"Look out, that person's drunk or something!" Justine says, alarmed. She pulls Elvira back, but they find their way blocked by the old wall with its dressing of raspberry bushes. The thorns catch at their slacks (thank goodness neither of us was wearing shorts, Justine will think later... when she has time to think) and pull out little puffs of cloth.
Justine is thinking she should put an arm around her friend's shoulder and tumble them both over the thigh-high wall-do a backflip, just like in gym class all those years ago-but before she can make up her mind to do it, the blue van is by them, and at the moment it passes, it's more or less on the road and not a danger to them.
Justine watches it go by in a muffled blare of rock music, her heart thumping heavily in her chest, the taste of something her body has dumped-adrenaline would be the most likely possibility-flat and metallic on her tongue. And halfway up the hill the little blue van once again lurches across the white line. The driver corrects the drift... no, overcorrects. Once mare the blue van is on the righthand shoulder, spuming up yellow dust for fifty yards.
"Gosh, I hope Stephen King sees that ass**le, "Elvira says. They have passed the writer half a mile or so back, and said hello. Probably everyone in town has seen him on his afternoon walk, at one time or another.
As if the driver of the blue van has heard Elvira Toothaker call him an ass**le, the van's brakelights flare. The van suddenly pulls all the way off the mad and stops. When the door opens, the ladies hear a louder blast of rock and roll music. They also hear the driver-a man-yelling at someone (Elvira and Justine just pity the person stuck driving with that guy on such a beautiful June afternoon). "You leave 'at alone!" he shouts. "That ain't yoahs, y 'hear? "And then the driver reaches back into the van, brings out a cane, and uses it to help him over the rock wall and into the bushes. The van sits rumbling on the soft shoulder, driver's door open, emitting blue exhaust from one end and rock from the other.
"What's he doing?" Justine asks, a little nervously.
"Taking a leak would be my guess, "her friend replies. "But if Mr.
King back there is lucky, maybe doing Number Two, instead. That might give him time to get off Route 7 and back onto Turtleback Lane."
Suddenly Justine doesn't feel like picking berries anymore. She wants to go back home and have a strong cup of tea.
The man comes limping briskly out of the bushes and uses his cane to help him back over the rock wall.
"Iguess he didn't need to Number Two, "Elvira says, and as the bad driver climbs back into his blue van, the two going-on-old women look at each other and burst into giggles.
TWELVE
Roland watched the old man give the woman instructions-something about using Warrington's Road as a shortcut-and then Jake opened his eyes. To Roland the boy looked unutterably weary.
"I was able to make him stop and take a leak," he said.
"Now he's fixing something behind his seat. I don't know what it is, but it won't keep him busy for long. Roland, this is bad.
We're awfully late. We have to go."
Roland looked at the woman, hoping that his decision not to replace her behind the wheel with die old man had been die right one. "Do you know where to go? Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said. "Up Warrington's to Route 7. We sometimes go to dinner at Warrington's. I know that road."
"Can't guarantee you'll cut his path goin that way," said the caretaker, "but it seems likely." He bent down to pick up his hat and began to brush bits of freshly cut grass from it. He did this with long, slow strokes, like a man caught in a dream. "Ayuh, seems likely t'me." And then, still like a man who dreams awake, he tucked his hat beneath his arm, raised a fist to his forehead, and bent a leg to the stranger with the big revolver on his hip. Why would he not?
The stranger was surrounded by white light.
THIRTEEN
When Roland pulled himself back into the cab of the storekeeper's truck-a chore made more difficult by the rapidly escalating pain in his right hip-his hand came down on Jake's leg, and just like that he knew what Jake had been keeping back, and why. He had been afraid that knowing might cause the gunslinger's focus to drift. It was not ka-shume the boy had felt, or Roland would have felt it, too. How could there be ka-shume among them, with the tet already broken? Their special power, something greater than all of them, perhaps drawn from the Beam itself, was gone. Now they were just three friends (four, counting the bumbler) united by a single purpose. And they could save King. Jake knew it. They could save the writer and come a step closer to saving the Tower by doing so. But one of them was going to die doing it.
Jake knew that, too.
FOURTEEN
An old saying-one taught to him by his father-came to Roland then: Ifka will say so, let it be so. Yes; all right; let it be so.
During the long years he had spent on the trail of the man in black, the gunslinger would have sworn nothing in the universe could have caused him to renounce the Tower; had he not literally killed his own mother in pursuit of it, back at the start of his terrible career? But in those years he had been friendless, childless, and (he didn't like to admit it, but it was true) heartless. He had been bewitched by that cold romance the loveless mistake for love. Now he had a son and he had been given a second chance and he had changed. Knowing that one of them must die in order to save the writer-that their fellowship must be reduced again, and so soon-would not make him cry off. But he would make sure that Roland of Gilead, not Jake of New York, provided the sacrifice this time.
Did the boy know that he'd penetrated his secret? No time to worry about that now.
Roland slammed the truckomobile's door shut and looked at the woman. "Is your name Irene?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Drive, Irene. Do it as if Lord High Splitfoot were on your trail with rape on his mind, do ya I beg. Out Warrington's Road. If we don't see him there, out the Seven-Road. Will you?"
"You're f**king right," said Mrs. Tassenbaum, and shoved the gearshift into First with real authority.
The engine screamed, but the truck began to roll backward, as if so frightened by the job ahead that it would rather finish up in the lake. Then she engaged the clutch and the old International Harvester leaped ahead, charging up the steep incline of the driveway and leaving a trail of blue smoke and burnt rubber behind.
Garrett McKeen's great-grandson watched them go with his mouth hanging open. He had no idea what had just happened, but he felt sure that a great deal depended on what would happen next.
Maybe everything.
FIFTEEN
Needing to piss that bad was weird, because pissing was the last thing Bryan Smith had done before leaving the Million Dollar Campground.
And once he'd clambered over the f**king rock wall, he hadn't been able to manage more than a few drops, even though it had felt like a real bladder-buster at the time. Bryan hopes he's not going to have trouble with his prostrate; trouble with the old prostrate is the last thing he needs. He's got enough other problems, by the hairy old Jesus.
Oh well, now that he's stopped he might as well try to fix the Styrofoam cooler behind the seat-the dogs are still staring at it with their tongues hanging out. He tries to wedge it underneath the seat, but it won't go-there's not quite enough clearance. What he does instead is to point a dirty finger at his rotties and tell them again to ne'mine the cooler and the meat inside, that's his, that's gonna be his suppah. This time he even thinks to add a promise that later on he'll mix a little of the hamburger in with their Purina, if they're good. This is fairly deep thinking for Bryan Smith, but the simple expedient of swinging the cooler up front and putting it in the unoccupied passenger seat never occurs to him.
"You leave it alone!" he tells them again, and hops back behind the wheel. He slams the door, takes a brief glance in the rearview mirror, sees two old ladies back there (he didn't notice them before because he wasn't exactly looking at the road when he passed them), gives them a wave they never see through the Caravan's filthy rear window, and then pulls back onto Route 7. Now the radio is playing "Gangsta Dream 19," by Owt-Ray-Juss, and Bryan turns it up (once more swerving across the white line and into the northbound lane as he does so-this is the sort of person who simply cannot fix the radio without looking at it). Rap rules!
And metal rules, too! All he needs now to make his day complete is a tune by Ozzy-"Crazy Train "would be good.
And some of those Marses bars.
SIXTEEN
Mrs. Tassenbaum came bolting out of the Cara Laughs driveway and onto Turtleback Lane in second gear, the old pickup truck's engine overcranking (if there'd been an RPM gauge on the dashboard, the needle would undoubtedly have been redlining),
the few tools in the back tapdancing crazily in the rusty bed.
Roland had only a bit of the touch-hardly any at all, compared to Jake-but he had met Stephen King, and taken him down into the false sleep of hypnosis. That was a powerful bond to share, and so he wasn't entirely surprised when he touched the mind Jake hadn't been able to reach. It probably didn't hurt that King was thinking about them.
He often does on his walks, Roland thought. When he's alone, he hears the Song of the Turtle and knows that he has a job to do. One he's shirking. Well, my friend, that ends today.
If, that was, they could save him.
He leaned past Jake and looked at the woman. "Can't you make this gods-cursed thing go faster?"