by Stephen King
Ted had come over to them. “Of course that must be it,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before now. Too simple, maybe. I grew up in Milford, and the place where I came out in 1960 was barely a spit from there in geographical terms. Sheemie must have found a memory of a carriage-ride, or maybe a trip on the Hartford Trolley to see my Uncle Jim and Aunt Molly in Bridgeport. Something in my subconscious.” He shook his head. “I knew the place where I came out looked familiar, but of course it was years later. The Merritt Parkway wasn’t there when I was a boy.”
“Can you show me a picture like that?” Sheemie asked Roland hopefully.
Roland thought once more of the place in Lovell where they’d parked on Route 7, the place where he’d called Chevin of Chayven out of the woods, but it simply wasn’t sure enough; there was no landmark that made the place only itself and no other. Not one that he remembered, anyway.
Then another idea came. One that had to do with Eddie.
“Sheemie!”
“Aye, Roland of Gilead, Will Dearborn that was!”
Roland reached out and placed his hands on the sides of Sheemie’s head. “Close your eyes, Sheemie, son of Stanley.”
Sheemie did as he was told, then reached out his own hands and grasped the sides of Roland’s head. Roland closed his own eyes.
“See what I see, Sheemie,” he said. “See where we would go. See it very well.”
And Sheemie did.
EIGHTEEN
While they stood there, Roland projecting and Sheemie seeing, Dani Rostov softly called to Jake.
Once he was before her she hesitated, as if unsure what she would say or do. He began to ask her, but before he could, she stopped his mouth with a kiss. Her lips were amazingly soft.
“That’s for good luck,” she said, and when she saw his look of amazement and understood the power of what she had done, her timidity lessened. She put her arms around his neck (still holding her scuffed Pooh Bear in one hand; he felt it soft against his back) and did it again. He felt the push of her tiny, hard breasts and would remember the sensation for the rest of his life. Would remember her for the rest of his life.
“And that’s for me.” She retreated to Ted Brautigan’s side, eyes downcast and cheeks burning red, before he could speak. Not that he could have, even if his life had depended upon it. His throat was locked shut.
Ted looked at him and smiled. “You judge the rest of them by the first one,” he said. “Take it from me. I know.”
Jake could still say nothing. She might have punched him in the head instead of kissing him on the lips. He was that dazed.
NINETEEN
Fifteen minutes later, four men, one girl, a billy-bumbler, and one dazed, amazed (and very tired) boy stood on the Mall. They seemed to have the grassy quad to themselves; the rest of the Breakers had disappeared completely. From where he stood, Jake could see the lighted window on the first floor of Corbett Hall where Susannah was tending to her man. Thunder rumbled. Ted spoke now as he had in Thundercap Station’s office closet, where the red blazer’s brass tag read HEAD OF SHIPPING, back when Eddie’s death had been unthinkable: “Join hands. And concentrate.”
Jake started to reach for Dani Rostov’s hand, but Dinky shook his head, smiling a little. “Maybe you can hold hands with her another day, hero, but right now you’re the monkey in the middle. And your dinh’s another one.”
“You hold hands with each other,” Sheemie said. There was a quiet authority in his voice that Jake hadn’t heard before. “That’ll help.”
Jake tucked Oy into his shirt. “Roland, were you able to show Sheemie—”
“Look,” Roland said, taking his hands. The others now made a tight circle around them. “Look. I think you’ll see.”
A brilliant seam opened in the darkness, obliterating Sheemie and Ted from Jake’s view. For a moment it trembled and darkened, and Jake thought it would disappear. Then it grew bright again and spread wider. He heard, very faintly (the way you heard things when you were underwater), the sound of a car or truck passing in that other world. And saw a building with a small asphalt lot in front of it. Three cars and a pickup truck were parked there.
Daylight! he thought, dismayed. Because if time never ran backward in the Keystone World, that meant that time had slipped. If that was Keystone World, then it was Saturday, the nineteenth of June, in the year—
“Quick!” Ted shouted from the other side of that brilliant hole in reality. “If you’re going, go now! He’s going to faint! If you’re going—”
Roland yanked Jake forward, his purse bouncing on his back as he did so.
Wait! Jake wanted to shout. Wait, I forgot my stuff!
But it was too late. There was the sensation of big hands squeezing his chest, and he felt all the air whoosh out of his lungs. He thought, Pressure change. There was a sensation of falling up and then he was reeling onto the pavement of the parking lot with his shadow tacked to his heels, squinting and grimacing, wondering in some distant part of his mind how long it had been since his eyes had been exposed to plain old natural daylight. Not since entering the Doorway Cave in pursuit of Susannah, maybe.
Very faintly he heard someone—he thought it was the girl who had kissed him—call Good luck, and then it was gone. Thunderclap was gone, and the DevarToi, and the darkness. They were America-side, in the parking lot of the place to which Roland’s memory and Sheemie’s power—boosted by the other four Breakers—had taken them. It was the East Stoneham General Store, where Roland and Eddie had been ambushed by Jack Andolini. Only unless there had been some horrible error, that had been twenty-two years earlier. This was June 19th of 1999, and the clock in the window (IT’S ALWAYS TIME FOR BOAR’S HEAD MEATS! was written in a circle around the face) said it was nineteen minutes of four in the afternoon.
Time was almost up.
CHAPTER I:
MRS. TASSENBAUM
DRIVES SOUTH
ONE
The fact of his own almost unearthly speed of hand never occurred to Jake Chambers. All he knew was that when he staggered out of the DevarToi and back into America, his shirt—belled out into a pregnant curve by Oy’s weight—was pulling out of his jeans. The bumbler, who never had much luck when it came to passing between the worlds (he’d nearly been squashed by a taxicab the last time), tumbled free. Almost anyone else in the world would have been unable to prevent that fall (and in fact it very likely wouldn’t have hurt Oy at all), but Jake wasn’t almost anyone. Ka had wanted him so badly that it had even found its way around death to put him at Roland’s side. Now his hands shot out with a speed so great that they momentarily blurred away to nothing. When they reappeared, one was curled into the thick shag at the nape of Oy’s neck and the other into the shorter fur at the rump end of his long back. Jake set his friend down on the pavement. Oy looked up at him and gave a single short bark. It seemed to express not one idea but two: thanks, and don’t do that again.
“Come on,” Roland said. “We have to hurry.”
Jake followed him toward the store, Oy falling in at his accustomed place by the boy’s left heel. There was a sign hanging in the door from a little rubber suction cup. It read WE’RE OPEN, SO COME IN N VISIT, just as it had in 1977. Taped in the window to the left of the door was this:
COME ONE COME ALL
TO THE
1st CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH
BEANHOLE BEAN SUPPER
Saturday June 19th, 1999
Intersection Route 7 & Klatt Road
PARISH HOUSE (In Back)
5 PM–7:30 PM
AT 1st CONGO
“WE’RE ALWAYS GLAD TO SEEYA, NAYBAH!”
Jake thought, The bean supper will be starting in an hour or so. They’ll already be putting down the tablecloths and setting the places.
Taped to the right of the door was a more startling message to the public:
1st Lovell-Stoneham Church of the WalkIns
Will YOU join us for Worship?
Sunday s
ervices: 10 AM
Thursday services: 7 PM
EVERY WEDNESDAY IS YOUTH NIGHT!!! 7–9 PM!
Games! Music! Scripture!
***AND***
NEWS OF WALKINS!
Hey, Teens!
“Be There or Be Square!!!”
“We Seek the Doorway to Heaven—Will You Seek With Us?”
Jake found himself thinking of Harrigan, the street-preacher on the corner of Second Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, and wondering to which of these two churches he might have been attracted. His head might have told him First Congo, but his heart—
“Hurry, Jake,” Roland repeated, and there was a jingle as the gunslinger opened the door. Good smells wafted out, reminding Jake (as they had reminded Eddie) of Took’s on the Calla high street: coffee and peppermint candy, tobacco and salami, olive oil, the salty tang of brine, sugar and spice and most things nice.
He followed Roland into the store, aware that he had brought at least two things with him, after all. The Coyote machine-pistol was stuffed into the waistband of his jeans, and the bag of Orizas was still slung over his shoulder, hanging on his left side so that the half a dozen plates remaining inside would be within easy reach of his right hand.
TWO
Wendell “Chip” McAvoy was at the deli counter, weighing up a pretty sizable order of sliced honey-cured turkey for Mrs. Tassenbaum, and until the bell over the door rang, once more turning Chip’s life upside down (You’ve turned turtle, the oldtimers used to say when your car rolled in the ditch), they had been discussing the growing presence of Jet Skis on Keywadin Pond … or rather Mrs. Tassenbaum had been discussing it.
Chip thought Mrs. T. was a more or less typical summer visitor: rich as Croesus (or at least her husband, who had one of those new dot-com businesses, was), gabby as a parrot loaded on whiskey, and as crazy as Howard Hughes on a morphine toot. She could afford a cabin cruiser (and two dozen Jet Skis to pull it, if she fancied), but she came down to the market on this end of the lake in a battered old rowboat, tying up right about where John Cullum used to tie his up, until That Day (as the years had refined his story to ever greater purity, burnishing it like an oft-polished piece of teak furniture, Chip had come more and more to convey its capital-letter status with his voice, speaking of That Day in the same reverential tones the Reverend Conveigh used when speaking of Our Lord). La Tassenbaum was talky, meddlesome, good-looking (kinda … he supposed … if you didn’t mind the makeup and the hairspray), loaded with green, and a Republican. Under the circumstances, Chip McAvoy felt perfectly justified in sneaking his thumb onto the corner of the scale … a trick he had learned from his father, who had told him you practically had a duty to rook folks from away if they could afford it, but you must never rook folks from the home place, not even if they were as rich as that writer, King, from over in Lovell. Why? Because word got around, and the next thing you knew, out-of-town custom was all a man had to get by on, and try doing that in the month of February when the snowbanks on the sides of Route 7 were nine feet high. This wasn’t February, however, and Mrs. Tassenbaum—a Daughter of Abraham if he had ever seen one—was not from these parts. No, Mrs. Tassenbaum and her rich-as-Croesus dot-com husband would be gone back to Jew York as soon as they saw the first colored leaf fall. Which was why he felt perfectly comfortable in turning her six-dollar order of turkey into seven dollars and eighty cents with the ball of his thumb on the scale. Nor did it hurt to agree with her when she switched topics and started talking about what a terrible man that Bill Clinton was, although in fact Chip had voted twice for Bubba and would have voted for him a third time, had the Constitution allowed him to run for another term. Bubba was smart, he was good at persuading the ragheads to do what he wanted, he hadn’t entirely forgotten the working man, and by the Lord Harry he got more pussy than a toilet seat.
“And now Gore expects to just … ride in on his coattails!” Mrs. Tassenbaum said, digging for her checkbook (the turkey on the scale magically gained another two ounces, and there Chip felt it prudent to lock it in). “Claims he invented the Internet! Huh! I know better! In fact, I know the man who really did invent the Internet!” She looked up (Chip’s thumb now nowhere near the scales, he had an instinct about such things, damned if he didn’t) and gave Chip a roguish little smile. She lowered her voice into its confidential just-we-two register. “I ought to, I’ve been sleeping in the same bed with him for almost twenty years!”
Chip gave a hearty laugh, took the sliced turkey off the scale, and put it on a piece of white paper. He was glad to leave the subject of Jet Skis behind, as he had one on order from Viking Motors (“The Boys with the Toys”) in Oxford himself.
“I know what you mean! That fella Gore, too slick!” Mrs. Tassenbaum was nodding enthusiastically, and so Chip decided to lay on a little more. Never hurt, by Christ. “His hair, for instance—how can you trust a man who puts that much goo in his—”
That was when the bell over the door jingled. Chip looked up. Saw. And froze. A goddamned lot of water had gone under the bridge since That Day, but Wendell “Chip” McAvoy knew the man who’d caused all the trouble the moment he stepped through the door. Some faces you simply never forgot. And hadn’t he always known, deep in his heart’s most secret place, that the man with the terrible blue eyes hadn’t finished his business and would be back?
Back for him?
That idea broke his paralysis. Chip turned and ran. He got no more than three steps along the inside of the counter before a shot rang out, loud as thunder in the store—the place was bigger and fancier than it had been in ’77, thank God for his father’s insistence on extravagant insurance coverage—and Mrs. Tassenbaum uttered a piercing scream. Three or four people who had been browsing the aisles turned with expressions of astonishment, and one of them hit the floor in a dead faint. Chip had time to register that it was Rhoda Beemer, eldest daughter of one of the two women who’d been killed in here on That Day. Then it seemed to him that time had folded back on itself and it was Ruth herself lying there with a can of creamed corn rolling free of one relaxing hand. He heard a bullet buzz over his head like an angry bee and skidded to a stop, hands raised.
“Don’t shoot, mister!” he heard himself bawl in the thin, wavering voice of an old man. “Take whatever’s in the register but don’t shoot me!”
“Turn around,” said the voice of the man who had turned Chip’s world turtle on That Day, the man who’d almost gotten him killed (he’d been in the hospital over in Bridgton for two weeks, by the living Jesus) and had now reappeared like an old monster from some child’s closet. “The rest of you on the floor, but you turn around, shopkeeper. Turn around and see me.
“See me very well.”
THREE
The man swayed from side to side, and for a moment Roland thought he would faint instead of turning. Perhaps some survival-oriented part of his brain suggested that fainting was more likely to get him killed, for the shopkeeper managed to keep his feet and did finally turn and face the gunslinger. His dress was eerily similar to what he’d been wearing the last time Roland was here; it could have been the same black tie and butcher’s apron, tied up high on his midriff. His hair was still slicked back along his skull, but now it was wholly white instead of salt-and-pepper. Roland remembered the way blood had dashed back from the left side of the shopkeeper’s temple as a bullet—one fired by Andolini himself, for all the gunslinger knew—grooved him. Now there was a grayish knot of scar-tissue there. Roland guessed the man combed his hair in a way that would display that mark rather than hide it. He’d either had a fool’s luck that day or been saved by ka. Roland thought ka the more likely.
Judging from the sick look of recognition in the shopkeeper’s eyes, he thought so, too.
“Do you have a cartomobile, a truckomobile, or a tack-see?” Roland asked, holding the barrel of his gun on the shopkeeper’s middle.
Jake stepped up beside Roland. “What are you driving?” he asked the shopkeeper. “That’s what he mea
ns.”
“Truck!” the shopkeeper managed. “International Harvester pickup! It’s outside in the lot!” He reached under his apron so suddenly that Roland came within an ace of shooting him. The shopkeeper—mercifully—didn’t seem to notice. All of the store’s customers were now lying prone, including the woman who’d been at the counter. Roland could smell the meat she had been in the process of trading for, and his stomach rumbled. He was tired, hungry, overloaded with grief, and there were too many things to think about, too many by far. His mind couldn’t keep up. Jake would have said he needed to “take a time-out,” but he didn’t see any time-outs in their immediate future.
The shopkeeper was holding out a set of keys. His fingers were trembling, and the keys jingled. The late-afternoon sun slanting in the windows struck them and bounced complicated reflections into the gunslinger’s eyes. First the man in the white apron had plunged a hand out of sight without asking permission (and not slowly); now this, holding up a bunch of reflective metal objects as if to blind his adversary. It was as if he were trying to get killed. But it had been that way on the day of the ambush, too, hadn’t it? The storekeeper (quicker on his feet then, and without that widower’s hump in his back) had followed him and Eddie from place to place like a cat who won’t stop getting under your feet, seemingly oblivious to the bullets flying all around them (just as he’d seemed oblivious of the one that grooved the side of his head). At one point, Roland remembered, he had talked about his son, almost like a man in a barbershop making conversation while he waits his turn to sit under the scissors. A ka-mai, then, and such were often safe from harm. At least until ka tired of their antics and swatted them out of the world.
“Take the truck, take it and go!” the shopkeeper was telling him. “It’s yours! I’m giving it to you! Really!”
“If you don’t stop flashing those damned keys in my eyes, sai, what I’ll take is your breath,” Roland said. There was another clock behind the counter. He had already noticed that this world was full of clocks, as if the people who lived here thought that by having so many they could cage time. Ten minutes of four, which meant they’d been America-side for nine minutes already. Time was racing, racing. Somewhere nearby Stephen King was almost certainly on his afternoon walk, and in desperate danger, although he didn’t know it. Or had it happened already? They—Roland, anyway—had always assumed that the writer’s death would hit them hard, like another Beamquake, but maybe not. Maybe the impact of his death would be more gradual.