Song of Susannah - Stephen King [136]
Jake looked back at the paper and was just in time to read the last line:
Dad-a-chum, dad-a-chee, give this boy a plastic key.
A couple of years before, his mother and father had given him a Tyco Chemistry Set for Christmas. Using the instruction booklet, he’d whipped up a batch of invisible ink. The words written in the stuff had faded almost as quickly as these words were fading now, only if you looked very closely, you could still read the message written in chemistry set ink. This one, however, was authentically gone, and Jake knew why. Its purpose had been served. There was no more need for it. Ditto the line about the key being red, and sure enough, that was fading, as well. Only the first line remained, as if he needed reminding:
Dad-a-chum, dad-a-chee, not to worry, you’ve got the key.
Had Stephen King sent this message? Jake doubted it. More likely one of the other players in the game—perhaps even Roland or Eddie—had used the name to get his attention. Still, he’d run upon two things since arriving here that encouraged him enormously. The first was the continued singing of the rose. It was stronger than ever, really, even though a skyscraper had been built on the vacant lot. The second was that Stephen King was apparently still alive twenty-four years after creating Jake’s traveling companion. And no longer just a writer but a famous writer.
Great. For now things were still rattling precariously along the right set of tracks.
Jake grabbed Father Callahan’s arm and led him toward the gift shop and tinkling cocktail piano. Oy followed, padding at Jake’s knee. Along the wall they found a line of house phones. “When the operator answers,” Jake said, “tell her you want to talk to your friend Susannah Dean, or to her friend, Mia.”
“She’ll ask me what room,” Callahan said.
“Tell her you forgot, but it’s on the nineteenth floor.”
“How do you—”
“It’ll be the nineteenth, just trust me.”
“I do,” Callahan said.
The phone rang twice and then the operator asked how she could help. Callahan told her. He was connected, and in some room on the nineteenth floor, a telephone began to ring.
Jake watched the Pere begin to speak, then subside into listening again with a small, bemused smile on his face. After a few moments, he hung up. “Answering machine!” he said. “They have a machine that takes guests’ calls and then tapes messages! What a wonderful invention!”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Anyway, we know for sure that she’s out and for pretty sure she didn’t leave anyone behind to watch her gunna. But, just in case…” He patted the front of his shirt, which now concealed the Ruger.
As they crossed the lobby to the elevator bank, Callahan said: “What do we want in her room?”
“I don’t know.”
Callahan touched him on the shoulder. “I think you do.”
The doors of the middle elevator popped open and Jake got on with Oy still at heel. Callahan followed, but Jake thought he was all at once dragging his feet a little.
“Maybe,” Jake said as they started up. “And maybe you do, too.”
Callahan’s stomach suddenly felt heavier, as if he’d just finished a large meal. He supposed the added weight was fear. “I thought I was rid of it,” he said. “When Roland took it out of the church, I really thought I was rid of it.”
“Some bad pennies just keep turning up,” Jake said.
* * *
Eight
He was prepared to try his unique red key in every door on the nineteenth floor if he had to, but Jake knew 1919 was right even before they reached it. Callahan did, too, and a sheen of sweat broke on his forehead. It felt thin and hot. Feverish.
Even Oy knew. The bumbler whined uneasily.
“Jake,” Callahan said. “We need to think this over. That thing is dangerous. Worse, it’s malevolent. ”
“That’s why we gotta take it,” Jake said patiently. He stood in front of 1919, drumming the MagCard between his