On the far right side of the preacher’s cove was a little flight of three steps. Callahan mounted them. “No need for you to come up, Roland; you can see well enough from where you are. You’d not have it this minute, I ken?”

“Not at all,” Roland said. Now they were whispering.

“Good.” Callahan dropped to one knee. There was an audible pop as the joint flexed, and they both started at the sound. “I’d not even touch the box it’s in, if I don’t have to. I haven’t since I put it here. The hidey-hole I made myself, asking God’s pardon for using a saw in His house.”

“Take it up,” Roland said. He was on complete alert, every sense drawn fine, feeling and listening for any slightest change in that endless void hum. He missed the weight of the gun on his hip. Did the people who came here to worship not sense the terrible thing the Old Fella had hidden here? He supposed they must not, or they’d stay away. And he supposed there was really no better place for such a thing; the simple faith of the parishioners might neutralize it to some degree. Might even soothe it and thus deepen its doze.

But it could wake up,Roland thought. Wake up and send them all to the nineteen points of nowhere in the blink of an eye. This was an especially terrible thought, and he turned his mind from it. Certainly the idea of using it to secure protection for the rose seemed more and more like a bitter joke. He had faced both men and monsters in his time, but had never been close to anything like this. The sense of its evil was terrible, almost unmanning. The sense of its malevolent emptiness was far, far worse.

Callahan pressed his thumb into the groove between two boards. There was a faint click and a section of the preacher’s cove popped out of place. Callahan pulled the boards free, revealing a square hole roughly fifteen inches long and wide. He rocked back on his haunches, holding the boards across his chest. The hum was much louder now. Roland had a brief image of a gigantic hive with bees the size of waggons crawling sluggishly over it. He bent forward and looked into the Old Fella’s hidey-hole.

The thing inside was wrapped in white cloth, fine linen from the look of it.

“An altar boy’s surplice,” Callahan said. Then, seeing Roland didn’t know the word: “A thing to wear.” He shrugged. “My heart said to wrap it up, and so I did.”

“Your heart surely said true,” Roland whispered. He was thinking of the bag Jake had brought out of the vacant lot, the one with NOTHING BUT STRIKES AT MID-WORLD LANES on the side. They would need it, aye and aye, but he didn’t like to think of the transfer.

Then he put thought aside—fear as well—and folded back the cloth. Beneath the surplice, wrapped in it, was a wooden box.