He held the gunslingers threefingered right hand a moment longer. Was it God saved my life back there, do ya think? When the bullets first started flyin? Yar, the gunslinger said. If you like. And may he go with you now. As for that old Ford of mine Either right here or somewhere nearby, Eddie said. Youll find it, or someone else will. Dont worry. Cullum grinned. Thats pretty much what I was gonna tell you. Vaya con Dios, Eddie said. Cullum grinned. Goes back double, son. You want to watch out for those walkins. He paused. Some of em arent very nice. From all reports. Cullum put his truck in gear and drove away. Roland watched him go and said, Dantete. Eddie nodded. Dantete. Little savior. It was as good a way to describe John Cullumnow as gone from their lives as the old people of River Crossingas any other. And he was gone, wasnt he? Although thered been something about the way hed talked of his friend in Vermont  Paranoia. Simple paranoia. Eddie put it out of his mind. FOUR Since there was no car present and hence no driversside floormat beneath which to look, Eddie intended to explore under the porch step. But before he could take more than a single stride in that direction, Roland gripped his shoulder in one hand and pointed with the other. What Eddie saw was a brushy slope going down to the water and the roof of what was probably another boathouse, its green shingles covered with a layer of dry needles. Someone there, Roland said, his lips barely moving. Probably the lesser of the two fools, and watching us. Raise your hands. Roland, do you think thats safe? Yes. Roland raised his hands. Eddie thought of asking him upon what basis he placed his belief, and knew the answer without asking intuition. It was Rolands specialty. With a sigh, Eddie raised his own hands to his shoulders. Deepneau! Roland called out in the direction of the boathouse. Aaron Deepneau! Were friends, and our time is short! If thats you, come out! We need to palaver! There was a pause, and then an old mans voice called Whats your name, mister? Roland Deschain, of Gilead and the line of the Eld. I think you know it. And your trade? I deal in lead! Roland called, and Eddie felt goosebumps pebble his arms. A long pause. Then Have they killed Calvin? Not that we know of, Eddie called back. If you know something we dont, why dont you come on out here and tell us? Are you the guy who showed up while Cal was dickering with that prick Andolini? Eddie felt another throb of anger at the word dickering. At the slant it put on what had actually been going down in Towers back room. A dicker? Is that what he told you it was? And then, without waiting for Aaron Deepneau to answer Yeah, Im that guy. Come out here and lets talk. No answer. Twenty seconds slipped by. Eddie pulled in breath to call Deepneau again. Roland put a hand on Eddies arm and shook his head. Another twenty seconds went by, and then there was the rusty shriek of a spring as a screen door was pushed open. A tall, skinny man stepped out of the boathouse, blinking like an owl. In one hand he held a large black automatic pistol by the barrel. Deepneau raised it over his head. Its a Beretta, and unloaded, he said. Theres only one clip and its in the bedroom, under my socks. Loaded guns make me nervous. Okay? Eddie rolled his eyes. These folken were their own worst enemas, as Henry might have said. Fine, Roland said. Just keep coming. Andwonders never ceased, it seemedDeepneau did. FIVE The coffee he made was better by far than any theyd had in Calla Bryn Sturgis, better than any Roland had had since his days in Mejis, Dropriding out on the Rim. There were also strawberries. Cultivated and storebought, Deepneau said, but Eddie was transported by their sweetness. The three of them sat in the kitchen of Jaffords Rentals Cabin 19, drinking coffee and dipping the big strawberries in the sugarbowl. By the end of their palaver, all three men looked like assassins whod dabbled the tips of their fingers in the spilled blood of their latest victim. Deepneaus unloaded gun lay forgotten on the windowsill. Deepneau had been out for a walk on the Rocket Road when he heard gunfire, loud and clear, and then explosions. Hed hurried back to the cabin (not that he was capable of too much hurry in his current condition, he said), and when he saw the smoke starting to rise in the south, had decided that returning to the boathouse might be wise, after all. By then he was almost positive it was the Italian hoodlum, Andolini, so What do you mean, you returned to the boathouse? Eddie asked. Deepneau shifted his feet under the table. He was extremely pallid, with purple patches beneath his eyes and only a few wisps of hair, fine as dandelion fluff, on his head. Eddie remembered Towers telling him that Deepneau had been diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. He didnt look great today, but Eddie had seen folksespecially in the City of Ludwho looked a lot worse. Jakes old pal Gasher had been just one of them. Aaron? Eddie asked. What did you mean I heard the question, he said, a trifle irritably. We got a note via general delivery, or rather Cal did, suggesting we move out of the cabin to someplace adjacent, and keep a lower profile in general. It was from a man named Callahan. Do you know him? Roland and Eddie nodded. This Callahan  you could say he took Cal to the woodshed. Cal, Calla, Callahan, Eddie thought, and sighed. Cals a decent man in most ways, but he does not enjoy being taken to the woodshed. We did move down to the boathouse for a few days  Deepneau paused, possibly engaging in a brief struggle with his conscience. Then he said, Two days, actually. Only two. And then Cal said we were crazy, being in the damp was making his arthritis worse, and he could hear me wheezing. Next thing Ill have you in that little shitpot hospital over in Norway, he said, with pneumonia as well as cancer. He said there wasnt a chance in hell of Andolini finding us up here, as long as the young guyyouhe pointed a gnarled and strawberrystained finger at Eddiekept his mouth shut. Those New York hoodlums cant find their way north of Westport without a compass, he said. Eddie groaned. For once in his life he absolutely loathed being right about something. He said wed been very careful. And when I said, Well, somebody found us, this Callahan found us, Cal said well of course. Again the finger pointed at Eddie. You must have told Mr. Callahan where to look for the zip code, and after that it was easy. Then Cal said, And the post office was the best he could do, wasnt it? Believe me, Aaron, were safe out here. No one knows where we are except the rental agent, and shes back in New York. Deepneau peered at them from beneath his shaggy eyebrows, then dipped a strawberry and ate half of it. Is that how you found us? The rental agent? No, Eddie said. A local. He took us right to you, Aaron. Deepneau sat back. Ouch. Ouch is right, Eddie said. So you moved back into the cabin, and Cal went right on buying books instead of hiding out here and reading one. Correct? Deepneau dropped his eyes to the tablecloth. You have to understand that Cal is very dedicated. Books are his life. No, Eddie said evenly, Cal isnt dedicated. Cal is obsessed, thats what Cal is. I understand that you are a scrip, Roland said, speaking for the first time since Deepneau had led them into the cabin. He had lit another of Cullums cigarettes (after plucking the filter off as the caretaker had shown him) and now sat smoking with what looked to Eddie like absolutely no satisfaction at all. A scrip? I dont  A lawyer. Oh. Well, yes. But Ive been retired from practice since We need you to come out of retirement long enough to draw up a certain paper, Roland said, and then explained what sort of paper he wanted. Deepneau was nodding before the gunslinger had done more than get started, and Eddie assumed Tower had already told his friend this part of it. That was okay. What he didnt like was the expression on the old fellas face. Still, Deepneau let Roland finish. He hadnt forgotten the basics of relating to potential clients, it seemed, retired or not. When he was sure Roland was finished, Deepneau said I feel I must tell you that Calvin has decided to hold onto that particular piece of property a little longer. Eddie thumped the unwounded side of his head, being careful to use his right hand for this bit of theater. His left arm was stiffening up, and his leg was once more starting to throb between the knee and the ankle. He supposed it was possible that good old Aaron was traveling with some heavyduty painkillers and made a mental note to ask for a few if he was. Cry pardon, Eddie said, but I took a knock on the head while I was arriving in this charming little town, and I think its screwed up my hearing. I thought you said that sai  that Mr. Tower had decided against selling us the lot. Deepneau smiled, rather wearily. You know perfectly well what I said. But hes supposed to sell it to us! He had a letter from Stefan Toren, his threetimesgreat grandfather, saying just that! Cal says different, Aaron responded mildly. Have another strawberry, Mr. Dean. No thank you! Have another strawberry, Eddie, Roland said, and handed him one. Eddie took it. Considered squashing it against Long, Tall, and Uglys beak, just for the hell of it, then dipped it first in a saucer of cream, then in the sugarbowl. He began to eat. And damn, it was hard to stay bitter with that much sweetness flooding your mouth. A fact of which Roland (Deepneau too, for that matter) was surely aware. According to Cal, Deepneau said, there was nothing in the envelope he had from Stefan Toren except for this mans name. He tilted his mostly hairless head toward Roland. Torens willwhat was in the olden days sometimes called a deadletterwas long gone. I knew what was in the envelope, Eddie said. He asked me, and I knew! So he told me. Deepneau regarded him expressionlessly. He said it was a trick any streetcorner magician could do. Did he also tell you that he promised to sell us the lot if I could tell him the name? That he fucking promised? He claims to have been under considerable stress when he made that promise. As I am sure he was. Does the son of a bitch think we mean to weasel on him? Eddie asked. His temples were thudding with rage. Had he ever been so angry? Once, he supposed. When Roland had refused to let him go back to New York so he could score some horse. Is that it? Because we wont. Well come up with every cent he wants, and more. I swear it on the face of my father! And on the heart of my dinh! Listen to me carefully, young man, because this is important. Eddie glanced at Roland. Roland nodded slightly, then crushed out his cigarette on one bootheel. Eddie looked back at Deepneau, silent but glowering. He says that is exactly the problem. He says youll pay him some ridiculously low token amounta dollar is the usual sum in such casesand then stiff him for the rest. He claims you tried to hypnotize him into believing you were a supernatural being, or someone with access to supernatural beings  not to mention access to millions from the Holmes Dental Corporation  but he was not fooled. Eddie gaped at him. These are things Calvin says, Deepneau continued in that same calm voice, but they are not necessarily the things Calvin believes. What in hell do you mean? Calvin has issues with letting go of things, Deepneau said. He is quite good at finding rare and antiquarian books, you knowa regular literary Sherlock Holmesand he is compulsive about acquiring them. Ive seen him hound the owner of a book he wantsIm afraid theres no other word that really fitsuntil the books owner gives in and sells. Sometimes just to make Cal stop calling on the telephone, Im sure. Given his talents, his location, and the considerable sum of money to which he gained complete access on his twentysixth birthday, Cal should have been one of the most successful antiquarian bookdealers in New York, or in the whole country. His problem isnt with buying but selling. Once he has an item hes really worked to acquire, he hates to let it go again. I remember when a book collector from San Francisco, a fellow almost as compulsive as Cal himself, finally wore down Cal enough to sell him a signed first of MobyDick. Cal made over seventy thousand dollars on that one deal alone, but he also didnt sleep for a week. He feels much the same way about the lot on the corner of Second and Fortysixth. Its the only real property, other than his books, which he still has. And hes convinced himself that you want to steal it from him. There was a short period of silence. Then Roland said Does he know better, in his secret heart? Mr. Deschain, I dont understand what Aye, ya do, Roland said. Does he? Yes, Deepneau said at last. I believe he does. Does he understand in his secret heart that we are men of our word who will pay him for his property, unless were dead? Yes, probably. But Does he understand that, if he transfers ownership of the lot to us, and if we make this transfer perfectly clear to Andolinis dinhhis boss, a man named Balazar I know the name, Deepneau said dryly. Its in the papers from time to time. That Balazar will then leave your friend alone? If, that is, he can be made to understand that the lot is no longer your friends to sell, and that any effort to take revenge on sai Tower will cost Balazar himself dearly? Deepneau crossed his arms over his narrow chest and waited. He was looking at Roland with a kind of uneasy fascination. In short, if your friend Calvin Tower sells us that lot, his troubles will be over. Do you think he knows that in his secret heart? Yes, Deepneau said. Its just that hes got this  this kink about letting stuff go. Draw up a paper, Roland said. Object, the vacant square of waste ground on the corner of those two streets. Tower the seller. Us the buyer. The Tet Corporation as buyer, Eddie put in. Deepneau was shaking his head. I could draw it up, but you wont convince him to sell. Unless youve got a week or so, that is, and youre not averse to using hot irons on his feet. Or maybe his balls. Eddie muttered something under his breath. Deepneau asked him what hed said. Eddie told him nothing. What hed said was Sounds good. We will convince him, Roland said. I wouldnt be so sure of that, my friend. We will convince him, Roland repeated. He spoke in his driest tone. Outside, an anonymous little car (a Hertz rental if Eddie had ever seen one) rolled into the clearing and came to a stop. Bite your tongue, bite your tongue, Eddie told himself, but as Calvin Tower got briskly out of the car (giving the new vehicle in his dooryard only the most cursory glance), Eddie felt his temples begin to heat up. He rolled his hands into fists, and when his nails bit into the skin of his palms, he grinned in bitter appreciation of the pain. Tower opened the trunk of his rental Chevy and pulled out a large bag. His latest haul, Eddie thought. Tower looked briefly south, at the smoke in the sky, then shrugged and started for the cabin. Thats right, Eddie thought, thats right, you whore, just something on fire, whats it to you? Despite the throb of pain it caused in his wounded arm, Eddie squeezed his fists tighter, dug his nails in deeper. You cant kill him, Eddie, Susannah said. You know that, dont you? Did he know it? And even if he did, could he listen to Suzes voice? To any voice of reason, for that matter? Eddie didnt know. What he knew was that the real Susannah was gone, she had a monkey named Mia on her back and had disappeared into the maw of the future. Tower, on the other hand, was here. Which made sense, in a way. Eddie had read someplace that nuclear wars most likely survivors would be the cockroaches. Never mind, sugar, you just bite down on your tongue and let Roland handle this. You cant kill him! No, Eddie supposed not. Not, at least, until sai Tower had signed on the dotted line. After that, however  after that  SIX Aaron! Tower called as he mounted the porch steps. Roland caught Deepneaus eyes and put a finger across his lips. Aaron, hey Aaron! Tower sounded strong and happy to be alivenot a man on the run but a man on a wonderful busmans holiday. Aaron, I went over to that widows house in East Fryeburg, and holy Joe, shes got every novel Herman Wouk ever wrote! Not the book club editions, either, which is what I expected, but The scroink! of the screen doors rusty spring being stretched was followed by the clump of shoes across the porch. the Doubleday firsts! Marjorie Morningstar! The Caine Mutiny! I think somebody across the lake better hope their fire insurance is paid up, because He stepped in. Saw Aaron. Saw Roland sitting across from Deepneau, looking at him steadily from those frightening blue eyes with the deep crows feet at the corners. And, last of all, he saw Eddie. But Eddie didnt see him. At the last moment Eddie Dean had lowered his clasped hands between his knees and then lowered his head so his gaze was fixed upon them and the board floor below them. He was quite literally biting his tongue. There were two drops of blood on the side of his right thumb. He fixed his eyes on these. He fixed every iota of his attention on them. Because if he looked at the owner of that jolly voice, Eddie would surely kill him. Saw our car. Saw it but never went over for a look. Never called out and asked his friend who was here, or if everything was okay. If Aaron was okay. Because he had some guy named Herman Wouk on his mind, not book club editions but the real thing. No worries, mate. Because youve got no more shortterm imagination than Jack Andolini. You and Jack, just a couple ragged cockroaches, scuttling across the floor of the universe. Eyes on the prize, right? Eyes on the fucking prize. You, Tower said. The happiness and excitement were gone from his voice. The guy from The guy from nowhere, Eddie said without looking up. The one who peeled Jack Andolini off you when you were about two minutes from shitting in your pants. And this is how you repay. Youre quite the guy, arent you? As soon as he finished speaking, Eddie clamped down on his tongue again. His clasped hands were trembling. He expected Roland to intervenesurely he would, Eddie couldnt be expected to deal with this selfish monster on his own, he wasnt capable of itbut Roland said nothing. Tower laughed. The sound was as nervous and brittle as his voice when hed realized who was sitting in the kitchen of his rented cabin.