FIVE
They went in and they weren’t seen and Eddie was relieved to count twenty-one books on the display table that had attracted the boy’s notice. Except, of course, when Jake picked up the two he wanted—Charlie the Choo-Choo and the riddle book—that left nineteen.
“Find something, son?” a mild voice inquired. It was a fat fellow in an open-throated white shirt. Behind him, at a counter that looked as if it might have been filched from a turn-of-the-century soda fountain, a trio of old guys were drinking coffee and nibbling pastries. A chessboard with a game in progress sat on the marble counter.
“The guy sitting on the end is Aaron Deepneau,” Jake whispered. “He’s going to explain the riddle about Samson to me.”
“Shh!” Eddie said. He wanted to hear the conversation between Calvin Tower and Kid Seventy-seven. All of a sudden that seemed very important . . . only why was it so fucking dark in here?
Except it’s not dark at all. The east side of the street gets plenty of sun at this hour, and with the door open, this place is getting all of it. How can you say it’s dark?
Because it somehow was. The sunlight—the contrast of the sunlight—only made it worse. The fact that you couldn’t exactly see that darkness made it worse still . . . and Eddie realized a terrible thing: these people were in danger. Tower, Deepneau, Kid Seventy-seven. Probably him and Mid-World Jake and Oy, as well.
All of them.
SIX
Jake watched his other, younger self take a step back from the bookshop owner, his eyes widening in surprise. Because his name is Tower, Jake thought. That’s what surprised me. Not because of Roland’s Tower, though—I didn’t know about that yet—but because of the picture I put on the last page of my Final Essay.
He had pasted a photo of the Leaning Tower of Pisa on the last page, then had scribbled all over it with a black Crayola, darkening it as best he could.
Tower asked him his name. Seventy-seven Jake told him and Tower joked around with him a little. It was good joking-around, the kind you got from adults who really didn’t mind kids.
“Good handle, pard,” Tower was saying. “Sounds like the footloose hero in a Western novel—the guy who blows into Black Fork, Arizona, cleans up the town, and then travels on. Something by Wayne D. Overholser, maybe . . . ”
Jake took a step closer to his old self (part of him was thinking what a wonderful sketch all this would make on Saturday Night Live), and his eyes widened slightly. “Eddie!” He was still whispering, although he knew the people in the bookstore couldn’t—
Except maybe on some level they could. He remembered the lady back on Fifty-fourth Street, twitching her skirt up at the knee so she could step over Oy. And now Calvin Tower’s eyes shifted slightly in his direction before going back to the other version of him.
“Might be good not to attract unnecessary attention,” Eddie muttered in his ear.
“I know,” Jake said, “but look at Charlie the Choo-Choo, Eddie!”
Eddie did, and for a moment saw nothing—except for Charlie himself, of course: Charlie with his headlight eye and not-quite-trustworthy cowcatcher grin. Then Eddie’s eyebrows went up.
“I thought Charlie the Choo-Choo was written by a lady named Beryl Evans,” he whispered.
Jake nodded. “I did, too.”
“Then who’s this—” Eddie took another look. “Who’s this Claudia y Inez Bachman?”
“I have no idea,” Jake said. “I never heard of her in my life.”
SEVEN
One of the old men at the counter came sauntering toward them. Eddie and Jake drew away. As they stepped back, Eddie’s spine gave a cold little wrench. Jake was very pale, and Oy was giving out a series of low, distressed whines. Something was wrong here, all right. In a way they had lost their shadows. Eddie just didn’t know how.
Kid Seventy-seven had taken out his wallet and was paying for the two books. There was some more talk and good-natured laughter, then he headed for the door. When Eddie started after him, Mid-World Jake grabbed his arm. “No, not yet—I come back in.”
“I don’t care if you alphabetize the whole place,” Eddie said. “Let’s wait out on the sidewalk.”
Jake thought about this, biting his lip, then nodded. They headed for the door, then stopped and moved aside as the other Jake returned. The riddle book was open. Calvin Tower had lumbered over to the chessboard on the counter. He looked around with an amiable smile.
“Change your mind about that cup of coffee, O Hyperborean Wanderer?”
“No, I wanted to ask you—”
“This is the part about Samson’s Riddle,” Mid-World Jake said. “I don’t think it matters. Although the Deepneau guy sings a pretty good song, if you want to hear it.”
“I’ll pass,” Eddie said. “Come on.”
They went out. And although things on Second Avenue were still wrong—that sense of endless dark behind the scenes, behind the very sky—it was somehow better than in The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind. At least there was fresh air.
“Tell you what,” Jake said. “Let’s go down to Second and Forty-sixth right now.” He jerked his head toward the version of him listening to Aaron Deepneau sing. “I’ll catch up with us.”
Eddie considered it, then shook his head.
Jake’s face fell a little. “Don’t you want to see the rose?”
“You bet your ass I do,” Eddie said. “I’m wild to see it.”
“Then—”
“I don’t feel like we’re done here yet. I don’t know why, but I don’t.”
Jake—the Kid Seventy-seven version of him—had left the door open when he went back inside, and now Eddie moved into it. Aaron Deepneau was telling Jake a riddle they would later try on Blaine the Mono: What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks. Mid-World Jake, meanwhile, was once more looking at the notice-board in the bookstore window (Pan-Fried William Faulkner, Hard-Boiled Raymond Chandler). He wore a frown of the kind that expresses doubt and anxiety rather than ill temper.
“That sign’s different, too,” he said.
“How?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Is it important?”
Jake turned to him. The eyes below the furrowed brow were haunted. “I don’t know. It’s another riddle. I hate riddles!”
Eddie sympathized. When is a Beryl not a Beryl? “When it’s a Claudia,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Better step back, Jake, or you’re going to run into yourself.”
Jake gave the oncoming version of John Chambers a startled glance, then did as Eddie suggested. And when Kid Seventy-seven started on down Second Avenue with his new books in his left hand, Mid-World Jake gave Eddie a tired smile. “I do remember one thing,” he said. “When I left this bookstore, I was sure I’d never come here again. But I did.”
“Considering that we’re more ghosts than people, I’d say that’s debatable.” Eddie gave the back of Jake’s neck a friendly scruff. “And if you have forgotten something important, Roland might be able to help you remember. He’s good at that.”
Jake grinned at this, relieved. He knew from personal experience that the gunslinger really was good at helping people remember. Roland’s friend Alain might have been the one with the strongest ability to touch other minds, and his friend Cuthbert had gotten all the sense of humor in that particular ka-tet, but Roland had developed over the years into one hell of a hypnotist. He could have made a fortune in Las Vegas.
“Can we follow me now?” Jake asked. “Check out the rose?” He looked up and down Second Avenue—a street that was somehow bright and dark at the same time—with a kind of unhappy perplexity. “Things are probably better there. The rose makes everything better.”
Eddie was about to say okay when a dark gray Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of Calvin Tower’s bookshop. It parked by the yellow curb in front of a fire hydrant with absolutely no hesitation. The front doors opened, and when Eddie saw who was getting out from behind the wheel, he seized Jake’s shoulder.
“Ow!” Jake said. “Man, that hurts!”
Eddie paid no attention. In fact the hand on Jake’s shoulder clamped down even tighter.
“Christ,” Eddie whispered. “Dear Jesus Christ, what’s this? What in hell is this?”