Song of Susannah (The Dark Tower #6)(86)

"You didwhat? "

"Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But writing can be a crazy deal. Did you know that Ernest Hemingway once lost a whole book of short stories on a train?"

"Really?"

"Really. He had no back-up copies, no carbons. Just poof, gone. That's sort of what happened to me. One fine drunk night - or maybe I was done up on mescaline, I can no longer remember - I did a complete outline for this five-or ten-thousand-page fantasy epic. It was a good outline, I think. Gave the thing some form. Some style. And then I lost it. Probably flew off the back of my motorcycle when I was coming back from some f**king bar. Nothing like that ever happened to me before. I'm usually careful about my work, if nothing else."

"Uh-huh," Eddie said, and thought of askingDid you happen to see any guys in loud clothes, the sort of guys who drive flashy cars, around the time you lost it? Low men, not to put too fine a point on it? Anyone with a red mark on his or her forehead? The sort of thing that looks a little like a circle of blood? Any indications, in short, that someone stoleyour outline? Someone who might have an interest in making sure The Dark Towernever gets finished?

"Let's go out to the kitchen. We need to palaver." Eddie just wished he knew what they were supposed to palaverabout. Whatever it was, they had better get it right, because this was the real world, the one in which there were no do-overs.

Seven

Roland had no idea of how to stock and then start the fancy coffee-maker on the counter, but he found a battered coffee pot on one of the shelves that was not much different from the one Alain Johns had carried in his gunna long ago, when three boys had come to Mejis to count stock. Sai King's stove ran on electricity, but a child could have figured out how to make the burners work. When Eddie and King came into the kitchen, the pot was beginning to get hot.

"I don't use coffee, myself," King said, and went to the cold-box (giving Roland a wide berth). "And I don't ordinarily drink beer before five, but I believe that today I'll make an exception. Mr. Dean?"

"Coffee'll do me fine."

"Mr. Gilead?"

"It's Deschain, sai King. I'll also have the coffee, and say thank ya."

The writer opened a can by using the built-in ring in the top (a device that struck Roland as superficially clever and almost moronically wasteful). There was a hiss, followed by the pleasant smell

(commala-come-come)

of yeast and hops. King drank down at least half the can at a go, wiped foam out of his mustache, then put the can on the counter. He was still pale, but seemingly composed and in possession of his faculties. The gunslinger thought he was doing quite well, at least so far. Was it possible that, in some of the deeper ranges of his mind and heart, King had expected their visit? Had been waiting for them?

"You have a wife and children," Roland said. "Where are they?"

"Tabby's folks live up north, near Bangor. My daughter's been spending the last week with her nanna and poppa. Tabby took our youngest - Owen, he's just a baby - and headed that way about an hour ago. I'm supposed to pick up my other son - Joe - in..." He checked his watch. "In just about an hour. I wanted to finish my writing, so this time we're taking both cars."

Roland considered. It might be true. It was almost certainly King's way of telling them that if anything happened to him, he would be missed in short order.

"I can't believe this is happening. Have I said that enough to be annoying yet? In any case, it's too much like one of my own stories to be happening."

"Like'Salem's Lot, for instance," Eddie suggested.

King raised his eyebrows. "So you know about that. Do they have the Literary Guild wherever you came from?" He downed the rest of his beer. He drank, Roland thought, like a man with a gift for it. "A couple of hours ago there were sirens way over on the other side of the lake, plus a big plume of smoke. I could see it from my office. At the time I thought it was probably just a grassfire, maybe in Harrison or Stoneham, but now I wonder. Did that have anything to do with you guys? It did, didn't it?"

Eddie said, "He's writing it, Roland. Or was. He says he stopped. But it's calledThe Dark Tower. So he knows."

King smiled, but Roland thought he looked really, deeply frightened for the first time. Setting aside that initial moment when he'd come around the corner of the house and seen them, that was. When he'd seen his creation.

Is that what I am? His creation?

It felt wrong and right in equal measure. Thinking about it made Roland's head ache and his stomach feel slippery all over again.

" 'He knows,' " King said. "I don't like the sound of that, boys. In a story, when someone says 'He knows,' the next line is usually 'We'll have to kill him.' "

"Believe me when I tell you this," Roland said. He spoke with great emphasis. "Killing you is the last thing we'd ever want to do, sai King. Your enemies are our enemies, and those who would help you along your way are our friends."

"Amen," Eddie said.

King opened his cold-box and got another beer. Roland saw a great many of them in there, standing to frosty attention. More cans of beer than anything else. "In that case," he said, "you better call me Steve."

Eight

"Tell us the story with me in it," Roland invited.