The Dark Tower-Part 3#-4#-5#(21)

"It says CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER," Mrs. Tassenbaum told him. "But it looks like it's been there awhile. I think they usually take the tape down once they're finished with their cameras and little brushes and things. You must have powerful friends."

Roland was sure the tape had indeed been there awhile; three weeks, give or take. That was when Jake and Pere Callahan had entered the Dixie Pig, positive they were going to their deaths but pushing ahead anyway. He saw there was a little puddle of liquor left in Irene's glass and swallowed it, grimacing at the hot taste of the alcohol but relishing the burn on the way down.

"Better?" she asked.

"Aye, thanks." He reset the bag with the Orizas in it more firmly on his shoulder and got out with Oy at his heel. Irene paused to talk to the driver, who seemed to have been successful in making her travel arrangements. Roland ducked beneath the tape and then just stood where he was for a moment, listening to the honk and pound of the city on this bright June day, relishing its adolescent vitality. He would never see another city, of that much he was almost positive. And perhaps that was just as well. He had an idea that after New York, all others would be a step down.

The guard-obviously someone who worked for the Tet Corporation and not this city's constabulary-joined him on the walk. "If you want to go in there, sir, there's something you should show me."

Roland once more took his gunbelt from the pouch, once more unwrapped it from the holster, once more drew his father's gun. This time he did not offer to hand it over, nor did that gentleman ask to take it. He only examined the scrollwork, particularly that at the end of the barrel. Then he nodded respectfully and stepped back. "I'll unlock the door. Once you go inside, you're on your own. You understand that, don't you?"

Roland, who had been on his own for most of his life, nodded.

Irene took his elbow before he could move forward, turned him, and put her arms around his neck. She had also bought herself a pair of low-heeled shoes, and only needed to tilt her head back slightly in order to look into his eyes.

"You take care of yourself, cowboy." She kissed him briefly on the mouth-the kiss of a friend-and then knelt to stroke Oy. "And take care of the little cowboy, too."

"I'll do my best," Roland said. "Will you remember your promise about Jake's grave?"

"A rose," she said. "I'll remember."

"Thankee." He looked at her a moment longer, consulted the workings of his own inner instincts-hunch-think-and came to a decision. From the bag containing the Orizas, he took the envelope containing the bulky book …  the one Susannah would never read to him on the trail, after all. He put it in Irene's hands.

She looked at it, frowning. "What's in here? Feels like a book."

"Yar. One by Stephen King. Insomnia, it's called. Has thee read that one?"

She smiled a bit. "No, thee hasn't. Has thee?"

"No. And won't. It feels tricksy to me."

"I don't understand you."

"It feels …  thin." He was thinking of Eyebolt Canyon, in Mejis.

She hefted it. "Feels pretty goddamned thick to me. A Stephen King book for sure. He sells by the inch, America buys by the pound."

Roland only shook his head.

Irene said, "Never mind. I'm being smart because Ree doesn't do goodbyes well, never has. You want me to keep this, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Maybe when Big Steve gets out of the hospital, I'll get him to sign it. The way I look at it, he owes me an autograph."

"Or a kiss," Roland said, and took another for himself.

With the book out of his hands, he felt somehow lighter. Freer.

Safer. He drew her fully into his arms and hugged her. Irene Tassenbaum returned his strength with her own.

Then Roland let her go, touched his forehead lightly with his fist, and turned to the door of the Dixie Pig. He opened it and slipped inside with no look back. That, he had found, was ever the easiest way.

SIXTEEN

The chrome post which had been outside on the night Jake and Pere Callahan had come here had been put in the lobby for safekeeping. Roland stumbled against it, but his reflexes were as quick as ever and he grabbed it before it could fall over. He read the sign on top slowly, sounding the words out and getting the sense of only one: CLOSED. The orange electric flambeaux which had lit the dining room were off but the battery-powered emergency lights were on, filling the area beyond the lobby and the bar with a flat glare. To the left was an arch and another dining room beyond it. There were no emergency lights there; that part of the Dixie Pig was as dark as a cave. The light from the main dining room seemed to creep in about four feet-just far enough to illuminate the end of a long table-and then fall dead. The tapestry of which Jake had spoken was gone. It might be in the evidence room of the nearest police station, or it might already have joined some collector's trove of oddities.

Roland could smell the faint aroma of charred meat, vague and unpleasant.

In the main dining room, two or three tables were overturned.

Roland saw stains on the red rug, several dark ones that were almost certainly blood and a yellowish curd that was …  something else.

H'rozv it aside! Nasty bauble of the 'heep-God, h'row it aside if you dare!

And the Pere's voice, echoing dimly in Roland's ears, unafraid: / needn't stake my faith on the challenge of such a thing as you, sai The Pere. Another of those he had left behind.

Roland thought briefly of the scrimshaw turde that had been hidden in the lining of the bag they had found in the vacant lot, but didn't waste time looking for it. If it had been here, he thought he would have heard its voice, calling to him in the silence. No, whoever had appropriated die tapestry of the vampire-knights at dinner had very likely taken the skoldpadda as well, not knowing what it was, only knowing it was something strange and wonderful and otherworldly. Too bad. It might have come in handy.

The gunslinger moved on, weaving his way among the tables with Oy trotting at his heel.

SEVENTEEN

He paused in die kitchen long enough to wonder what the constabulary of New York had made of it. He was willing to bet diey had never seen another like it, not in this city of clean machinery and bright electric lights. This was a kitchen in which Hax, the cook he remembered best from his youth (and beneath whose dead feet he and his best friend had once scattered bread for die birds), would have felt at home. The cookfires had been out for weeks, but the smell of the meat that had been roasted here-some of the variety known as long pork-was strong and nasty. There were more signs of trouble here, as well

(a scum-caked pot lying on the green tiles of the floor, blood which had been burned black on one of the stovetops), and Roland could imagine Jake fighting his way through the kitchen.

But not in panic; no, not he. Instead he had paused to demand directions of the cook's boy.

What's your name, cully?

Jochabim, that be I, son of Hossa.

Jake had told them this part of his story, but it was not memory that spoke to Roland now. It was the voices of the dead.

He had heard such voices before, and knew them for what they were.

EIGHTEEN

Oy took the lead as he had done the last time he had been here.

He could still smell Ake's scent, faint and sorrowful. Ake had gone on ahead now, but not so very far; he was good, Ake was good, Ake would wait, and when the time came-when the j ob Ake had given him was done-Oy would catch up and go with him as before. His nose was strong, and he would find fresher scent than this when the time came to search for it. Ake had saved him from death, which did not matter. Ake had saved him from loneliness and shame after Oy had been cast out by the tet of his kind, and that did.

In the meantime, there was this j ob to finish. He led the man Olan into the pantry. The secret door to the stairs had been closed, but the man Olan felt patiently along the shelves of cans and boxes until he found the way to open it. All was as it had been, the long, descending stair dimly lit by overhead bulbs, the scent damp and overlaid with mold. He could smell the rats which scuttered in the walls; rats and other things, too, some of them bugs of the sort he had killed the last time he and Ake had come here. That had been good killing, and he would gladly have more, if more were offered. Oy wished the bugs would show themselves again and challenge him, but of course they didn't. They were afraid, and they were right to be afraid, for ever had his kind stood enemy to theirs.

He started down the stairs with the man Olan following behind.

NINETEEN

They passed the deserted kiosk with its age-yellowed signs (NEW YORK SOUVENIRS, LAST CHANCE, a n d VISIT SEPTEMBER 11, 2001), and fifteen minutes later-Roland checked his new watch to be sure of the time-they came to a place where there was a good deal of broken glass on the dusty corridor floor. Roland picked Oy up so he wouldn't cut the pads of his feet. On both walls he saw the shattered remains of what had been glass-covered hatches of some kind. When he looked in, he saw complicated machinery. They had almost caught Jake here, snared him in some kind of mind-trap, but once again Jake had been clever enough and brave enough to get through. He survived everything but a man too stupid and too careless to do the simple job of driving his bucka on an empty road, Roland thought bitterly. And the man who brought him there-that man, too. Then Oy barked at him and Roland realized that in his anger at Bryan Smith (and at himself), he was squeezing the poor little fellow too tightly.