The Dark Tower

“You believe Tower would have repented his bargain and talked his friend into destroying it?”

“I know it,” Eddie said. “But even if Deepneau could stand up to his old friend going yatta-yatta-yatta in his ear for hours on end—‘Burn it, Aaron, they coerced me and now they mean to screw me, you know it as well as I do, burn it and we’ll call the cops on those momsers’—do you think Moses Carver would believe such a crazy story?”

Roland smiled bleakly. “I don’t think his belief would be an issue, Eddie. Because, think thee a moment, how much of our crazy story has Aaron Deepneau actually heard?”

“Not enough,” Eddie agreed. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against them. Hard. “I can only think of one person who could actually convince Moses Carver to do the things we’d have to ask, and she’s otherwise occupied. In the year of ’99. And by then, Carver’s gonna be as dead as Deepneau and maybe Tower himself.”

“Well, what can we do without her? What will satisfy you?”

Eddie was thinking that perhaps Susannah could come back to 1977 without them, since she, at least, hadn’t visited it yet. Well . . . she’d come here todash, but he didn’t think that exactly counted. He supposed she might be barred from 1977 solely on the grounds that she was ka-tet with him and Roland. Or some other grounds. Eddie didn’t know. Reading the fine print had never been his strong point. He turned to ask Roland what he thought, but Roland spoke before he got a chance.

“What about our dan-tete?” he asked.

Although Eddie understood the term—it meant baby god or little savior—he did not at first understand what Roland meant by it. Then he did. Had not their Waterford dan-tete loaned them the very car they were sitting in, say thankya? “Cullum? Is that who you’re talking about, Roland? The guy with the case of autographed baseballs?”

“You say true,” Roland replied. He spoke in that dry tone which indicated not amusement but mild exasperation. “Don’t overwhelm me with your enthusiasm for the idea.”

“But . . . you told him to go away! And he agreed to go!”

“And how enthusiastic would you say he was about visiting his friend in Vermong?”

“Mont,” Eddie said, unable to suppress a smile. Yet, smiling or not, what he felt most strongly was dismay. He thought that ugly scraping sound he heard in his imagination was Roland’s two-fingered right hand, prospecting around at the very bottom of the barrel.

Roland shrugged as if to say he didn’t care if Cullum had spoken of going to Vermont or Barony o’ Garlan. “Answer my question.”

“Well . . .”

Cullum actually hadn’t expressed much enthusiasm for the idea at all. He had from the very first reacted more like one of them than one of the grass-eaters among whom he lived (Eddie recognized grass-eaters very easily, having been one himself until Roland first kidnapped him and then began his homicidal lessons). Cullum had been clearly intrigued by the gunslingers, and curious about their business in his little town. But Roland had been very emphatic about what he wanted, and folks had a way of following his orders.

Now he made a twirling motion with his right hand, his old impatient gesture. Hurry, for your father’s sake. Shit or get off the commode.

“I guess he really didn’t want to go,” Eddie said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s still at his house in East Stoneham.”

“He is, though. He didn’t go.”

Eddie managed to keep his mouth from dropping open only with some effort. “How can you know that? Can you touch him, is that it?”

Roland shook his head.

“Then how—”

“Ka.”

“Ka? Ka? Just what the fuck does that mean?”

Roland’s face was haggard and tired, the skin pale beneath his tan. “Who else do we know in this part of the world?”

“No one, but—”

“Then it’s him.” Roland spoke flatly, as if stating some obvious fact of life for a child: up is over your head, down is where your feet stick to the earth.

Eddie got ready to tell him that was stupid, nothing more than rank superstition, then didn’t. Putting aside Deepneau, Tower, Stephen King, and the hideous Jack Andolini, John Cullum was the only person they knew in this part of the world (or on this level of the Tower, if you preferred to think of it that way). And, after the things Eddie had seen in the last few months—hell, in the last week—who was he to sneer at superstition?

“All right,” Eddie said. “I guess we better try it.”

“How do we get in touch?”

“We can phone him from Bridgton. But in a story, Roland, a minor character like John Cullum would never come in off the bench to save the day. It wouldn’t be considered realistic.”

“In life,” Roland said, “I’m sure it happens all the time.”

And Eddie laughed. What the hell else could you do? It was just so perfectly Roland.

FOUR

BRIDGTON HIGH STREET 1

HIGHLAND LAKE 2

HARRISON 3

WATERFORD 6

SWEDEN 9

LOVELL 18

FRYEBURG 24