"Did you forget something, darling?" Only the last word came out in a downeast drawl,daaa-lin, the way John Cullum would have said it. And then came the man of the house, then came he. He saw them and stopped. He sawRoland and stopped. The singing voices stopped with him, and the powerboat's drone seemed to stop as well. For a moment the whole world hung on a hinge. Then the man turned and ran. Not, however, before Eddie saw the terrible thunder-struck look of recognition on his face.
Roland was after him in a flash, like a cat after a bird.
Five
But sai King was a man, not a bird. He couldn't fly, and there was really nowhere to run. The side lawn sloped down a mild hill broken only by a concrete pad that might have been the well or some kind of sewage-pumping device. Beyond the lawn was a postage stamp - sized bit of beach, littered with more toys. After that came the lake. The man reached the edge of it, splashed into it, then turned so awkwardly he almost fell down.
Roland skidded to a stop on the sand. He and Stephen King regarded each other. Eddie stood perhaps ten yards behind Roland, watching both of them. The singing had begun again, and so had the buzzing drone of the powerboat. Perhaps they had never stopped, but Eddie believed he knew better.
The man in the water put his hands over his eyes like a child. "You're not there," he said.
"I am, sai." Roland's voice was both gentle and filled with awe. "Take your hands from your eyes, Stephen of Bridgton. Take them down and see me very well."
"Maybe I'm having a breakdown," said the man in the water, but he slowly dropped his hands. He was wearing thick glasses with severe black frames. One bow had been mended with a bit of tape. His hair was either black or a very dark brown. The beard was definitely black, the first threads of white in it startling in their brilliance. He was wearing bluejeans below a tee-shirt that said THE RAMONES and ROCKET TO RUSSIA and GABBA-GABBA-HEY. He looked like starting to run to middle-aged fat, but he wasn't fat yet. He was tall, and as ashy-pale as Roland. Eddie saw with no real surprise that Stephen Kinglooked like Roland. Given the age difference they could never be mistaken for twins, but father and son? Yes. Easily.
Roland tapped the base of his throat three times, then shook his head. It wasn't enough. It wouldn't do. Eddie watched with fascination and horror as the gunslinger sank to his knees amid the litter of bright plastic toys and put his curled hand against his brow.
"Hile, tale-spinner," he said. "Comes to you Roland Deschain of Gilead that was, and Eddie Dean of New York. Will you open to us, if we open to you?"
King laughed. Given the power of Roland's words, Eddie found the sound shocking. "I...man, this can't be happening." And then, to himself: "Can it?"
Roland, still on his knees, went on as if the man standing in the water had neither laughed nor spoken. "Do you see us for what we are, and what we do?"
"You'd be gunslingers, if you were real." King peered at Roland through his thick spectacles. "Gunslingers seeking the Dark Tower."
That's it,Eddie thought as the voices rose and the sun shimmered on the blue water.That nails it.
"You say true, sai. We seek aid and succor, Stephen of Bridgton. Will'ee give it?"
"Mister, I don't know who your friend is, but as for you...man, Imade you. You can't be standingthere because the only place you really exist ishere. " He thumped a fist to the center of his forehead, as if in parody of Roland. Then he pointed to his house. His ranch-style house. "And in there. You're in there, too, I guess. In a desk drawer, or maybe a box in the garage. You're unfinished business. I haven't thought of you in...in..."
His voice had grown thin. Now he began to sway like someone who hears faint but delicious music, and his knees buckled. He fell.
"Roland!" Eddie shouted, at last plunging forward. "Man's had a f**king heart attack!" Already knowing (or perhaps only hoping) better. Because the singing was as strong as ever. The faces in the trees and shadows as clear.
The gunslinger was bending down and grasping King - who had already begun to thrash weakly - under the arms. "He's but fainted. And who could blame him? Help me get him into the house."
Six
The master bedroom had a gorgeous view of the lake and a hideous purple rug on the floor. Eddie sat on the bed and watched through the bathroom door as King took off his wet sneakers and outer clothes, stepping between the door and the tiled bathroom wall for a moment to swap his wet under-shorts for a dry pair. He hadn't objected to Eddie following him into the bedroom. Since coming to - and he'd been out for no more than thirty seconds - he had displayed an almost eerie calm.
Now he came out of the bathroom and crossed to the bureau. "Is this a practical joke?" he asked, rummaging for dry jeans and a fresh tee-shirt. To Eddie, King's house said money - some, at least. God knew what the clothes said. "Is it something Mac McCutcheon and Floyd Calderwood dreamed up?"
"I don't know those men, and it's no joke."
"Maybe not, but that man can't be real." King stepped into the jeans. He spoke to Eddie in a reasonable tone of voice. "I mean, Iwrote about him!"
Eddie nodded. "I kind of figured that. But he's real, just the same. I've been running with him for - " How long? Eddie didn't know. " - for awhile," he finished. "You wrote about him but not me?"
"Do you feel left out?"
Eddie laughed, but in truth hedid feel left out. A little, anyway. Maybe King hadn't gotten to him yet. If that was the case, he wasn't exactly safe, was he?
"This doesn'tfeel like a breakdown," King said, "but I suppose they never do."