Dark Tower VII, The (v. 7) Read online

  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

  They had just passed this sign when Eddie said, “Root around in the glove-compartment a little, Roland. See if ka or the Beam or whatever left us a little spare change for the pay phone.”

  “Glove—? Do you mean this panel here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Roland first tried to turn the chrome button on the front, then got with the program and pushed it. The inside was a mare’s nest that hadn’t been improved by the Galaxie’s brief period of weightlessness. There were credit card receipts, a very old tube of what Eddie identified as “toothpaste” (Roland could make out the words HOLMES DENTAL on it quite clearly), a fottergraff showing a smiling little girl—Cullum’s niece, mayhap—on a pony, a stick of what he first took for explosive (Eddie said it was a road flare, for emergencies), a magazine that appeared to be called YANKME … and a cigar-box. Roland couldn’t quite make out the word on this, although he thought it might be trolls. He showed the box to Eddie, whose eyes lit up.

  “That says TOLLS,” he said. “Maybe you’re right about Cullum and ka. Open it up, Roland, do it please ya.”

  The child who had given this box as a gift had crafted a loving (and rather clumsy) catch on the front to hold it closed. Roland slipped the catch, opened the box, and showed Eddie a great many silver coins. “Is it enough to call sai Cullum’s house?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “Looks like enough to call Fairbanks, Alaska. It won’t help us a bit, though, if Cullum’s on the road to Vermont.”

  FIVE

  The Bridgton town square was bounded by a drug store and a pizza-joint on one side; a movie theater (The Magic Lantern) and a department store (Reny’s) on the other. Between the theater and the department store was a little plaza equipped with benches and three pay phones.

  Eddie swept through Cullum’s box of toll-change and gave Roland six dollars in quarters. “I want you to go over there,” he said, pointing at the drug store, “and get me a tin of aspirin. Will you know it when you see it?”

  “Astin. I’ll know it.”

  “The smallest size they have is what I want, because six bucks really isn’t much money. Then go next door, to that place that says Bridgton Pizza and Sandwiches. If you’ve still got at least sixteen of those money-coins left, tell them you want a hoagie.”

  Roland nodded, which wasn’t good enough for Eddie. “Let me hear you say it.”

  “Hoggie.”

  “Hoagie.”

  “HOOG-gie.”

  “Ho—” Eddie quit. “Roland, let me hear you say ‘poorboy.’”

  “Poor boy.”

  “Good. If you have at least sixteen quarters left, ask for a poorboy. Can you say ‘lots of mayo’?”

  “Lots of mayo.”

  “Yeah. If you have less than sixteen, ask for a salami and cheese sandwich. Sandwich, not a popkin.”

  “Salommy sanditch.”

  “Close enough. And don’t say anything else unless you absolutely have to.”

  Roland nodded. Eddie was right, it would be better if he did not speak. People only had to look at him to know, in their secret hearts, that he wasn’t from these parts. They also had a tendency to step away from him. Better he not exacerbate that.

  The gunslinger dropped a hand to his left hip as he turned toward the street, an old habit that paid no comfort this time; both revolvers were in the trunk of Cullum’s Galaxie, wrapped in their cartridge belts.

  Before he could get going again, Eddie grabbed his shoulder. The gunslinger swung round, eyebrows raised, faded eyes on his friend.

  “We have a saying in our world, Roland—we say so-and-so was grasping at straws.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  “This,” Eddie said bleakly. “What we’re doing. Wish me good luck, fella.”

  Roland nodded. “Aye, so I do. Both of us.”

  He began to turn away and Eddie called him back again. This time Roland wore an expression of faint impatience.

  “Don’t get killed crossing the street,” Eddie said, and then briefly mimicked Cullum’s way of speaking. “Summah folks’re thicker’n ticks on a dog. And they’re not ridin hosses.”

  “Make your call, Eddie,” Roland said, and then crossed Bridgton’s high street with slow confidence, walking in the same rolling gait that had taken him across a thousand other high streets in a thousand small towns.

  Eddie watched him, then turned to the telephone and consulted the directions. After that he lifted the receiver and dialed the number for Directory Assistance.

  SIX

  He didn’t go, the gunslinger had said, speaking of John Cullum with flat certainty. And why? Because Cullum was the end of the line, there was no one else for them to call. Roland of Gilead’s damned old ka, in other words.

  After a brief wait, the Directory Assistance operator coughed up Cullum’s number. Eddie tried to memorize it— he’d always been good at remembering numbers, Henry had sometimes called him Little Einstein — but this time he couldn’t be confident of his ability. Something seemed to have happened either to his thinking processes in general (which he didn’t believe) or to his ability to remember certain artifacts of this world (which he sort of did). As he asked for the number a second time — and wrote it in the gathered dust on the phone kiosk’s little ledge—Eddie found himself wondering if he’d still be able to read a novel, or follow the plot of a movie from the succession of images on a screen. He rather doubted it. And what did it matter? The Magic Lantern next door was showing Star Wars, and Eddie thought that if he made it to the end of his life’s path and into the clearing without another look at Luke Skywalker and another listen to Darth Vader’s noisy breathing, he’d still be pretty much okay.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he told the operator, and was about to dial again when there was a series of explosions behind him. Eddie whirled, heart-rate spiking, right hand dipping, expecting to see Wolves, or harriers, or maybe that son of a bitch Flagg—

  What he saw was a conv
ertible filled with laughing, goofy-faced high school boys with sunburned cheeks. One of them had just tossed out a string of firecrackers left over from the Fourth of July—what kids their age in Calla Bryn Sturgis would have called bangers.

  If I’d had a gun on my hip, I might have shot a couple of those bucks, Eddie thought. You want to talk goofy, start with that. Yes. Well. And maybe he might not have. Either way, he had to admit the possibility that he was no longer exactly safe in the more civilized quarters.

  “Live with it,” Eddie murmured, then added the great sage and eminent junkie’s favorite advice for life’s little problems: “Deal.”

  He dialed John Cullum’s number on the old-fashioned rotary phone, and when a robot voice—Blaine the Mono’s great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, mayhap — asked him to deposit ninety cents, Eddie dropped in a buck. What the hell, he was saving the world.

  The phone rang once … rang twice … and was picked up!

  “John!” Eddie almost yelled. “Good fucking deal! John, this is—”

  But the voice on the other end was already speaking. As a child of the late eighties, Eddie knew this did not bode well.

  “—have reached John Cullum of Cullum Caretakin and Camp Checkin,” said Cullum’s voice in its familiar slow Yankee drawl. “I gut called away kinda sudden, don’tcha know, and can’t say with any degree a’ certainty just when I’ll be back. If this inconveniences ya, I beg pa’aad’n, but you c’n call Gary Crowell, at 926-5555, or Junior Barker, at 929-4211.”

  Eddie’s initial dismay had departed—depaa-aated, Cullum himself would have said—right around the time the man’s wavery recorded voice was telling Eddie that he, Cullum, couldn’t say with any degree of certainty when he’d be back. Because Cullum was right there, in his hobbity little cottage on the western shore of Keywadin Pond, either sitting on his overstuffed hobbity sofa or in one of the two similarly overstuffed hobbity chairs. Sitting there and monitoring messages on his no-doubt-clunky mid-seventies answering machine. And Eddie knew this because … well …

  Because he just knew.

  The primitive recording couldn’t completely hide the sly humor that had crept into Cullum’s voice by the end of the message. “Coss, if you’re still set on talkin to nobody but yours truly, you c’n leave me a message at the beep. Keep it short.” The final word came out shawt.

  Eddie waited for the beep and then said, “It’s Eddie Dean, John. I know you’re there, and I think you’ve been waiting for my call. Don’t ask me why I think that, because I don’t really know, but—”

  There was a loud click in Eddie’s ear, and then Cullum’s voice—his live voice—said, “Hello there, son, you takin good care of my car?”

  For a moment Eddie was too bemused to reply, for Cullum’s Downeast accent had turned the question into something quite different: You takin good care of my ka?

  “Boy?” Cullum asked, suddenly concerned. “You still on the wire?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said, “and so are you. I thought you were going to Vermont, John.”

  “Well, I tell you what. This place ain’t seen a day this excitin prob’ly since South Stoneham Shoe burnt down in 1923. The cops’ve gut all the ruds out of town blocked off.”

  Eddie was sure they were letting folks through the roadblocks if they could show proper identification, but he ignored that issue in favor of something else. “Want to tell me you couldn’t find your way out of that town without seeing a single cop, if it suited your fancy?”

  There was a brief pause. In it, Eddie became aware of someone at his elbow. He didn’t turn to look; it was Roland. Who else in this world would smell—subtly but unquestionably—of another world?

  “Oh, well,” Cullum said at last. “Maybe I do know a woods road or two that come out over in Lovell. It’s been a dry summer, n I guess I could get m’truck up em.”

  “One or two?”

  “Well, say three or four.” A pause, which Eddie didn’t break.

  He was having too much fun. “Five or six,” Cullum amended, and Eddie chose not to respond to this, either. “Eight,” Cullum said at last, and when Eddie laughed, Cullum joined in. “What’s on your mind, son?”

  Eddie glanced at Roland, who was holding out a tin of aspirin between the two remaining fingers of his right hand. Eddie took it gratefully. “I want you to come over to Lovell,” he said to Cullum. “Seems like we might have a little more palavering to do, after all.”

  “Ayuh, and it seems like I musta known it,” Cullum said, “although it was never right up on the top of my mind; up there I kep’ thinkin ‘I’ll be gettin on the road to Montpelier soon,’ and still I kep’ findin one more thing and one more thing to do around here. If you’da called five minutes ago, you woulda gotten a busy—I ‘us on the phone to Charlie Beemer. It was his wife ‘n sister-in-law that got killed in the market, don’t you know. And then I thought, ‘What the hell, I’ll just give the whole place a good sweep before I put my gear in the back of the truck and go.’ Nothin up on top is what I’m sayin, but down underneath I guess I been waitin for your call ever since I got back here. Where’ll you be? Turtleback Lane?”

  Eddie popped open the aspirin tin and looked greedily at the little line-up of tablets. Once a junkie, always a junkie, he reckoned. Even when it came to this stuff. “Ayuh,” he said, with his tongue only partly in his cheek; he had become quite the mimic of regional dialects since meeting Roland on a Delta jet descending into Kennedy Airport. “You said that lane was nothing but a two-mile loop off Route 7, didn’t you?”

  “So I did. Some very nice homes along Turtleback.” A brief, reflective pause. “And a lot of em for sale. There’s been quite a number of walkins in that part of the world just lately. As I may have also mentioned. Such things make folks nervous, and rich folks, at least, c’n afford to get away from what makes it ha’ad to sleep at night.”

  Eddie could wait no longer; he took three of the aspirin and tossed them into his mouth, relishing the bitter taste as they dissolved on his tongue. Bad as the pain currently was, he would have borne twice as much if he could have heard from Susannah. But she was quiet. He had an idea that the line of communication between them, chancy at best, had ceased to exist with the coming of Mia’s damned baby.

  “You boys might want to keep your shootin irons close at hand if you’re headed over to Turtleback in Lovell,” Cullum said. “As for me, I think I’ll just toss m’shotgun in m’truck before I set sail.”

  “Why not?” Eddie agreed. “You want to look for your car along the loop, okay? You’ll find it.”

  “Ayuh, that old Galaxie’s ha’ad to miss,” Cullum agreed. “Tell me somethin, son. I’m not goin to V’mont, but I gut a feelin you mean to send me somewhere, if I agree to go. You mind tellin me where?”

  Eddie thought that Mark Twain might elect to call the next chapter of John Cullum’s no doubt colorful life A Maine Yankee in the Crimson King’s Court, but elected not to say so. “Have you ever been to New York City?”

  “Gorry, yes. Had a forty-eight-hour pass there, when I was in the Army.” The final word came out in a ridiculously flat drawl. “Went to Radio City Music Hall and the Empire State Buildin, that much I remember. Musta made a few other tourist stops, though, because I lost thirty dollars out of m’wallet and a couple of months later I got diagnosed with a pretty fine case of the clap.”

  “This time you’ll be too busy to catch the clap. Bring your credit cards. I know you have some, because I got a look at the receipts in your glove-compartment.” He felt an almost insane urge to draw the last word out, make it compaa-aaaatment.

  “Mess in there, ennit?” Cullum asked equably.

  “Ayuh, looks like what was left when the dog chewed the shoes. See you in Lovell, John.” Eddie hung up. He looked at the bag Roland was carrying and lifted his eyebrows.

  “It’s a poorboy sanditch,” Roland said. “With lots of mayo, whatever that is. I’d want a sauce that didn’t look quite so much like come, myself,
but may it do ya fine.”

  Eddie rolled his eyes. “Gosh, that’s a real appetite-builder.”

  “Do you say so?”

  Eddie had to remind himself once more that Roland had almost no sense of humor. “I do, I do. Come on. I can eat my come-and-cheese sandwich while I drive. Also, we need to talk about how we’re going to handle this.”

  SEVEN

  The way to handle it, both agreed, was to tell John Cullum as much of their tale as they thought his credulity (and sanity) could stand. Then, if all went well, they would entrust him with the vital bill of sale and send him to Aaron Deepneau. With strict orders to make sure he spoke to Deepneau apart from the not entirely trustworthy Calvin Tower.

  “Cullum and Deepneau can work together to track Moses Carver down,” Eddie said, “and I think I can give Cullum enough information about Suze—private stuff—to convince Carver that she’s still alive. After that, though … well, a lot depends on how convincing those two guys can be. And how eager they are to work for the Tet Corporation in their sunset years. Hey, they may surprise us! I can’t see Cullum in a suit and tie, but traveling around the country and throwing monkey-wrenches in Sombra’s business?” He considered, head cocked, then nodded with a smile. “Yeah. I can see that pretty well.”

  “Susannah’s godfather is apt to be an old codger himself,” Roland observed. “Just one of a different color. Such fellows often speak their own language when they’re an-tet. And mayhap I can give John Cullum something that will help convince Carver to throw in with us.”

  “A sigul?”

  “Yes.”

  Eddie was intrigued. “What kind?”

  But before Roland could answer, they saw something that made Eddie stomp on the brake-pedal. They were in Lovell now, and on Route 7. Ahead of them, staggering unsteadily along the shoulder, was an old man with snarled and straggly white hair. He wore a clumsy wrap of dirty cloth that could by no means be called a robe. His scrawny arms and legs were whipped with scratches. There were sores on them as well, burning a dull red. His feet were bare, and equipped with ugly and dangerous-looking yellow talons instead of toes. Clasped under one arm was a splintery wooden object that might have been a broken lyre. Eddie thought no one could have looked more out of place on this road, where the only pedestrians they had seen so far were serious-looking exercisers, obviously from “away,” looking ever so put-together in their nylon jogging shorts, baseball hats, and tee-shirts (one jogger’s shirt bore the legend DON’T SHOOT THE TOURISTS).