Stephen King – The Dark Tower

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 Ido 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 walk-ins 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 lifeA 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 itcompaa-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 legendDON’T SHOOT THE TOURISTS ).

The thing that had been trudging along the berm of Route 7 turned toward them, and Eddie

let out an involuntary cry of horror. Its eyes bled together above the bridge of its nose,

reminding him of a double-yolked egg in a frypan. A fang depended from one nostril like a

bone booger. Yet somehow worst of all was the dull green glow that baked out from the

creature’s face. It was as if its skin had been painted with some sort of thin fluorescent