Roland was mildly amazed to see that there was a completely stocked liquor-bar on one
side of the long passenger compartment. He thought of having a beer and decided that even
such a mild drink would be enough to dim his own lights. Irene had no such worries. She
poured herself what looked like whiskey from a small bottle and then held the glass toward
him.
“May your road wind ever upward and the wind be ever at your back, me foine bucko,”
she said.
Roland nodded. “A good toast. Thankee-sai.”
“These have been the most amazing three days of my life. I want to thankee-saiyou . For
choosing me.”Also for laying me, she thought but did not add. She and Dave still enjoyed
the occasional snuggle, but not like that of the previous night. It had never been like that.
And if Roland hadn’t been distracted? Very likely she would have blown her silly self up,
like a Black Cat firecracker.
Roland nodded and watched the streets of the city—a version of Lud, but still young and
vital—go by. “What about your car?” he asked.
“If we want it before we come back to New York, we’ll have someone drive it up to Maine.
Probably David’s Beemer will do us. It’s one of the advantages of being wealthy—why are
you looking at me that way?”
“You have a cartomobile called aBeamer? ”
“It’s slang,” she said. “It’s actually BMW. Stands for Bavarian Motor Works.”
“Ah.” Roland tried to look as if he understood.
“Roland, may I ask you a question?”
He twirled his hand for her to go ahead.
“When we saved the writer, did we also save the world? We did, somehow, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” he said.
“How does it happen that a writer who’s not even very good—and I can say that, I’ve read
four or five of his books—gets to be in charge of the world’s destiny? Or of the entire
universe’s?”
“If he’s not very good, why didn’t you stop at one?”
Mrs. Tassenbaum smiled.“Touché . Heis readable, I’ll give him that—tells a good story,
but has a tin ear for language. I answered your question, now answer mine. God knows
there are writers who feel that the whole world hangs on what they say. Norman Mailer
comes to mind, also Shirley Hazzard and John Updike. But apparently in this case the
world really does. How did it happen?”
Roland shrugged. “He hears the right voices and sings the right songs. Which is to say,
ka.”
It was Irene Tassenbaum’s turn to look as though she understood.
Fifteen
The limousine drew up in front of a building with a green awning out front. Another man
in another well-cut suit was standing by the door. The steps leading up from the sidewalk
were blocked with yellow tape. There were words printed on it which Roland couldn’t
read.
“It saysCRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER ,” Mrs. Tassenbaum told him. “But it looks
like it’s been there awhile. I think they usually take the tape down once they’re finished
with their cameras and little brushes and things. You must have powerful friends.”
Roland was sure the tape had indeed been there awhile; three weeks, give or take. That
was when Jake and Pere Callahan had entered the Dixie Pig, positive they were going to
their deaths but pushing ahead anyway. He saw there was a little puddle of liquor left in
Irene’s glass and swallowed it, grimacing at the hot taste of the alcohol but relishing the
burn on the way down.
“Better?” she asked.
“Aye, thanks.” He reset the bag with the Orizas in it more firmly on his shoulder and got
out with Oy at his heel. Irene paused to talk to the driver, who seemed to have been
successful in making her travel arrangements. Roland ducked beneath the tape and then
just stood where he was for a moment, listening to the honk and pound of the city on this
bright June 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 had an idea that after
New York, all others would be a step down.
The guard—obviously someone who worked for the Tet Corporation and not this city’s
constabulary—joined him on the walk. “If you want to go in there, sir, there’s something
you should show me.”
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.Insomnia, it’s called. Has thee read that one?”
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.Safer . He drew her fully into his arms and hugged her. Irene
Tassenbaum returned his strength with her own.
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
electricflambeaux which had lit the dining room were off but the battery-powered
emergency lights were on, filling the area beyond the lobby and the bar with a flat glare. To the left was an arch and another dining room beyond it. There were no emergency lights
there; that part of the Dixie Pig was as dark as a cave. The light from the main dining room
seemed to creep in about four feet—just far enough to illuminate the end of a long
table—and then fall dead. The tapestry of which Jake had spoken was gone. It might be in
the evidence room of the nearest police station, or it might already have joined some
collector’s trove of oddities. Roland could smell the faint aroma of charred meat, vague
and unpleasant.
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.
H’row it aside! Nasty bauble of the ’heep-God, h’row it aside if you dare!
And the Pere’s voice, echoing dimly in Roland’s ears, unafraid:I needn’t stake my faith on
the challenge of such a thing as you, sai .
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