ONE.

In the winter of 1984-85, when Eddie's heroin use was quietly sneaking across the border from the Land of Recreational Drugs and into the Kingdom of Really Bad Habits, Henry Dean met a girl and fell briefly in love. Eddie thought Sylvia Goldover was a Skank El Supremo El Supremo (smelly armpits and dragon breath wafting out from between a pair of Mick Jagger lips), but kept his mouth shut because (smelly armpits and dragon breath wafting out from between a pair of Mick Jagger lips), but kept his mouth shut because Henry Henry thought she was beautiful, and Eddie didn't want to hurt Henry's feelings. That winter the young lovers spent a lot of time either walking on the windswept beach at Coney Island or going to the movies in Times Square, where they would sit in the back row and wank each other off once the popcorn and the extra-large box of Goobers were gone. thought she was beautiful, and Eddie didn't want to hurt Henry's feelings. That winter the young lovers spent a lot of time either walking on the windswept beach at Coney Island or going to the movies in Times Square, where they would sit in the back row and wank each other off once the popcorn and the extra-large box of Goobers were gone.

Eddie was philosophic about the new person in Henry's life; if Henry could work his way past that awful breath and actually tangle tongues with Sylvia Goldover, more power to him. Eddie himself spent a lot of those mostly gray three months alone and stoned in the Dean family apartment. He didn't mind; liked it, in fact. If Henry had been there, he would have insisted on TV and would have ragged Eddie constantly about his story-tapes. ("Oh boy! Eddie's gonna wissen to his wittle sto-wy about the elves elves and the and the ogs ogs and the cute wittle and the cute wittle midgets! midgets!") Always calling the orcs the ogs, and always calling the Ents "the scawwy walking twees. twees." Henry thought made-up shit was queer. Eddie had sometimes tried to tell him there was nothing more made-up than the crud they showed on afternoon TV, but Henry wasn't having any of that; Henry could tell you all about the evil twins on General General Hospital Hospital and the equally evil stepmother on and the equally evil stepmother on The Guiding Light. The Guiding Light.

In many ways, Henry Dean's great love affair-which ended when Sylvia Goldover stole ninety bucks out of his wallet, left a note saying I'm sorry, Henry I'm sorry, Henry in its place, and took off for points unknown with her in its place, and took off for points unknown with her old old boyfriend-was a relief to Eddie. He'd sit on the sofa in the living room, put on the tapes of John Gielgud reading Tolkien's boyfriend-was a relief to Eddie. He'd sit on the sofa in the living room, put on the tapes of John Gielgud reading Tolkien's Rings Rings trilogy, skin-pop along the inside of his right arm, and nod off to the Forests of Mirkwood or the Mines of Moria along with Frodo and Sam. trilogy, skin-pop along the inside of his right arm, and nod off to the Forests of Mirkwood or the Mines of Moria along with Frodo and Sam.

He'd loved the hobbits, thought he could have cheerfully spent the rest of his life in Hobbiton, where the worst drug going was tobacco and big brothers did not spend entire days ragging on little brothers, and John Cullum's little cottage in the woods returned him to those days and that dark-toned story with surprising force. Because the cottage had a hobbit-hole feel about it. The furniture in the living room was small but perfect: a sofa and two overstuffed chairs with those white doilies on the arms and where the back of your head would rest. The gold-framed black-and-white photograph on one wall had to be Cullum's folks, and the one opposite it had to be his grandparents. There was a framed Certificate of Thanks from the East Stoneham Volunteer Fire Department. There was a parakeet in a cage, twittering amiably, and a cat on the hearth. She raised her head when they came in, gazed greenly at the strangers for a moment, then appeared to go back to sleep. There was a standing ashtray beside what had to be Cullum's easy chair, and in it were two pipes, one a corncob and the other a briar. There was an old-fashioned Emerson record-player/radio (the radio of the type featuring a multi-band dial and a large knurled tuning knob) but no television. The room smelled pleasantly of tobacco and potpourri. As fabulously neat as it was, a single glance was enough to tell you that the man who lived here wasn't married. John Cullum's parlor was a modest ode to the joys of bachelorhood.

"How's your leg?" John asked. "'Pears to have stopped bleeding, at least, but you got a pretty good hitch in your gitalong." bleeding, at least, but you got a pretty good hitch in your gitalong."

Eddie laughed. "It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I can walk on it, so I guess that makes me lucky."

"Bathroom's in there, if you want to wash up," Cullum said, and pointed.

"Think I better," Eddie said.

The washing-up was painful but also a relief. The wound in his leg was deep, but seemed to have totally missed the bone. The one in his arm was even less of a problem; the bullet had gone right through, praise God, and there was hydrogen peroxide in Cullum's medicine cabinet. Eddie poured it into the hole, teeth bared at the pain, and then went ahead and used the stuff on both his leg and the laceration in his scalp before he could lose his courage. He tried to remember if Frodo and Sam had had to face anything even close to the horrors of hydrogen peroxide, and couldn't come up with anything. Well, of course they'd had elves to heal them, hadn't they?

"I got somethin might help out," Cullum said when Eddie re-appeared. The old guy disappeared into the next room and returned with a brown prescription bottle. There were three pills inside it. He tipped them into Eddie's palm and said, "This is from when I fell down on the ice last winter and busted my goddam collarbone. Percodan, it's called. I dunno if there's any good left in em or not, but-"

Eddie brightened. "Percodan, huh?" he asked, and tossed the pills into his mouth before John Cullum could answer.

"Don't you want some water with those, son?"

"Nope," Eddie said, chewing enthusiastically. "Neat's a treat."

A glass case full of baseballs stood on a table beside the fireplace, and Eddie wandered over to look at it. "Oh my God," he said, "you've got a signed Mel Parnell ball! And a Lefty Grove! Holy shit!"

"Those ain't nothing," Cullum said, picking up the briar pipe. "Look up on t' top shelf." He took a sack of Prince Albert tobacco from the drawer of an endtable and began to fill his pipe. As he did so, he caught Roland watching him. "Do ya smoke?" Prince Albert tobacco from the drawer of an endtable and began to fill his pipe. As he did so, he caught Roland watching him. "Do ya smoke?"

Roland nodded. From his shirt pocket he took a single bit of leaf. "P'raps I might roll one."

"Oh, I can do ya better than that," Cullum said, and left the room again. The room beyond was a study not much bigger than a closet. Although the Dickens desk in it was small, Cullum had to sidle his way around it.

"Holy shit," Eddie said, seeing the baseball Cullum must have meant. "Autographed by the Babe!"

"Ayuh," Cullum said. "Not when he was a Yankee, either, I got no use for baseballs autographed by Yankees. That 'us signed when Ruth was still wearing a Red Sox ..." He broke off. "Here they are, knew I had em. Might be stale, but it's a lot staler where there's none, my mother used to say. Here you go, mister. My nephew left em. He ain't hardly old enough to smoke, anyway."

Cullum handed the gunslinger a package of cigarettes, three-quarters full. Roland turned them thoughtfully over in his hand, then pointed to the brand name. "I see a picture of a dromedary, but that isn't what this says, is it?"

Cullum smiled at Roland with a kind of cautious wonder. "No," he said. "That word's Camel. Camel. It means about the same." It means about the same."

"Ah," Roland said, and tried to look as if he understood. He took one of the cigarettes out, studied the filter, then put the tobacco end in his mouth.

"No, turn it around," Cullum said.

"Say true?"

"Ayuh."

"Jesus, Roland! He's got a Bobby Doerr ... two Ted Williams balls ... a Johnny Pesky ... a Frank Malzone ..."

"Those names don't mean anything to you, do they?" John Cullum asked Roland.

"No," Roland said. "My friend ... thank you." He took a light from the match sai Cullum offered. "My friend hasn't been on this side very much for quite awhile. I think he misses it."

"Gorry," Cullum said. "Walk-ins! Walk-ins in my my house! I can't hardly believe it!" house! I can't hardly believe it!"

"Where's Dewey Evans?" Eddie asked. "You don't have a Dewey Evans ball."

"Pardon?" Cullum asked. It came out paaa-aaadon. paaa-aaadon.

"Maybe they don't call him that yet," Eddie said, almost to himself. "Dwight Evans? Right fielder?"

"Oh." Cullum nodded. "Well, I only have the best in that cabinet, don't you know."

"Dewey fills the bill, believe me," Eddie said. "Maybe he's not worthy of being in the John Cullum Hall of Fame yet, but wait a few years. Wait until '86. And by the way, John, as a fan of the game, I want to say two words to you, okay?"

"Sure," Cullum said. It came out exactly as the word was said in the Calla: SHO SHO-ah.

Roland, meanwhile, had taken a drag from his smoke. He blew it out and looked at the cigarette, frowning.

"The words are Roger Clemens, Roger Clemens," Eddie said. "Remember that name."

"Clemens," John Cullum said, but dubiously. Faintly, from the far side of Keywadin Pond, came the sound of more sirens. "Roger Clemens, ayuh, I'll remember. Who is he?"

"You're gonna want him in here, leave it at that," Eddie said, tapping the case. "Maybe on the same shelf with the Babe."

Cullum's eyes gleamed. "Tell me somethin, son. Have the Red Sox won it all yet? Have they-"

"This isn't a smoke, it's nothing but murky air," Roland said. He gave Cullum a reproachful look that was so un-Roland that it made Eddie grin. "No taste to speak of at all. People here actually smoke smoke these?" these?"

Cullum took the cigarette from Roland's fingers, broke the filter off the end, and gave it back to him. "Try it now," he said, and returned his attention to Eddie. "So? I got you out of a jam on t'other side of the water. Seems like you owe me one. Have they ever won the Series? At least up to your time?"

Eddie's grin faded and he looked at the old man seriously. "I'll tell you if you really want me to, John. But do do ya?" ya?"

John considered, puffing his pipe. Then he said, "I s'pose not. Knowin'd spoil it."

"Tell you one thing," Eddie said cheerfully. The pills John had given him were kicking in and he felt felt cheerful. A little bit, anyway. "You don't want to die before 1986. That one's gonna be a corker." cheerful. A little bit, anyway. "You don't want to die before 1986. That one's gonna be a corker."

"Ayuh?"

"Say absolutely true." Then Eddie turned to the gunslinger. "What are we going to do about our gunna, Roland?"

Roland hadn't even thought about it until this moment. All their few worldly possessions, from Eddie's fine new whittling knife, purchased in Took's Store, to Roland's ancient grow-bag, given to him by his father far on the other side of time's horizon, had been left behind when they came through the door. When they had been blown through blown through the door. The gunslinger assumed their gunna had been left lying in the dirt in front of the East Stoneham store, although he couldn't remember for sure; he'd been too fiercely focused on getting Eddie and himself to safety before the fellow with the long-sighted rifle blew their heads off. It hurt to think of all those companions of the long trek burned up in the fire that had undoubtedly claimed the store by now. It hurt even worse to think of them in the hands of Jack Andolini. Roland had a brief but vivid picture of his grow-bag hanging on Andolini's belt like a 'backy-pouch (or an enemy's scalp) and winced. the door. The gunslinger assumed their gunna had been left lying in the dirt in front of the East Stoneham store, although he couldn't remember for sure; he'd been too fiercely focused on getting Eddie and himself to safety before the fellow with the long-sighted rifle blew their heads off. It hurt to think of all those companions of the long trek burned up in the fire that had undoubtedly claimed the store by now. It hurt even worse to think of them in the hands of Jack Andolini. Roland had a brief but vivid picture of his grow-bag hanging on Andolini's belt like a 'backy-pouch (or an enemy's scalp) and winced.

"Roland? What about our-"

"We have our guns, and that's all the gunna we need," Roland said, more roughly than he had intended. "Jake has the Choo-Choo Choo-Choo book, and I can make another compass should we need one. Otherwise-" book, and I can make another compass should we need one. Otherwise-"

"But-"

"If you're talkin about your goods, sonny, I c'n ask some questions about em when the time comes," Cullum said. "But for the time being, I think your friend's right."

Eddie knew knew his friend was right. His friend was almost his friend was right. His friend was almost always always right, which was one of the few things Eddie still hated about him. He wanted his gunna, goddammit, and not just for the one clean pair of jeans and the two clean shirts. right, which was one of the few things Eddie still hated about him. He wanted his gunna, goddammit, and not just for the one clean pair of jeans and the two clean shirts. Nor for extra ammo or the whittling knife, fine as it was. There had been a lock of Susannah's hair in his leather swag-bag, and it had still carried a faint whiff of her smell. Nor for extra ammo or the whittling knife, fine as it was. There had been a lock of Susannah's hair in his leather swag-bag, and it had still carried a faint whiff of her smell. That That was what he missed. But done was done. was what he missed. But done was done.

"John," he said, "what day is this?"

The man's bristly gray eyebrows went up. "You serious?" And when Eddie nodded: "Ninth of July. Year of our Lord nineteen-seventy-seven."

Eddie made a soundless whistling noise through his pursed lips.

Roland, the last stub of the Dromedary cigarette smoldering between his fingers, had gone to the window for a looksee. Nothing behind the house but trees and a few seductive blue winks from what Cullum called "the Keywadin." But that pillar of black smoke still rose in the sky, as if to remind him that any sense of peace he might feel in these surroundings was only an illusion. They had to get out of here. And no matter how terribly afraid he was for Susannah Dean, now that they were here they had to find Calvin Tower and finish their business with him. And they'd have to do it quickly. Because- As if reading his mind and finishing his thought, Eddie said: "Roland? It's speeding up. Time on this side is speeding up."

"I know."

"It means that whatever we do, we have to get it right the first time, because in this world you can never come back earlier. There are no do-overs."

Roland knew that, too.

TWO.

"The man we're looking for is from New York City," Eddie told John Cullum.

"Ayuh, plenty of those around in the summertime."

"His name's Calvin Tower. He's with a friend of his named Aaron Deepneau."

Cullum opened the glass case with the baseballs inside, took out one with Carl Yastrzemski Carl Yastrzemski written across the written across the sweet spot in that weirdly perfect script of which only professional athletes seem capable (in Eddie's experience it was the spelling that gave most of them problems), and began to toss it from hand to hand. "Folks from away really pile in once June comes-you know that, don't ya?" sweet spot in that weirdly perfect script of which only professional athletes seem capable (in Eddie's experience it was the spelling that gave most of them problems), and began to toss it from hand to hand. "Folks from away really pile in once June comes-you know that, don't ya?"

"I do," Eddie said, feeling hopeless already. He thought it was possible old Double-Ugly had already gotten to Cal Tower. Maybe the ambush at the store had been Jack's idea of dessert. "I guess you can't-"

"If I can't, I guess I better goddam retire," Cullum said with some spirit, and tossed the Yaz ball to Eddie, who held it in his right hand and ran the tips of his lefthand fingers over the red stitches. The feel of them raised a wholly unexpected lump in his throat. If a baseball didn't tell you that you were home, what did? Only this world wasn't home anymore. John was right, he was a walk-in.

"What do you mean?" Roland asked. Eddie tossed him the ball and Roland caught it without ever taking his eyes off John Cullum.

"I don't bother with names, but I know most everyone who comes into this town just the same," he said. "Know em by sight. Same with any other caretaker worth his salt, I s'pose. You want to know who's in your territory." Roland nodded at this with perfect understanding. "Tell me what this guy looks like."

Eddie said, "He stands about five-nine and weighs ... oh, I'm gonna say two-thirty."

"Heavyset, then."

"Do ya. Also, most of his hair's gone on the sides of his forehead." Eddie raised his hands to his own head and pushed his hair back, exposing the temples (one of them still oozing blood from his near-fatal passage through the Unfound Door). He winced a little at the pain this provoked in his upper left arm, but there the bleeding had already stopped. Eddie was more worried about the round he'd taken in the leg. Right now Cullum's Percodan was dealing with the pain, but if the bullet was still in there-and Eddie thought it might be-it would eventually have to come out.

"How old is he?" Cullum asked.

Eddie looked at Roland, who only shook his head. Had Roland ever actually seen Tower? At this particular moment, Eddie couldn't remember. He thought not.

"I think in his fifties."

"He's the book collector, ain't he?" Cullum asked, then laughed at Eddie's expression of surprise. "Told you, I keep a weather eye out on the summah folk. You never know when one's gonna turn out to be a deadbeat. Maybe an outright thief. Or, eight or nine years ago, we had this woman from New Jersey who turned out to be a firebug." Cullum shook his head. "Looked like a small-town librarian, the sort of lady who wouldn't say boo to a goose, and she was lightin up barns all over Stoneham, Lovell, and Waterford."

"How do you know he's a book dealer?" Roland asked, and tossed the ball back to Cullum, who immediately tossed it to Eddie.

"Didn't know that, that," he said. "Only that he collects em, because he told Jane Sargus. Jane's got a little shop right where Dimity Road branches off from Route 5. That's about a mile south of here. Dimity Road's actually where that fella and his friend are stayin, if we're talking about the right ones. I guess we are."

"His friend's name is Deepneau," Eddie said, and tossed the Yaz ball to Roland. The gunslinger caught it, tossed it to Cullum, then went to the fireplace and dropped the last shred of his cigarette onto the little pile of logs stacked on the grate.

"Don't bother with names, like I told you, but the friend's skinny and looks about seventy. Walks like his hips pain him some. Wears steel-rimmed glasses."

"That's the guy, all right," Eddie said.

"Janey has a little place called Country Collectibles. She gut some furniture in the barn, dressers and armoires and such, but what she specializes in is quilts, glassware, and old books. Sign says so right out front."

"So Cal Tower ... what? Just went in and started browsing?" Eddie couldn't believe it, and at the same time he could. Tower had been balky about leaving New York even after Jack and George Biondi had threatened to burn his most valuable books right in front of his eyes. And once he and Deepneau got here, the fool had signed up for general delivery at the post office-or at least his friend Aaron had, and as far as the bad guys were concerned, one was as good as the other. Callahan had left him a note telling him to stop advertising his presence in East Stoneham. after Jack and George Biondi had threatened to burn his most valuable books right in front of his eyes. And once he and Deepneau got here, the fool had signed up for general delivery at the post office-or at least his friend Aaron had, and as far as the bad guys were concerned, one was as good as the other. Callahan had left him a note telling him to stop advertising his presence in East Stoneham. How stupid can you be??? How stupid can you be??? had been the Pere's final communication to sai Tower, and the answer seemed to be more stupid than a bag of hammers. had been the Pere's final communication to sai Tower, and the answer seemed to be more stupid than a bag of hammers.

"Ayuh," Cullum said. "Only he did a lot more'n browse." His eyes, as blue as Roland's, were twinkling. "Bought a couple of hundred dollars' worth of readin material. Paid with traveler's checks. Then he gut her to give him a list of other used bookstores in the area. There's quite a few, if you add in Notions in Norway and that Your Trash, My Treasure place over in Fryeburg. Plus he got her to write down the names of some local folks who have book collections and sometimes sell out of their houses. Jane was awful excited. Talked about it all over town, she did."

Eddie put a hand to his forehead and groaned. That was the man he'd met, all right, that was Calvin Tower to the life. What had he been thinking? That once he "gut" north of Boston he was safe?

"Can you tell us how to find him?" Roland asked.

"Oh, I c'n do better'n that. I can take you right to where they're stayin."

Roland had been tossing the ball from hand to hand. Now he stopped and shook his head. "No. You'll be going somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Anyplace you'll be safe," Roland said. "Beyond that, sai, I don't want to know. Neither of us do."

"Well call me Sam, I say goddam. Dunno's I like that much."