Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [256]
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