Roland once more took his gunbelt from the pouch, once more unwrapped it from the holster, once more drew his father’s gun. This time he did not offer to hand it over, nor did that gentleman ask to take it. He only examined the scrollwork, particularly that at the end of the barrel. Then he nodded respectfully and stepped back. “I’ll unlock the door. Once you go inside, you’re on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”
Roland, who had been on his own for most of his life, nodded.
Irene took his elbow before he could move forward, turned him, and put her arms around his neck. She had also bought herself a pair of low-heeled shoes, and only needed to tilt her head back slightly in order to look into his eyes.
“You take care of yourself, cowboy.” She kissed him briefly on the mouth—the kiss of a friend—and then knelt to stroke Oy. “And take care of the little cowboy, too.”
“I’ll do my best,” Roland said. “Will you remember your promise about Jake’s grave?”
“A rose,” she said. “I’ll remember.”
“Thankee.” He looked at her a moment longer, consulted the workings of his own inner instincts—hunch-think—and came to a decision. From the bag containing the Orizas, he took the envelope containing the bulky book . . . the one Susannah would never read to him on the trail, after all. He put it in Irene’s hands.
She looked at it, frowning. “What’s in here? Feels like a book.”
“Yar. One by Stephen King.
She smiled a bit. “No, thee hasn’t. Has thee?”
“No. And won’t. It feels tricksy to me.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“It feels . . . thin.” He was thinking of Eyebolt Canyon, in Mejis.
She hefted it. “Feels pretty goddamned thick to me. A Stephen King book for sure. He sells by the inch, America buys by the pound.”
Roland only shook his head.
Irene said, “Never mind. I’m being smart because Ree doesn’t do goodbyes well, never has. You want me to keep this, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Maybe when Big Steve gets out of the hospital, I’ll get him to sign it. The way I look at it, he owes me an autograph.”
“Or a kiss,” Roland said, and took another for himself. With the book out of his hands, he felt somehow lighter. Freer.
Then Roland let her go, touched his forehead lightly with his fist, and turned to the door of the Dixie Pig. He opened it and slipped inside with no look back. That, he had found, was ever the easiest way.
SIXTEEN
The chrome post which had been outside on the night Jake and Pere Callahan had come here had been put in the lobby for safekeeping. Roland stumbled against it, but his reflexes were as quick as ever and he grabbed it before it could fall over. He read the sign on top slowly, sounding the words out and getting the sense of only one: CLOSED. The orange electric
In the main dining room, two or three tables were overturned. Roland saw stains on the red rug, several dark ones that were almost certainly blood and a yellowish curd that was . . . something else.
And the Pere’s voice, echoing dimly in Roland’s ears, unafraid:
The Pere. Another of those he had left behind.
Roland thought briefly of the scrimshaw turtle that had been hidden in the lining of the bag they had found in the vacant lot, but didn’t waste time looking for it. If it had been here, he thought he would have heard its voice, calling to him in the silence. No, whoever had appropriated the tapestry of the vampire-knights at dinner had very likely taken the
The gunslinger moved on, weaving his way among the tables with Oy trotting at his heel.
SEVENTEEN