ELEVEN
When Tower was gone, Eddie got off the stool and went to the door only he could see. He looked through it. Dimly, he could hear chimes. More clearly he could hear his mother. “Why don’t you get out of there?” she called dolorously. “You’ll only make things worse, Eddie—you always do.”
That’s my Ma, he thought, and called the gunslinger’s name.
Roland pulled one of the bullets from his ear. Eddie noted the oddly clumsy way he handled it—almost pawing at it, as if his fingers were stiff—but there was no time to think about it now.
“Are you all right?” Eddie called.
“Do fine. And you?”
“Yeah, but . . . Roland, can you come through? I might need a little help.”
Roland considered, then shook his head. “The box might close if I did. Probably would close. Then the door would close. And we’d be trapped on that side.”
“Can’t you prop the damn thing open with a stone or a bone or something?”
“No,” Roland said. “It wouldn’t work. The ball is powerful.”
And it’s working on you, Eddie thought. Roland’s face looked haggard, the way it had when the lobstrosities’ poison had been inside him.
“All right,” he said.
“Be as quick as you can.”
“I will.”
TWELVE
When he turned around, Tower was looking at him quizzically. “Who were you talking to?”
Eddie stood aside and pointed at the doorway. “Do you see anything there, sai?”
Calvin Tower looked, started to shake his head, then looked longer. “A shimmer,” he said at last. “Like hot air over an incinerator. Who’s there? What’s there?”
“For the time being, let’s say nobody. What have you got in your hand?”
Tower held it up. It was an envelope, very old. Written on it in copperplate were the words Stefan Toren and Dead Letter. Below, carefully drawn in ancient ink, were the same symbols that were on the door and the box: . Now we might be getting somewhere, Eddie thought.
“Once this envelope held the will of my great-great-great grandfather,” Calvin Tower said. “It was dated March 19th, 1846. Now there’s nothing but a single piece of paper with a name written upon it. If you can tell me what that name is, young man, I’ll do as you ask.”
And so, Eddie mused, it comes down to another riddle. Only this time it wasn’t four lives that hung upon the answer, but all of existence.
Thank God it’s an easy one, he thought.
“It’s Deschain,” Eddie said. “The first name will be either Roland, the name of my dinh, or Steven, the name of his father.”
All the blood seemed to fall out of Calvin Tower’s face. Eddie had no idea how the man was able to keep his feet. “My dear God in heaven,” he said.
With trembling fingers, he removed an ancient and brittle piece of paper from the envelope, a time traveler that had voyaged over a hundred and thirty-one years to this where and when. It was folded. Tower opened it and put it on the counter, where they could both read the words Stefan Toren had written in the same firm copperplate hand:
Roland Deschain, of Gilead
The line of ELD
GUNSLINGER
THIRTEEN
There was more talk, about fifteen minutes’ worth, and Eddie supposed at least some of it was important, but the real deal had gone down when he’d told Tower the name his three-times-great-grandfather had written on a slip of paper fourteen years before the Civil War got rolling.
What Eddie had discovered about Tower during their palaver was dismaying. He harbored some respect for the man (for any man who could hold out for more than twenty seconds against Balazar’s goons), but didn’t like him much. There was a kind of willful stupidity about him. Eddie thought it was self-created and maybe propped up by his analyst, who would tell him about how he had to take care of himself, how he had to be the captain of his own ship, the author of his own destiny, respect his own desires, all that blah-blah. All the little code words and terms that meant it was all right to be a selfish fuck. That it was noble, even. When Tower told Eddie that Aaron Deepneau was his only friend, Eddie wasn’t surprised. What surprised him was that Tower had any friends at all. Such a man could never be ka-tet, and it made Eddie uneasy to know that their destinies were so tightly bound together.
You’ll just have to trust to ka. It’s what ka’s for, isn’t it?
Sure it was, but Eddie didn’t have to like it.
FOURTEEN
Eddie asked if Tower had a ring with Ex Liveris on it. Tower looked puzzled, then laughed and told Eddie he must mean Ex Libris. He rummaged on one of his shelves, found a book, showed Eddie the plate in front. Eddie nodded.
“No,” Tower said. “But it’d be just the thing for a guy like me, wouldn’t it?” He looked at Eddie keenly. “Why do you ask?”
But Tower’s future responsibility to save a man now exploring the hidden highways of multiple Americas was a subject Eddie didn’t feel like getting into right now. He’d come as close to blowing the guy’s mind as he wanted to, and he had to get back through the unfound door before Black Thirteen wore Roland away to a frazzle.
“Never mind. But if you see one, you ought to pick it up. One more thing and then I’m gone.”
“What’s that?”
“I want your promise that as soon as I leave, you’ll leave.”
Tower once more grew shifty. It was the side of him Eddie knew he could come to outright loathe, given time. “Why . . . to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I can do that. Early evenings are often a very busy time for me . . . people are much more prone to browse once the workday’s over . . . and Mr. Brice is coming in to look at a first of The Troubled Air, Irwin Shaw’s novel about radio and the McCarthy era . . . I’ll have to at least skim through my appointment calendar, and . . . ”
He droned on, actually gathering steam as he descended toward trivialities.
Eddie said, very mildly: “Do you like your balls, Calvin? Are you maybe as attached to them as they are to you?”
Tower, who’d been wondering about who would feed Sergio if he just pulled up stakes and ran, now stopped and looked at him, puzzled, as if he had never heard this simple one-syllable word before.
Eddie nodded helpfully. “Your nuts. Your sack. Your stones. Your cojones. The old sperm-firm. Your testicles.”
“I don’t see what—”
Eddie’s coffee was gone. He poured some Half and Half into the cup and drank that, instead. It was very tasty. “I told you that if you stayed here, you could look forward to a serious maiming. That’s what I meant. That’s probably where they’ll start, with your balls. To teach you a lesson. As to when it happens, what that mostly depends on is traffic.”
“Traffic.” Tower said it with a complete lack of vocal expression.
“That’s right,” Eddie said, sipping his Half and Half as if it were a thimble of brandy. “Basically how long it takes Jack Andolini to drive back out to Brooklyn and then how long it takes Balazar to load up some old beater of a van or panel truck with guys to come back here. I’m hoping Jack’s too dazed to just phone. Did you think Balazar’d wait until tomorrow? Convene a little brain-trust of guys like Kevin Blake and ’Cimi Dretto to discuss the matter?” Eddie raised first one finger and then two. The dust of another world was beneath the nails. “First, they got no brains; second, Balazar doesn’t trust em.
“What he’ll do, Cal, is what any successful despot does: he’ll react right away, quick as a flash. The rush-hour traffic will hold em up a little, but if you’re still here at six, half past at the latest, you can say goodbye to your balls. They’ll hack them off with a knife, then cauterize the wound with one of those little torches, those Bernz-O-Matics—”
“Stop,” Tower said. Now instead of white, he’d gone green. Especially around the gills. “I’ll go to a hotel down in the Village. There are a couple of cheap ones that cater to writers and artists down on their luck, ugly rooms but not that bad. I’ll call Aaron, and we’ll go north tomorrow morning.”
“Fine, but first you have to pick a town to go to,” Eddie said. “Because I or one of my friends may need to get in touch with you.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I don’t know any towns in New England north of Westport, Connecticut!”
“Make some calls once you get to the hotel in the Village,” Eddie said. “You pick the town, and then tomorrow morning, before you leave New York, send your pal Aaron up to your vacant lot. Have him write the zip code on the board fence.” An unpleasant thought struck Eddie. “You have zip codes, don’t you? I mean, they’ve been invented, right?”
Tower looked at him as if he were crazy. “Of course they have.”
“ ’Kay. Have him put it on the Forty-sixth street side, all the way down where the fence ends. Have you got that?”
“Yes, but—”
“They probably won’t have your bookshop staked out tomorrow morning—they’ll assume you got smart and blew—but if they do, they won’t have the lot staked out, and if they have the lot staked out, it’ll be the Second Avenue side. And if they have the Forty-sixth Street side staked out, they’ll be looking for you, not him.”
Tower was smiling a little bit in spite of himself. Eddie relaxed and smiled back. “But . . . ? If they’re also looking for Aaron?”
“Have him wear the sort of clothes he doesn’t usually wear. If he’s a blue jeans man, have him wear a suit. If he’s a suit man—”
“Have him wear blue jeans.”
“Correct. And sunglasses wouldn’t be a bad idea, assuming the day isn’t cloudy enough to make them look odd. Have him use a black felt-tip. Tell him it doesn’t have to be artistic. He just walks to the fence, as if to read one of the posters. Then he writes the numbers and off he goes. And tell him for Christ’s sake don’t fuck up.”
“And how are you going to find us once you get to Zip Code Whatever?”
Eddie thought of Took’s, and their palaver with the folken as they sat in the big porch rockers. Letting anyone who wanted to have a look and ask a question.
“Go to the local general store. Have a little conversation, tell anyone who’s interested that you’re in town to write a book or paint pictures of the lobster-pots. I’ll find you.”
“All right,” Tower said. “It’s a good plan. You do this well, young man.”
I was made for it, Eddie thought but didn’t say. What he said was, “I have to be going. I’ve stayed too long as it is.”
“There’s one thing you have to help me do before you go,” Tower said, and explained.
Eddie’s eyes widened. When Tower had finished—it didn’t take long—Eddie burst out, “Aw, you’re shittin!”
Tower tipped his head toward the door to his shop, where he could see that faint shimmer. It made the passing pedestrians on Second Avenue look like momentary mirages. “There’s a door there. You as much as said so, and I believe you. I can’t see it, but I can see something.”
“You’re insane,” Eddie said. “Totally gonzo.” He didn’t mean it—not precisely—but less than ever he liked having his fate so firmly woven into the fate of a man who’d make such a request. Such a demand.
“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not,” Tower said. He folded his arms over his broad but flabby chest. His voice was soft but the look in his eyes was adamant. “In either case, this is my condition for doing all that you say. For falling in with your madness, in other words.”
“Aw, Cal, for God’s sake! God and the Man Jesus! I’m only asking you to do what Stefan Toren’s will told you to do.”
The eyes did not soften or cut aside as they did when Tower was waffling or preparing to fib. If anything, they grew stonier yet. “Stefan Toren’s dead and I’m not. I’ve told you my condition for doing what you want. The only question is whether or not—”
“Yeah, yeah, YEAH!” Eddie cried, and drank off the rest of the white stuff in his cup. Then he picked up the carton and drained that, for good measure. It looked like he was going to need the strength. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
FIFTEEN
Roland could see into the bookshop, but it was like looking at things on the bottom of a fast-running stream. He wished Eddie would hurry. Even with the bullets buried deep in his ears he could hear the todash chimes, and nothing blocked the terrible smells: now hot metal, now rancid bacon, now ancient melting cheese, now burning onions. His eyes were watering, which probably accounted for at least some of the wavery look of things seen beyond the door.
Far worse than the sound of the chimes or the smells was the way the ball was insinuating itself into his already compromised joints, filling them up with what felt like splinters of broken glass. So far he’d gotten nothing but a few twinges in his good left hand, but he had no illusions; the pain there and everywhere else would continue to increase for as long as the box was open and Black Thirteen shone out unshielded. Some of the pain from the dry twist might go away once the ball was hidden again, but Roland didn’t think all of it would. And this might only be the beginning.
As if to congratulate him on his intuition, a baleful flare of pain settled into his right hip and began to throb there. To Roland it felt like a bag filled with warm liquid lead. He began to massage it with his right hand . . . as if that would do any good.
“Roland!” The voice was bubbly and distant—like the things he could see beyond the door, it seemed to be underwater—but it was unmistakably Eddie’s. Roland looked up from his hip and saw that Eddie and Tower had carried some sort of case over to the unfound door. It appeared to be filled with books. “Roland, can you help us?”
The pain had settled so deeply into his hips and knees that Roland wasn’t even sure he could get up . . . but he did it, and fluidly. He didn’t know how much of his condition Eddie’s sharp eyes might have already seen, but Roland didn’t want them to see any more. Not, at least, until their adventures in Calla Bryn Sturgis were over.
“When we push it, you pull!”
Roland nodded his understanding, and the bookcase slid forward. There was one strange and vertiginous moment when the half in the cave was firm and clear and the half still back in The Manhattan Bookstore of the Mind shimmered unsteadily. Then Roland took hold of it and pulled it through. It juddered and squalled across the floor of the cave, pushing aside little piles of pebbles and bones.
As soon as it was out of the doorway, the lid of the ghostwood box began to close. So did the door itself.
“No, you don’t,” Roland murmured. “No, you don’t, you bastard.” He slipped the remaining two fingers of his right hand into the narrowing space beneath the lid of the box. The door stopped moving and remained ajar when he did. And enough was enough. Now even his teeth were buzzing. Eddie was having some last little bit of palaver with Tower, but Roland no longer cared if they were the secrets of the universe.
“Eddie!” he roared. “Eddie, to me!”
And, thankfully, Eddie grabbed his swag-bag and came. The moment he was through the door, Roland closed the box. The unfound door shut a second later with a flat and undramatic clap. The chimes ceased. So did the jumble of poison pain pouring into Roland’s joints. The relief was so tremendous that he cried out. Then, for the next ten seconds or so, all he could do was lower his chin to his chest, close his eyes, and struggle not to sob.
“Say thankya,” he managed at last. “Eddie, say thankya.”
“Don’t mention it. Let’s get out of this cave, what do you think?”
“I think yes,” Roland said. “Gods, yes.”