"Gorry," he said again, very softly.
SIX
Aware that he was speaking now as once he'd been spoken to,
Eddie Dean said: "Tell the rest of your lesson, John of East Stoneham, and be true."
Cullum had gotten out of bed that morning no more than a country caretaker, one of the world's unknown and unseen.
He'd go to bed tonight with the potential of becoming one of the world's most important people, a true prince of the Earth.
If he was afraid of the idea, it didn't show. Perhaps he hadn't grasped it yet.
But Eddie didn't believe that. This was the man ka had put in their road, and he was both trig and brave. If Eddie had been Walter at this moment (or Flagg, as Walter sometimes called himself), he believed he would have trembled.
"Well," John said, "it don't mind a mite to ya who runs the company, but you want Tet to swallow up Holmes, because from now on the job doesn't have anything to do with makin toothpaste and cappin teeth, although it may go on lookin that way yet awhile."
"And what's-"
Eddie got no further. John raised a gnarled hand to stop him. Eddie tried to imagine a Texas Instruments calculator in that hand and discovered he could, and quite easily. Weird.
"Gimme a chance, youngster, and I'll tell you."
Eddie sat back, making a zipping motion across his lips.
"Keep the rose safe, that's first. Keep the writah safe, that's second. But beyond that, me and this guy Deepneau and this other guy Carver are s'posed to build up one of the world's most powerful corporations. We trade in real estate, we work with... uh..." He pulled out the battered green pad, consulted it quickly, and put it away. "We work with 'software developers," whatever they are, because they're gonna be the next wave of technology. We're supposed to remember three words."
He ticked them off. "Microsoft. Microchips. Intel. And n'matter how big we grow-or how fast-our three real jobs are the same: protect the rose, protect Stephen King, and try to screw over two other companies every chance we get. One's called Sombra. Other's..." There was the slightest of hesitations.
"The other's North Central Positronics. Sombra's mostly interested in proppity, accordin to you fellas. Positronics... well, science and gadgets, that's obvious even to me. If Sombra wants a piece of land, Tet tries t'get it first. If North Central wants a patent, we try to get it first, or at least to frig it up for them.
Throw it to a third party if it comes to that."
Eddie was nodding approval. He hadn't told John that last, the old guy had come up with it on his own.
"We're the Three Toothless Musketeers, the Old Farts of Apocalypse, and we're supposed to keep those two outfits from gettin what they want, by fair means or foul. Dirty tricks most definitely allowed." John grinned. "I never been to Harvard Business School"-Haa-vid Bi'ness School-"but I guess I can kick a fella in the crotch as well's anyone."
"Good," Roland said. He started to get up. "I think it's time we-"
Eddie raised a hand to stop him. Yes, he wanted to get to Susannah and Jake; couldn't wait to sweep his darling into his arms and cover her face with kisses. It seemed years since he had last seen her on the East Road in Calla Bryn Sturgis. Yet he couldn't leave it at this as easily as Roland, who had spent his life being obeyed and had come to take the death-allegiance of complete strangers as a matter of course. What Eddie saw on the other side of Dick Beckhardt's table wasn't another tool but an independent Yankee who was tough-minded and smart as a whip... but really too old for what they were asking. And speaking of too old, what about Aaron Deepneau, the Chemotherapy Kid?
"My friend wants to get moving and so do I," Eddie said.
"We've got miles to go yet."
"I know that. It's on your face, son. Like a scar."
Eddie was fascinated by the idea of duty and ka as something that left a mark, something that might look like decoration to one eye and disfigurement to another. Outside, thunder cracked and lightning flashed.
"But why would you do this?" Eddie asked. "I have to know that. Why would you take all this on for two men you just met?"
John thought it over. He touched the cross he wore now and would wear until his death in the year of 1989-the cross given to Roland by an old woman in a forgotten town. He would touch it just that way in the years ahead when contemplating some big decision (the biggest might have been the one to sever Tet's connection with IBM, a company that had shown an everincreasing willingness to do business with North Central Positronics) or preparing for some covert action (the fire-bombing of Sombra Enterprises in New Delhi, for instance, in the year before he died). The cross spoke to Moses Carver and never spoke again in Cullum's presence no matter how much he blew on it, but sometimes, drifting to sleep with his hand clasped around it, he would think: 'Tis a sigul. Tis a sigul, dear-something that came from another world.
If he had regrets toward the end (other than about some of the tricks, which were filthy indeed and cost more than one man his life), it was that he never got a chance to visit the world on the other side, which he glimpsed one stormy evening on Turtleback Lane in the town of Lovell. From time to time Roland's sigul sent him dreams of a field filled with roses, and a sooty-black tower. Sometimes he was visited by terrible visions of two crimson eyes, floating unattached to any body and relentlessly scanning the horizon. Sometimes there were dreams in which he heard the sound of a man relentlessly winding his horn. From these latter dreams he would awake with tears on his cheeks, those of longing and loss and love. He would awake with his hand closed around the cross, thinking I denied Discordia and regret nothing; I have spat into the bodiless eyes of the Crimson King and rejoice; I threw my lot with the gunslinger's katet and the White and never once questioned the choice.
Yet for all that he wished he could have walked out, just once, into that other land: the one beyond the door.
Now he said: "You boys want all the right things. I can't put it any clearer than that. I believe you." He hesitated. "I believe in you. What I see in your eyes is true."
Eddie thought he was done, and then Cullum grinned like a boy.
"Also it 'pears to me you're offerin the keys to one humongous great engine." Engyne. "Who wouldn't want to turn it on, and see what it does?"
"Are you scared?" Roland asked.
John Cullum considered the question, then nodded.
"Ayuh," he said.
Roland nodded. "Good," he said.
SEVEN
They drove back up to Turtleback Lane in Cullum's car beneath a black, boiling sky. Although diis was the height of the summer season and most of the cottages on Kezar were probably occupied, diey saw not a single car moving in either direction. All the boats on the lake had long since run for cover.
"Said I had somethin else for ya," John said, and went to the back of his truck, where there was a steel lockbox snugged up against the cab. Now the wind had begun to blow. It swirled his scanty fluff of white hair around his head. He ran a combination, popped a padlock, and swung back the lockbox's lid. From inside he brought out two dusty bags the wanderers knew well. One looked almost new compared to the other, which was the scuffed no-color of desert dust and laced its long length with rawhide.
"Our gunna!" Eddie cried, so delighted-and so amazed-tfiat the words almost came out in a scream. "How in the name of hell-?"
John offered them a smile that augured well for his future as a dirty trickster: bemused on the surface, sly beneath. "Nice surprise, ain't it? Thought so m'self. I went back to get a look at Chip's store-what 'us left of it-while there was still a lot of confusion. People runnin hither, thither, and yon is what I mean to say; coverin bodies, stringin that yella tape, takin pitchers.
Somebody'd put those bags off to one side and they looked just a dight lonely, so I..." He shrugged one bony shoulder. "I scooped em up."
"This would have been while we were visiting with Calvin Tower and Aaron Deepneau in their rented cabin," Eddie said.
"After you went back home, supposedly to pack for Vermont. Is that right?" He was stroking the side of his bag. He knew that smooth surface very well; hadn't he shot the deer it had come from and scraped off the hair with Roland's knife and stitched the hide himself, with Susannah to help him? Not long after the great robot bear Shardik had almost unzipped Eddie's guts, that had been. Sometime in the last century, it seemed.
"Yuh," Cullum said, and when the old fellow's smile sweetened,
Eddie's last doubts about him departed. They had found the right man for this world. Say true and thank Gan big-big.
"Strap on your gun, Eddie," Roland said, holding out the revolver with the worn sandalwood grips.
Mine. Norv he calls it mine. Eddie felt a small chill.
"I thought we were going to Susannah and Jake." But he took the revolver and belted it on willingly enough.
Roland nodded. "But I believe we have a little work to do first, against those who killed Callahan and then tried to kill Jake." His face didn't change as he spoke, but both Eddie Dean and John Cullum felt a chill. For a moment it was almost impossible to look at the gunslinger.
So came-although they did not know it, which was likely more mercy than such as they deserved-the death sentence of Flaherty, the taheen Lamia, and their ka-tet.