The Dark Tower

Back for him?

That idea broke his paralysis. Chip turnedand ran. He got no more than three steps along the inside of the counter beforea shot rang out, loud as thunder in the store—the place was bigger andfancier than it had been in ‘77, thank God for his father’s insistence onextravagant insurance coverage—and Mrs. Tassenbaum uttered a piercingscream. Three or four people who had been browsing the aisles turned withexpressions of astonishment, and one of them hit the floor in a dead faint.Chip had time to register that it was Rhoda Beemer, eldest daughter of one ofthe two women who’d been killed in here on That Day. Then it seemed to him thattime had folded back on itself and it was Ruth herself lying there with a canof creamed corn rolling free of one relaxing hand. He heard a bullet buzz overhis head like an angry bee and skidded to a stop, hands raised.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” he heard himselfbawl in the thin, wavering voice of an old man. “Take whatever’s in theregister but don’t shoot me!”

“Turn around,” said the voice of the manwho had turned Chip’s world turtle on That Day, the man who’d almost gotten himkilled (he’d been in the hospital over in Bridgton for two weeks, by the livingJesus) and had now reappeared like an old monster from some child’s closet.“The rest of you on the floor, but you turn around, shopkeeper. Turn around andsee me.

“See me very well.”

Three

The man swayed from side to side, and for amoment Roland thought he would faint instead of turning. Perhaps somesurvival-oriented part of his brain suggested that fainting was more likely toget him killed, for the shopkeeper managed to keep his feet and didfinally turn and face the gunslinger. His dress was eerily similar to what he’dbeen wearing the last time Roland was here; it could have been the same blacktie and butcher’s apron, tied up high on his midriff. His hair was stillslicked back along his skull, but now it was wholly white instead ofsalt-and-pepper. Roland remembered the way blood had dashed back from the leftside of the shopkeeper’s temple as a bullet—one fired by Andolinihimself, for all the gunslinger knew—grooved him. Now there was a grayishknot of scar-tissue there. Roland guessed the man combed his hair in a way thatwould display that mark rather than hide it. He’d either had a fool’s luck thatday or been saved by ka. Roland thought ka the more likely.

Judging from the sick look of recognitionin the shopkeeper’s eyes, he thought so, too.

“Do you have a cartomobile, a truckomobile,or a tack-see?” Roland asked, holding the barrel of his gun on the shopkeeper’smiddle.

Jake stepped up beside Roland. “What areyou driving?” he asked the shopkeeper. “That’s what he means.”

“Truck!” the shopkeeper managed.“International Harvester pickup! It’s outside in the lot!” He reached under hisapron so suddenly that Roland came within an ace of shooting him. Theshopkeeper—mercifully—didn’t seem to notice. All of the store’scustomers were now lying prone, including the woman who’d been at the counter.Roland could smell the meat she had been in the process of trading for, and hisstomach rumbled. He was tired, hungry, overloaded with grief, and there weretoo many things to think about, too many by far. His mind couldn’t keep up.Jake would have said he needed to “take a time-out,” but he didn’t see anytime-outs in their immediate future.

The shopkeeper was holding out a set ofkeys. His fingers were trembling, and the keys jingled. The late-afternoon sunslanting in the windows struck them and bounced complicated reflections intothe gunslinger’s eyes. First the man in the white apron had plunged a hand outof sight without asking permission (and not slowly); now this, holding up abunch of reflective metal objects as if to blind his adversary. It was as if hewere trying to get killed. But it had been that way on the day of theambush, too, hadn’t it? The storekeeper (quicker on his feet then, and withoutthat widower’s hump in his back) had followed him and Eddie from place to placelike a cat who won’t stop getting under your feet, seemingly oblivious to thebullets flying all around them (just as he’d seemed oblivious of the one thatgrooved the side of his head). At one point, Roland remembered, he had talkedabout his son, almost like a man in a barbershop making conversation while hewaits his turn to sit under the scissors. A ka-mai, then, and such were oftensafe from harm. At least until ka tired of their antics and swatted them out ofthe world.

“Take the truck, take it and go!” theshopkeeper was telling him. “It’s yours! I’m giving it to you! Really!”

“If you don’t stop flashing those damnedkeys in my eyes, sai, what I’ll take is your breath,” Roland said. There wasanother clock behind the counter. He had already noticed that this world wasfull of clocks, as if the people who lived here thought that by having so manythey could cage time. Ten minutes of four, which meant they’d been America-sidefor nine minutes already. Time was racing, racing. Somewhere nearby StephenKing was almost certainly on his afternoon walk, and in desperate danger,although he didn’t know it. Or had it happened already? They—Roland,anyway—had always assumed that the writer’s death would hit them hard,like another Beamquake, but maybe not. Maybe the impact of his death would bemore gradual.

“How far from here to Turtleback Lane?”Roland rapped at the storekeeper.

The elderly sai only stared, eyes huge andliquid with terror. Never in his life had Roland felt more like shooting a man…or at least pistol-whipping him. He looked as foolish as a goat with its footstuck in a crevice.

Then the woman lying in front of themeat-counter spoke. She was looking up at Roland and Jake, her hands claspedtogether at the small of her back. “That’s in Lovell, mister. It’s about fivemiles from here.”

One look in her eyes—large and brown,fearful but not panicky—and Roland decided this was the one he wanted,not the storekeeper. Unless, that was—

He turned to Jake. “Can you drive theshopkeeper’s truck five miles?”

Roland saw the boy wanting to say yes, thenrealizing he couldn’t afford to risk ultimate failure by trying to do a thinghe—city boy that he was—had never done in his life.

“No,” Jake said. “I don’t think so. Whatabout you?”

Roland had watched Eddie drive JohnCullum’s car. It didn’t look that hard… but there was his hip to consider. Rosahad told him that dry twist moved fast—like a fire driven by strongwinds, she’d said—and now he knew what she’d meant. On the trail intoCalla Bryn Sturgis, the pain in his hip had been no more than an occasionaltwinge. Now it was as if the socket had been injected with red-hot lead, thenwrapped in strands of barbed wire. The pain radiated all the way down his legto the right ankle. He’d watched how Eddie manipulated the pedals, going backand forth between the one that made the car speed up and the one that made itslow down, always using the right foot. Which meant the ball of the right hipwas always rolling in its socket.

He didn’t think he could do that. Not withany degree of safety.

“I think not,” he said. He took the keysfrom the shopkeeper, then looked at the woman lying in front of themeat-counter. “Stand up, sai,” he said.

Mrs. Tassenbaum did as she was told, andwhen she was on her feet, Roland gave her the keys. I keep meeting usefulpeople in here, he thought. If this one’s as good as Cullum turned outto be, we might still be all right.

“You’re going to drive my young friend andme to Lovell,” Roland said.

“To Turtleback Lane,” she said.

“You say true, I say thankya.”

“Are you going to kill me after you get towhere you want to go?”

“Not unless you dawdle,” Roland said.

She considered this, then nodded. “Then Iwon’t. Let’s go.”

“Good luck, Mrs. Tassenbaum,” theshopkeeper told her faintly as she started for the door.