Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [289]
The springball rolled to Slightman’s feet. His son held up his hands for it, smiling. “Pa! Throw it!”
Ben did, and hard. The ball sailed, just as Molly’s plate had in Gran-pere’s story. Benny leaped, caught it one-handed, and laughed. His father grinned at him fondly, then glanced at Roland. “They’s a pair, ain’t they? Yours and mine?”
“Aye,” Roland said, almost smiling. “Almost like brothers, sure enough.”
Six
The ka-tet ambled back toward the rectory, riding four abreast, feeling every town eye that watched them go: death on horseback.
“You happy with how it went, sugar?” Susannah asked Roland.
“It’ll do,” he allowed, and began to roll a smoke.
“I’d like to try one of those,” Jake said suddenly.
Susannah gave him a look both shocked and amused. “Bite your tongue, sugar—you haven’t seen thirteen yet.”
“My Dad started when he was ten.”
“And’ll be dead by fifty, like as not,” Susannah said sternly.
“No great loss,” Jake muttered, but he let the subject drop.
“What about Mia?” Roland asked, popping a match with his thumbnail. “Is she quiet?”
“If it wasn’t for you boys, I’m not sure I’d believe there even was such a jane.”
“And your belly’s quiet, too?”
“Yes.” Susannah guessed everyone had rules about lying; hers was that if you were going to tell one, you did best to keep it short. If she had a chap in her belly—some sort of monster—she’d let them help her worry about it a week from tonight. If they were still able to worry about anything, that was. For the time being they didn’t need to know about the few little cramps she’d been having.
“Then all’s well,” the gunslinger said. They rode in silence for awhile, and then he said: “I hope you two boys can dig. There’ll be some digging to do.”
“Graves?” Eddie asked, not sure if he was joking or not.
“Graves come later.” Roland looked up at the sky, but the clouds had advanced out of the west and stolen the stars. “Just remember, it’s the winners who dig them.”
Chapter VI:
Before the Storm
One
Rising up from the darkness, dolorous and accusatory, came the voice of Henry Dean, the great sage and eminent junkie. “I’m in hell, bro! I’m in hell and I can’t get a fix and it’s all your fault!”
“How long will we have to be here, do you think?” Eddie asked Callahan. They had just reached the Doorway Cave, and the great sage’s little bro was already shaking a pair of bullets in his right hand like dice—seven-come-eleven, baby need a little peace n quiet. It was the day after the big meeting, and when Eddie and the Pere had ridden out of town, the high street had seemed unusually quiet. It was almost as if the Calla was hiding from itself, overwhelmed by what it had committed itself to.
“I’m afraid it’ll be awhile,” Callahan admitted. He was neatly (and nondescriptly, he hoped) dressed. In the breast pocket of his shirt was all the American money they’d been able to put together: eleven crumpled dollars and a pair of quarters. He thought it would be a bitter joke if he turned up in a version of America where Lincoln was on the single and Washington on the fifties. “But we can do it in stages, I think.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Eddie said, and dragged the pink bag out from behind Tower’s bookcase. He lifted it with both hands, began to turn, then stopped. He was frowning.
“What is it?” Callahan asked.
“There’s something in here.”
“Yes, the box.”
“No, something in the bag. Sewn into the lining, I think. It feels like a little rock. Maybe there’s a secret pocket.”
“And maybe,” Callahan said, “this isn’t the time to investigate it.”
Still, Eddie gave the object another small squeeze. It didn’t feel like a stone, exactly. But Callahan was probably right. They had enough mysteries on their hands already. This one was for another day.
When Eddie slid the ghostwood box out of the bag, a sick dread invaded both his head and his heart. “I hate this thing. I keep feeling like it’s going to turn on me and eat me like a…a taco-chip.”
“It probably could,” Callahan said. “If you feel something really bad happening, Eddie, shut