Deepneau was shaking his head. “I could draw it up, but you won’t convince him to sell. Unless you’ve got a week or so, that is, and you’re not averse to using hot irons on his feet. Or maybe his balls.”

Eddie muttered something under his breath. Deepneau asked him what he’d said. Eddie told him nothing. What he’d said was Sounds good.

“We will convince him,” Roland said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, my friend.”

“We will convince him,” Roland repeated. He spoke in his driest tone.

Outside, an anonymous little car (a Hertz rental if Eddie had ever seen one) rolled into the clearing and came to a stop.

Bite your tongue, bite your tongue, Eddie told himself, but as Calvin Tower got briskly out of the car (giving the new vehicle in his dooryard only the most cursory glance), Eddie felt his temples begin to heat up. He rolled his hands into fists, and when his nails bit into the skin of his palms, he grinned in bitter appreciation of the pain.

Tower opened the trunk of his rental Chevy and pulled out a large bag. His latest haul, Eddie thought. Tower looked briefly south, at the smoke in the sky, then shrugged and started for the cabin.

That’s right, Eddie thought, that’s right, you whore, just something on fire, what’s it to you? Despite the throb of pain it caused in his wounded arm, Eddie squeezed his fists tighter, dug his nails in deeper.

You can’t kill him, Eddie, Susannah said. You know that, don’t you?

Did he know it? And even if he did, could he listen to Suze’s voice? To any voice of reason, for that matter? Eddie didn’t know. What he knew was that the real Susannah was gone, she had a monkey named Mia on her back and had disappeared into the maw of the future. Tower, on the other hand, was here. Which made sense, in a way. Eddie had read someplace that nuclear war’s most likely survivors would be the cockroaches.

Never mind, sugar, you just bite down on your tongue and let Roland handle this. You can’t kill him!

No, Eddie supposed not.

Not, at least, until sai Tower had signed on the dotted line. After that, however … after that …

SIX

“Aaron!” Tower called as he mounted the porch steps.

Roland caught Deepneau’s eyes and put a finger across his lips.

“Aaron, hey Aaron!” Tower sounded strong and happy to be alive—not a man on the run but a man on a wonderful busman’s holiday. “Aaron, I went over to that widow’s house in East Fryeburg, and holy Joe, she’s got every novel Herman Wouk ever wrote! Not the book club editions, either, which is what I expected, but—”

The scroink! of the screen door’s rusty spring being stretched was followed by the clump of shoes across the porch.

“—the Doubleday firsts! Marjorie Morningstar! The Caine Mutiny! I think somebody across the lake better hope their fire insurance is paid up, because—”