Wolves of the Calla

vacationing in New England—'

'Hiding in New England,' Tower said. He suddenly looked morose. 'Holed up in New England.'

'Call it whatcha wanna,' Eddie said, 'but get that paper drawn up. You're going to sell that lot to me and my friends. To the Tet Corporation. You're just gonna get a buck to start with, but I can almost guarantee you that in the end you'll get fair market value.'

He had more to say, lots, but stopped there. When he'd held his hand out for the book, The Dogan or The Hogan or whatever it was, an expression of miserly reluctance had come over Tower's face. What made the look unpleasant was the undercurrent of stupidity in it… and not very far under, either. Oh God, he's gonna fight me on this. After everything that's happened, he's still gonna fight me on it. And why? Because he really is apackrat .

'You can trust me, Cal,' he said, knowing trust was not exactly the issue. 'I set my watch and warrant on it. Hear me, now. Hear me, I beg.'

'I don't know you from Adam. You walk in off the street—'

'—and save your life, don't forget that part.'

Tower's face grew set and stubborn. 'They weren't going to kill me. You said that yourself.'

'They were gonna burn your favorite books. Your most valuable ones.'

'Not my most valuable. Also, that might have been a bluff.'

Eddie took a deep breath and let it out, hoping his suddenly strong desire to lean across the counter and sink his fingers into Tower's fat throat would depart or at least subside. He reminded himself that if Tower hadn't been stubborn, he probably would have sold the lot to Sombra long before now. The rose would have been plowed under. And the Dark Tower? Eddie had an idea that when the rose died, the Dark Tower would simply fall… like the one in Babel when God had gotten tired of it and wiggled His finger. No waiting around another hundred or thousand years for the machinery running the Beams to quit. Just ashes, ashes, we all fall down. And then? Hail the Crimson King, lord of todash darkness.

'Cal, if you sell me and my friends your vacant lot, you're off the hook. Not only that, but you'll eventually have enough money to run your little shop for the rest of your life.' He had a sudden thought. 'Hey, do you know a company called Holmes Dental?'

Tower smiled. 'Who doesn't? I use their floss. And their toothpaste. I tried the mouthwash, but it's too strong. Why do you ask?'

'Because Odetta Holmes is my wife. I may look like Froggy the Gremlin, but in truth I'm Prince Fuckin Charming.'

Tower was quiet for a long time. Eddie curbed his impatience and let the man think. At last Tower said, 'You think I'm being foolish. That I'm being Silas Marner, or worse, Ebenezer Scrooge.'

Eddie didn't know who Silas Marner was, but he took Tower's point from the context of the discussion. 'Let's put it this way,' he said. 'After what you've just been through, you're too smart not to know where your best interests lie.'

'I feel obligated to tell you that this isn't just mindless miserliness on my part; there's an element of caution, as well. I know that piece of New York is valuable, any piece of Manhattan is, but it's not just that. I have a safe out back. There's something in it. Something perhaps even more valuable than my copy of Ulysses .'

'Then why isn't it in your safe-deposit box?'

'Because it's supposed to be here,' Tower said. 'It's always been here. Perhaps waiting for you, or someone like you. Once, Mr. Dean, my family owned almost all of Turtle Bay, and… well, wait. Will you wait?'

'Yes,' Eddie said.

What choice?

ELEVEN

When Tower was gone, Eddie got off the stool and went to the door only he could see. He looked through it. Dimly, he could hear chimes. More clearly he could hear his mother. 'Why don't you get out of there?' she called dolorously. 'You'll only make things worse, Eddie—you always do.'

That's my Ma , he thought, and called the gunslinger's name.

Roland pulled one of the bullets from his ear. Eddie noted the oddly clumsy way he handled it—almost pawing at it, as if his fingers were stiff—but there was no time to think about it now.

'Are you all right?' Eddie called.

'Do fine. And you?'

'Yeah, but… Roland, can you come through? I might need a little help.'

Roland considered, then shook his head. 'The box might close if I did. Probably would close. Then the door would close. And we'd be trapped on that side.'

'Can't you prop the damn thing open with a stone or a bone or something?'

'No,' Roland said. 'It wouldn't work. The ball is powerful.'

And it's working on you , Eddie thought. Roland's face looked haggard, the way it had when the lobstrosities' poison had been inside him.

'All right,' he said.

'Be as quick as you can.'

'I will.'

TWELVE

When he turned around, Tower was looking at him quizzically. 'Who were you talking to?'

Eddie stood aside and pointed at the doorway. 'Do you see anything there, sai?'

Calvin Tower looked, started to shake his head, then looked longer. 'A shimmer,' he said at last. 'Like hot air over an incinerator. Who's there? What's there?'

'For the time being, let's say nobody. What have you got in your hand?'

Tower held it up. It was an envelope, very old. Written on it in copperplate were the words Stephen Toren and Dead Letter . Below, carefully drawn in ancient ink, were the same symbols that were on the door and the box:

New we might be getting somewhere , Eddie thought.

'Once this envelope held the will of my great-great-great grandfather,' Calvin Tower said. 'It was dated March 19th, 1846. Now there's nothing but a single piece of paper with a name written upon it. If you can tell me what that name is, young man, I'll do as you ask.'

And so , Eddie mused, it comes down to another riddle . Only this time it wasn't four lives that hung upon the answer, but all of existence.

Thank God it's an easy one , he thought.

'It's Deschain,' Eddie said. 'The first name will be either Roland, the name of my dinh, or Steven, the name of his father.'

All the blood seemed to fall out of Calvin Tower's face. Eddie had no idea how the man was able to keep his feet. 'My dear God in heaven,' he said.

With trembling fingers, he removed an ancient and brittle piece of paper from the envelope, a time traveler that had voyaged over a hundred and thirty-one years to this where and when. It was folded. Tower opened it and put it on the counter, where they could both read the words Stefan Toren had written in the same