Song of Susannah - Stephen King [74]
Cullum killed the truck’s engine. Eddie did likewise. Now there was only the lap of water against the rocks, the sigh of a breeze through the pines, and the mild sound of birdsong. When Eddie looked to the right, he saw that the gunslinger was sitting with his talented, long-fingered hands folded peaceably in his lap.
“How does it feel to you?” Eddie asked.
“Quiet.” The word was spoken Calla-fashion: Cahh-it.
“Anyone here?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Danger?”
“Yar. Beside me.”
Eddie looked at him, frowning.
“You, Eddie. You want to kill him, don’t you?”
After a moment, Eddie admitted it was so. This uncovered part of his nature, as simple as it was savage, sometimes made him uneasy, but he could not deny it was there. And who, after all, had brought it out and honed it to a keen edge?
Roland nodded. “There came into my life, after years during which I wandered in the desert as solitary as any anchorite, a whining and self-involved young man whose only ambition was to continue taking a drug which did little but make him sniffle and feel sleepy. This was a posturing, selfish, loudmouthed loutkin with little to recommend him—”
“But good-looking,” Eddie said. “Don’t forget that. The cat was a true sex mo-chine.”
Roland looked at him, unsmiling. “If I could manage not to kill you then, Eddie of New York, you can manage not to kill Calvin Tower now.” And with that, Roland opened the door on his side and got out.
“Well, says you, ” Eddie told the interior of Cullum’s car, and then got out himself.
* * *
Three
Cullum was still behind the wheel of his truck when first Roland and then Eddie joined him.
“Place feels empty to me,” he said, “but I see a light on in the kitchen.”
“Uh-huh,” Eddie said. “John, I’ve got—”
“Don’t tell me, you got another question. Only person I know who’s got more of em is my grand-nephew Aidan. He just went three. Go on, ask.”
“Could you pinpoint the center of the walk-in activity in this area over the last few years?” Eddie had no idea why he was asking this question, but it suddenly seemed vitally important to him.
Cullum considered, then said: “Turtleback Lane, over in Lovell.”
“You sound pretty sure of that.”
“Ayuh. Do you remember me mentionin my friend Donnie Russert, the history prof from Vandy?”
Eddie nodded.
“Well, after he met one of these fellas in person, he got interested in the phenomenon. Wrote several articles about it, although he said no reputable magazine’d publish em no matter how well documented his facts were. He said that writin about the walk-ins in western Maine taught him something he’d never expected to learn in his old age: that some things people just won’t believe, not even when you can prove em. He used to quote a line from some Greek poet. ‘The column of truth has a hole in it.’
“Anyway, he had a map of the seven-town area mounted on one wall of his study: Stoneham, East Stoneham, Waterford, Lovell, Sweden, Fryeburg, and East Fryeburg. With pins stuck in it for each walk-in reported, do ya see?”
“See very well, say thank ya,” Eddie said.
“And I’d have to say…yeah, Turtleback Lane’s the heart of it. Why, there were six or eight pins right there, and the whole damn rud can’t be more’n two miles long; it’s just a loop that runs off Route 7, along the shore of Kezar Lake, and then back to 7 again.”
Roland was looking at the house. Now he turned to the left, stopped, and laid his left hand on the sandalwood butt of his gun. “John,” he said, “we’re well-met, but it’s time for you to roll out of here.”
“Ayuh? You sure?”
Roland nodded. “The men who came here are fools. It still has the smell of fools, which is partly how I know that they haven’t moved on. You’re not one of that kind.”
John Cullum smiled faintly. “Sh’d hope not,” he said, “but I gut t’thankya for the compliment.” Then he paused and scratched his gray head. “If ’tis a compliment.”
“Don’t get