The Dark Tower

“My destination’s Portland, Maine. Mycarrier of choice is Rubberband Airlines, if they’re going there thisafternoon.”

The limousine’s windows were smoked glass,the interior dim and ringed with colored lights. Oy jumped up on one of theseats and watched with interest as the city rolled past. Roland was mildlyamazed to see that there was a completely stocked liquor-bar on one side of thelong passenger compartment. He thought of having a beer and decided that evensuch a mild drink would be enough to dim his own lights. Irene had no suchworries. She poured herself what looked like whiskey from a small bottle andthen held the glass toward him.

“May your road wind ever upward and thewind be ever at your back, me foine bucko,” she said.

Roland nodded. “A good toast. Thankee-sai.”

“These have been the most amazing threedays of my life. I want to thankee-sai you. For choosing me.” Alsofor laying me, she thought but did not add. She and Dave still enjoyed theoccasional snuggle, but not like that of the previous night. It had never beenlike that. And if Roland hadn’t been distracted? Very likely she would haveblown her silly self up, like a Black Cat firecracker.

Roland nodded and watched the streets ofthe city—a version of Lud, but still young and vital—go by. “Whatabout your car?” he asked.

“If we want it before we come back to NewYork, we’ll have someone drive it up to Maine. Probably David’s Beemer will dous. It’s one of the advantages of being wealthy—why are you looking at methat way?”

“You have a cartomobile called a Beamer?”

“It’s slang,” she said. “It’s actually BMW.Stands for Bavarian Motor Works.”

“Ah.” Roland tried to look as if heunderstood.

“Roland, may I ask you a question?”

He twirled his hand for her to go ahead.

“When we saved the writer, did we also savethe world? We did, somehow, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How does it happen that a writer who’s noteven very good—and I can say that, I’ve read four or five of hisbooks—gets to be in charge of the world’s destiny? Or of the entireuniverse’s?”

“If he’s not very good, why didn’t you stopat one?”

Mrs. Tassenbaum smiled. “Touché.He is readable, I’ll give him that—tells a good story, but has atin ear for language. I answered your question, now answer mine. God knowsthere are writers who feel that the whole world hangs on what they say. NormanMailer comes to mind, also Shirley Hazzard and John Updike. But apparently inthis case the world really does. How did it happen?”

Roland shrugged. “He hears the right voicesand sings the right songs. Which is to say, ka.”

It was Irene Tassenbaum’s turn to look asthough she understood.

Fifteen

The limousine drew up in front of abuilding with a green awning out front. Another man in another well-cut suitwas standing by the door. The steps leading up from the sidewalk were blockedwith yellow tape. There were words printed on it which Roland couldn’t read.

“It says CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER,” Mrs. Tassenbaumtold him. “But it looks like it’s been there awhile. I think they usually takethe tape down once they’re finished with their cameras and little brushes andthings. You must have powerful friends.”

Roland was sure the tape had indeed beenthere awhile; three weeks, give or take. That was when Jake and Pere Callahanhad entered the Dixie Pig, positive they were going to their deaths but pushingahead anyway. He saw there was a little puddle of liquor left in Irene’s glassand swallowed it, grimacing at the hot taste of the alcohol but relishing theburn on the way down.

“Better?” she asked.

“Aye, thanks.” He reset the bag with theOrizas in it more firmly on his shoulder and got out with Oy at his heel. Irenepaused to talk to the driver, who seemed to have been successful in making hertravel arrangements. Roland ducked beneath the tape and then just stood wherehe was for a moment, listening to the honk and pound of the city on this brightJune day, relishing its adolescent vitality. He would never see another city,of that much he was almost positive. And perhaps that was just as well. He hadan idea that after New York, all others would be a step down.

The guard—obviously someone whoworked for the Tet Corporation and not this city’s constabulary—joinedhim on the walk. “If you want to go in there, sir, there’s something you shouldshow me.”

Roland once more took his gunbelt from thepouch, once more unwrapped it from the holster, once more drew his father’sgun. This time he did not offer to hand it over, nor did that gentleman ask totake it. He only examined the scrollwork, particularly that at the end of thebarrel. 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 ofhis life, nodded.

Irene took his elbow before he could moveforward, turned him, and put her arms around his neck. She had also boughtherself a pair of low-heeled shoes, and only needed to tilt her head backslightly in order to look into his eyes.

“You take care of yourself, cowboy.” Shekissed him briefly on the mouth—the kiss of a friend—and then kneltto stroke Oy. “And take care of the little cowboy, too.”

“I’ll do my best,” Roland said. “Will youremember your promise about Jake’s grave?”

“A rose,” she said. “I’ll remember.”

“Thankee.” He looked at her a momentlonger, consulted the workings of his own i

She looked at it, frowning. “What’s inhere? Feels like a book.”

“Yar. One by Stephen King. Insomnia,it’s called. Has thee read that one?”

She smiled a bit. “No, thee hasn’t. Hasthee?”

“No. And won’t. It feels tricksy to me.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“It feels… thin.” He was thinking ofEyebolt Canyon, in Mejis.

She hefted it. “Feels pretty goddamnedthick to me. A Stephen King book for sure. He sells by the inch, America buysby the pound.”

Roland only shook his head.

Irene said, “Never mind. I’m being smartbecause Ree doesn’t do goodbyes well, never has. You want me to keep this,right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Maybe when Big Steve gets out of thehospital, I’ll get him to sign it. The way I look at it, he owes me anautograph.”

“Or a kiss,” Roland said, and took anotherfor himself. With the book out of his hands, he felt somehow lighter. Freer. Safer.He drew her fully into his arms and hugged her. Irene Tassenbaum returned hisstrength with her own.

Then Roland let her go, touched hisforehead lightly with his fist, and turned to the door of the Dixie Pig. Heopened it and slipped inside with no look back. That, he had found, was everthe easiest way.

Sixteen

The chrome post which had been outside onthe night Jake and Pere Callahan had come here had been put in the lobby forsafekeeping. Roland stumbled against it, but his reflexes were as quick as everand 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 orangeelectric flambeaux which had lit the dining room were off but thebattery-powered emergency lights were on, filling the area beyond the lobby andthe bar with a flat glare. To the left was an arch and another dining roombeyond it. There were no emergency lights there; that part of the Dixie Pig wasas dark as a cave. The light from the main dining room seemed to creep in aboutfour feet—just far enough to illuminate the end of a long table—andthen fall dead. The tapestry of which Jake had spoken was gone. It might be inthe evidence room of the nearest police station, or it might already havejoined some collector’s trove of oddities. Roland could smell the faint aromaof charred meat, vague and unpleasant.