TWELVE
The conspirators left. There was an odd, meaningless jingle of melody from the overhead speakers (meaningless to Jake, at least), and then silence. He waited for them to discover his pony, come back, search for him, find him, kill him. When he had counted to a hundred and twenty and they hadn’t returned to the Dogan, he got to his feet (the overdose of adrenaline in his system left him feeling as stiff as an old man) and went back into the control room. He was just in time to see the motion-sensor lights in front of the place switch off. He looked at the monitor showing the top of the rise and saw the Dogan’s most recent visitors walking between the boom-flurry. This time the cactuses didn’t move. They had apparently learned their lesson. Jake watched Slightman and Andy go, bitterly amused by the difference in their heights. Whenever his father saw such a Mutt-and-Jeff duo on the street, he inevitably said Put em in vaudeville. It was about as close to a joke as Elmer Chambers could get.
When this particular duo was out of sight, Jake looked down at the floor. No dust, of course. No dust and no tracks. He should have seen that when he came in. Certainly Roland would have seen that. Roland would have seen everything.
Jake wanted to leave but made himself wait. If they saw the motion-lights glare back on behind them, they’d probably assume it was a rock-cat (or maybe what Benny called “an armydillo”), but probably wasn’t good enough. To pass the time, he looked at the various control panels, many of which had the LaMerk Industries name on them. Yet he also saw the familiar GE and IBM logos, plus one he didn’t know—Microsoft. All of these latter gadgets were stamped MADE IN USA. The LaMerk products bore no such mark.
He was pretty sure some of the keyboards he saw—there were at least two dozen—controlled computers. What other gadgetry was there? How much was still up and running? Were there weapons stored here? He somehow thought the answer to this last question was no—if there had been weapons, they had no doubt been decommissioned or appropriated, very likely by Andy the Messenger Robot (Many Other Functions).
At last he decided it was safe to leave . . . if, that was, he was extremely careful, rode slowly back to the river, and took pains to approach the Rocking B the back way. He was nearly to the door when another question occurred to him. Was there a record of his and Oy’s visit to the Dogan? Were they on videotape somewhere? He looked at the operating TV screens, sparing his longest stare for the one showing the control room. He and Oy were on it again. From the camera’s high angle, anyone in the room would have to be in that picture.
Let it go, Jake, the gunslinger in his head advised. There’s nothing you can do about it, so just let it go. If you try poking and prying, you’re apt to leave sign. You might even set off an alarm.
The idea of tripping an alarm convinced him. He picked up Oy—as much for comfort as anything else—and got the hell out. His pony was exactly where Jake had left him, cropping dreamily at the bushes in the moonlight. There were no tracks in the hardpan . . . but, Jake saw, he wasn’t leaving any himself. Andy would have broken through the crusty surface enough to leave tracks, but not him. He wasn’t heavy enough. Probably Benny’s Da’ wasn’t, either.
Quit it. If they’d smelled you, they would have come back.
Jake supposed that was true, but he still felt more than a little like Goldilocks tiptoeing away from the house of the Three Bears. He led his pony back to the desert road, then put on the duster and slipped Oy into the wide front pocket. As he mounted up, he thumped the bumbler a fairly good one on the saddle-horn.
“Ouch, Ake!” Oy said.
“Quit it, ya baby,” Jake said, turning his pony back in the direction of the river. “Gotta be quiet, now.”
“Kiyit,” Oy agreed, and gave him a wink. Jake worked his fingers down through the bumbler’s heavy fur and scratched the place Oy liked the best. Oy closed his eyes, stretched his neck to an almost comical length, and grinned.
When they got back to the river, Jake dismounted and peered over a boulder in both directions. He saw nothing, but his heart was in his throat all the way across to the other side. He kept trying to think what he would say if Benny’s Da’ hailed him and asked him what he was doing out here in the middle of the night. Nothing came. In English class, he’d almost always gotten A’s on his creative-writing assignments, but now he was discovering that fear and invention did not mix. If Benny’s Da’ hailed him, Jake would be caught. It was as simple as that.
There was no hail—not crossing the river, not going back to the Rocking B, not unsaddling the horse and rubbing him down. The world was silent, and that was just fine with Jake.
THIRTEEN
Once Jake was back on his pallet and pulling the covers to his chin, Oy jumped up on Benny’s bed and lay down, nose once more under his tail. Benny made a deep-sleep muttering sound, reached out, and gave the bumbler’s flank a single stroke.
Jake lay looking at the sleeping boy, troubled. He liked Benny—his openness, his appetite for fun, his willingness to work hard when there were chores that needed doing. He liked Benny’s yodeling laugh when something struck him funny, and the way they were evenly matched in so many things, and—
And until tonight, Jake had liked Benny’s Da’, too.
He tried to imagine how Benny would look at him when he found out that (a) his father was a traitor and (b) his friend had squealed on him. Jake thought he could bear anger. It was hurt that would be hard.
You think hurt’s all it’ll be? Simple hurt? You better think again. There aren’t many props under Benny Slightman’s world, and this is going to knock them all out from under him. Every single one.
Not my fault that his father’s a spy and a traitor.
But it wasn’t Benny’s, either. If you asked Slightman, he’d probably say it wasn’t even his fault, that he’d been forced into it. Jake guessed that was almost true. Completely true, if you looked at things with a father’s eye. What was it that the Calla’s twins made and the Wolves needed? Something in their brains, very likely. Some sort of enzyme or secretion not produced by singleton children; maybe the enzyme or secretion that created the supposed phenomenon of “twin telepathy.” Whatever it was, they could take it from Benny Slightman, because Benny Slightman only looked like a singleton. Had his sister died? Well, that was tough titty, wasn’t it? Very tough titty, especially for the father who loved the only one left. Who couldn’t bear to let him go.
Suppose Roland kills him? How will Benny look at you then?
Once, in another life, Roland had promised to take care of Jake Chambers and then let him drop into the darkness. Jake had thought there could be no worse betrayal than that. Now he wasn’t so sure. No, not so sure at all. These unhappy thoughts kept him awake for a long time. Finally, half an hour or so before the first hint of dawn touched the horizon, he fell into a thin and troubled sleep.
CHAPTER IV:
THE PIED PIPER
ONE
“We are ka-tet,” said the gunslinger. “We are one from many.” He saw Callahan’s doubtful look—it was impossible to miss—and nodded. “Yes, Pere, you’re one of us. I don’t know for how long, but I know it’s so. And so do my friends.”
Jake nodded. So did Eddie and Susannah. They were in the Pavilion today; after hearing Jake’s story, Roland no longer wanted to meet at the rectory-house, not even in the back yard. He thought it all too likely that Slightman or Andy—maybe even some other as yet unsuspected friend of the Wolves—had placed listening devices as well as cameras there. Overhead the sky was gray, threatening rain, but the weather remained remarkably warm for so late in the season. Some civic-minded ladies or gents had raked away the fallen leaves in a wide circle around the stage where Roland and his friends had introduced themselves not so long ago, and the grass beneath was as green as summer. There were folken flying kites, couples promenading hand in hand, two or three outdoor tradesmen keeping one eye out for customers and the other on the low-bellied clouds overhead. On the bandstand, the group of musicians who had played them into Calla Bryn Sturgis with such brio were practicing a few new tunes. On two or three occasions, townsfolk had started toward Roland and his friends, wanting to pass a little time, and each time it happened, Roland shook his head in an unsmiling way that turned them around in a hurry. The time for so-good-to-meet-you politics had passed. They were almost down to what Susannah called the real nitty-gritty.
Roland said, “In four days comes the meeting, this time I think of the entire town, not just the men.”
“Damn well told it ought to be the whole town,” Susannah said. “If you’re counting on the ladies to throw the dish and make up for all the guns we don’t have, I don’t think it’s too much to let em into the damn hall.”
“Won’t be in the Gathering Hall, if it’s everyone,” Callahan said. “There won’t be room enough. We’ll light the torches and have it right out here.”
“And if it rains?” Eddie asked.
“If it rains, people will get wet,” Callahan said, and shrugged.
“Four days to the meeting and nine to the Wolves,” Roland said. “This will very likely be our last chance to palaver as we are now—sitting down, with our heads clear—until this is over. We won’t be here long, so let’s make it count.” He held out his hands. Jake took one, Susannah the other. In a moment all five were joined in a little circle, hand to hand. “Do we see each other?”
“See you very well,” Jake said.
“Very well, Roland,” said Eddie.
“Clear as day, sug,” Susannah agreed, smiling.
Oy, who was sniffing in the grass nearby, said nothing, but he did look around and tip a wink.
“Pere?” Roland asked.
“I see and hear you very well,” Callahan agreed with a small smile, “and I’m glad to be included. So far, at least.”
TWO
Roland, Eddie, and Susannah had heard most of Jake’s tale; Jake and Susannah had heard most of Roland’s and Eddie’s. Now Callahan got both—what he later called “the double feature.” He listened with his eyes wide and his mouth frequently agape. He crossed himself when Jake told of hiding in the closet. To Eddie the Pere said, “You didn’t mean it about killing the wives and children, of course? That was just a bluff?”
Eddie looked up at the heavy sky, considering this with a faint smile. Then he looked back at Callahan. “Roland tells me that for a guy who doesn’t want to be called Father, you have taken some very Fatherly stands just lately.”
“If you’re speaking about the idea of terminating your wife’s pregnancy—”
Eddie raised a hand. “Let’s say I’m not speaking of any one thing in particular. It’s just that we’ve got a job to do here, and we need you to help us do it. The last thing we need is to get sidetracked by a lot of your old Catholic blather. So let’s just say yes, I was bluffing, and move on. Will that serve? Father?”
Eddie’s smile had grown strained and exasperated. There were bright smudges of color on his cheekbones. Callahan considered the look of him with great care, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You were bluffing. By all means let’s leave it at that and move on.”
“Good,” Eddie said. He looked at Roland.
“The first question is for Susannah,” Roland said. “It’s a simple one: how are you feeling?”
“Just fine,” she replied.
“Say true?”
She nodded. “Say true, say thankya.”
“No headaches here?” Roland rubbed above his left temple.
“No. And the jittery feelings I used to get—just after sunset, just before dawn—have quit. And look at me!” She ran a hand down the swell of her breasts, to her waist, to her right hip. “I’ve lost some of the fullness. Roland . . . I’ve read that sometimes animals in the wild—carnivores like wildcats, herbivores like deer and rabbits—reabsorb their babies if the conditions to have them are adverse. You don’t suppose . . . ” She trailed off, looking at him hopefully.
Roland wished he could have supported this charming idea, but he couldn’t. And withholding the truth within the ka-tet was no longer an option. He shook his head. Susannah’s face fell.
“She’s been sleeping quietly, so far as I can tell,” Eddie said. “No sign of Mia.”
“Rosalita says the same,” Callahan added.
“You got dat jane watchin me?” Susannah said in a suspiciously Detta-like tone. But she was smiling.
“Every now and then,” Callahan admitted.
“Let’s leave the subject of Susannah’s chap, if we may,” Roland said. “We need to speak of the Wolves. Them and little else.”
“But Roland—” Eddie began.
Roland held up his hand. “I know how many other matters there are. I know how pressing they are. I also know that if we become distracted, we’re apt to die here in Calla Bryn Sturgis, and dead gunslingers can help no one. Nor do they go their course. Do you agree?” His eyes swept them. No one replied. Somewhere in the distance was the sound of many children singing. The sound was high and gleeful and innocent. Something about commala.
“There is one other bit of business that we must address,” Roland said. “It involves you, Pere. And what’s now called the Doorway Cave. Will you go through that door, and back to your country?”
“Are you kidding?” Callahan’s eyes were bright. “A chance to go back, even for a little while? You just say the word.”
Roland nodded. “Later today, mayhap you and I will take a little pasear on up there, and I’ll see you through the door. You know where the vacant lot is, don’t you?”
“Sure. I must have been past it a thousand times, back in my other life.”
“And you understand about the zip code?” Eddie asked.
“If Mr. Tower did as you requested, it’ll be written at the end of the board fence, Forty-sixth Street side. That was brilliant, by the way.”
“Get the number . . . and get the date, too,” Roland said. “We have to keep track of the time over there if we can, Eddie’s right about that. Get it and come back. Then, after the meeting in the Pavilion, we’ll need you to go through the door again.”
“This time to wherever Tower and Deepneau are in New England,” Callahan guessed.
“Yes,” Roland said.
“If you find them, you’ll want to talk mostly to Mr. Deepneau,” Jake said. He flushed when they all turned to him, but kept his eyes trained on Callahan’s. “Mr. Tower might be stubborn—”
“That’s the understatement of the century,” Eddie said. “By the time you get there, he’ll probably have found twelve used bookstores and God knows how many first editions of Indiana Jones’s Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown.”
“—but Mr. Deepneau will listen,” Jake went on.
“Issen, Ake,” Oy said, and rolled over onto his back. “Issen kiyet!”
Scratching Oy’s belly, Jake said: “If anyone can convince Mr. Tower to do something, it’ll be Mr. Deepneau.”
“Okay,” Callahan replied, nodding. “I hear you well.”
The singing children were closer now. Susannah turned but couldn’t see them yet; she assumed they were coming up River Street. If so, they’d be in view once they cleared the livery and turned down the high street at Took’s General Store. Some of the folken on the porch over there were already getting up to look.
Roland, meanwhile, was studying Eddie with a small smile. “Once when I used the word assume, you told me a saying about it from your world. I’d hear it again, if you remember.”
Eddie grinned. “Assume makes an ass out of u and me—is that the one you mean?”
Roland nodded. “It’s a good saying. All the same, I’m going to make an assumption now—pound it like a nail—then hang all our hopes of coming out of this alive on it. I don’t like it but see no choice. The assumption is that only Ben Slightman and Andy are working against us. That if we take care of them when the time comes, we can move in secrecy.”
“Don’t kill him,” Jake said in a voice almost too low to hear. He had drawn Oy close and was petting the top of his head and his long neck with a kind of compulsive, darting speed. Oy bore this patiently.
“Cry pardon, Jake,” Susannah said, leaning forward and tipping a hand behind one ear. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t kill him!” This time his voice was hoarse and wavering and close to tears. “Don’t kill Benny’s Da’. Please.”
Eddie reached out and cupped the nape of the boy’s neck gently. “Jake, Benny Slightman’s Da’ is willing to send a hundred kids off into Thunderclap with the Wolves, just to spare his own. And you know how they’d come back.”
“Yeah, but in his eyes he doesn’t have any choice because—”
“His choice could have been to stand with us,” Roland said. His voice was dull and dreadful. Almost dead.
“But—”
But what? Jake didn’t know. He had been over this and over this and he still didn’t know. Sudden tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Callahan reached out to touch him. Jake pushed his hand away.
Roland sighed. “We’ll do what we can to spare him. That much I promise you. I don’t know if it will be a mercy or not—the Slightmans are going to be through in this town, if there’s a town left after the end of next week—but perhaps they’ll go north or south along the Crescent and start some sort of new life. And Jake, listen: there’s no need for Ben Slightman to ever know you overheard Andy and his father last night.”
Jake was looking at him with an expression that didn’t quite dare to be hope. He didn’t care a hill of beans about Slightman the Elder, but he didn’t want Benny to know it was him. He supposed that made him a coward, but he didn’t want Benny to know. “Really? For sure?”
“Nothing about this is for sure, but—”
Before he could finish, the singing children swept around the corner. Leading them, silver limbs and golden body gleaming mellowly in the day’s subdued light, was Andy the Messenger Robot. He was walking backward. In one hand was a bah-bolt wrapped in banners of bright silk. To Susannah he looked like a parade-marshal on the Fourth of July. He waved his baton extravagantly from side to side, leading the children in their song while a reedy bagpipe accompaniment issued from the speakers in his chest and head.
“Holy shit,” Eddie said. “It’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”