He groped over the surface of the semicircular checkout desk and felt along the other side without taking his gaze from those eyes. His fingers felt one wooden corner of a small boxthe overdue cards. A smaller boxpaper clips and rubber bands. They happened on something that was metal and seized it. It was a letteropener with the words JESUS SAVES stamped on the handle. A flimsy thing that had come in the mail from the Grace Baptist Church as part of a fundraising drive. Mike had not attended services in fifteen years, but Grace Baptist had been his mothers church and he had sent them five dollars he could not really afford. He had meant to throw the letteropener out but it had stayed here, amid the clutter on his side of the desk (Caroles side was always spotlessly clean) until now. He clutched it tightly and stared into the shadowy hallway. There was another step ... another. Now the ragged denim pants were visible up to the knees. He could see the shape these lower legs belonged to it was big, hulking. The shoulders were rounded. There was a suggestion of ragged hair. The figure was apelike. Who are you? The shape merely stood there, contemplating him. Although still afraid, Mike had gotten over the debilitating idea that it might be Stan Uris, returned from the grave, called back by the scars on his palms, some eldritch magnetism which had brought him back like a zombie in a Hammer horror film. Whoever this was, it wasnt Stan Uris, who had finished at fiveseven when he had his full growth. The shape took another step, and now the light from the globe closest to the passageway fell across the beltless loops of the jeans around the shapes waist. Suddenly Mike knew. Even before the shape spoke, he knew. Hello, nigger, the shape said. Been throwing rocks at anyone? Want to know who poisoned your fucking dog? The shape took another step forward and the light fell on the face of Henry Bowers. It had grown fat and sagging; the skin had an unhealthy tallowy hue; the cheeks had become hanging jowls that were specked with stubble, almost as much white in that stubble as black. Wavy linesthree of themwere engraved in the shelf of the forehead above the bushy brows. Other lines formed parentheses at the corners of the fulllipped mouth. The eyes were small and mean inside discolored pouches of fleshbloodshot and thoughtless. It was the face of a man being pushed into a premature age, a man who was thirtynine going on seventythree. But it was also the face of a twelveyearold boy. Henrys clothes were still green with whatever bushes he had spent the day hiding in. Aint you gonna say howdy, nigger? Henry asked. Hello, Henry. It occurred to him dimly that he had not listened to the radio for the last two days, and he had not even read the paper, which was a ritual with him. Too much going on. Too busy. Too bad. Henry emerged from the corridor between the Childrens Library and the adult library and stood there, peering at Mike with his piggy eyes. His lips parted in an unspeakable grin, revealing rotted backMaine teeth. Voices, he said. You ever hear voices, nigger? Which voices are those, Henry? He put both hands behind his back, like a schoolboy called upon to recite, and transferred the letteropener from his left hand to his right. The grandfather clock, given by Horst Mueller in 1923, ticked solemn seconds into the smooth pond of library silence. From the moon, Henry said. He put a hand in his pocket. Came from the moon. Lots of voices. He paused, frowned slightly, then shook his head. Lots but really only one. Its voice. Did you see It, Henry? Yep, Henry said. Frankenstein. Tore off Victors head. You should have heard it. Made a sound like a great big zipper going down. Then It went after Belch. Belch fought It. Did he? Yep. Thats how I got away. You left him to die. Dont you say that! Henrys cheeks flushed a dull red. He took two steps forward. The farther he walked from the umbilicus connecting the Childrens Library to the adult library, the younger he looked to Mike. He saw the same old meanness in Henrys face, but he saw something else as well the child who had been brought up by crazy Butch Bowers on a good farm that had gone to shitshack shambles over the years. Dont you say that! It would have killed me, too! It didnt kill us. Henrys eyes gleamed with rancid humor. Not yet. But It will. Less I dont leave any of you for It to get. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. In it was a slim nineinchlong instrument with imitationivory inlays along its sides. A small chromium button glittered at one end of this dubious objet dart. Henry pushed it. A sixinch steel blade popped out of the slit at the end of the handle. He bounced the switchblade on his palm and began to walk toward the checkout desk a little faster. Look what I found, he said. I knew where to look. Obscenely, one redrimmed eyelid drooped in a wink. The man in the moon told me. Henry revealed his teeth again. Hid today. Hitchhiked a ride tonight. Old man. Hit him. Killed him, I think. Ditched the car over in Newport. Just over the Derry town line, I heard that voice. I looked in a drain. There was these clothes. And the knife. My old knife. Youre forgetting something, Henry. Henry, grinning, only shook his head. We got away and you got away. If It wants us, It wants you, too. No. I think yes. Maybe you yoyos did Its work, but It didnt exactly play favorites, did It? It got both of your friends, and while Belch was fighting It, you got away. But now youre back. I think youre part of Its unfinished business, Henry. I really do. No! Maybe Frankensteins what youll see. Or the Werewolf? A Vampire? The Clown? Or, Henry! Maybe youll really see what It looks like, Henry. We did. Want me to tell you? Want me to You shut up! Henry screamed, and launched himself at Mike. Mike stepped aside and stuck out one foot. Henry tripped over it and went skidding over the footworn tiles like a shuffleboard weight. His head struck a leg of the table where the Losers had sat earlier that night, telling their tales. For a moment he was stunned; the knife hung loose in his hand. Mike went after him, went after the knife. In that moment he could have finished Henry; it would have been possible to plant the JESUS SAVES letteropener which had come in the mail from his mothers old church in the back of Henrys neck and then called the police. There would have been a certain amount of official nonsense, but not too much of itnot in Derry, where such weird and violent events were not entirely exceptional. What stopped him was a realization, almost too lightninglike to be conscious, that if he killed Henry he would be doing Its work as surely as Henry would be doing Its work by killing Mike. And something else that other look he had seen on Henrys face, the tired bewildered look of the badly used child who has been set on a poisonous path for some unknown purpose. Henry had grown up within the contaminated radius of Butch Bowerss mind; surely he had belonged to It even before he suspected It existed. So instead of planting the letteropener in Henrys vulnerable neck, he dropped to his knees and snatched at the knife. It twisted in his handseemingly of its own volitionand his fingers closed on the blade. There was no immediate pain; only red blood flowing down the first three fingers of his right hand and into his scarred palm. He pulled back. Henry rolled away and grabbed the knife again. Mike got to his knees and the two of them faced each other that way, each bleeding Mikes fingers, Henrys nose. Henry shook his head and droplets flew away into the darkness. Thought you were so smart! he cried hoarsely. Fucking sissies is all you were! We could have beat you in a fair fight! Put the knife down, Henry, Mike said quietly. Ill call the police. Theyll come and get you and take you back to Juniper Hill. Youll be out of Derry. Youll be safe. Henry tried to talk and couldnt. He couldnt tell this hateful jig that he wouldnt be safe in Juniper Hill, or Los Angeles, or the rainforests of Timbuktu. Sooner or later the moon would rise, bonewhite and snowcold, and the ghostvoices would start, and the face of the moon would change into Its face, babbling and laughing and ordering. He swallowed slickslimy blood. You never fought fair! Did you? Mike asked. You niggerboogienightfighterjunglebunnyapemancoon! Henry screamed, and leaped at Mike again. Mike leaned back to avoid his blundering, awkward rush, overbalanced, and went sprawling on his back. Henry struck the table again, rebounded, turned, and clutched Mikes arm. Mike swept the letteropener around and felt it go deep into Henrys forearm. Henry screamed, but instead of letting go, he tightened his grip. He pulled himself toward Mike, his hair in his eyes, blood flowing from his ruptured nose over his thick lips. Mike tried to get a foot in Henrys side and push him away. Henry swung the switchblade in a glittering arc. All six inches of it went into Mikes thigh. It went in effortlessly, as if into a warm cake of butter. Henry pulled it out, dripping, and with a scream of combined pain and effort, Mike shoved him away. He struggled to his feet but Henry was up more quickly, and Mike was barely able to avoid Henrys next blundering rush. He could feel blood pouring down his leg in an alarming flood, filling his loafer. He got my femoral artery, I think. Jesus, he got me bad. Blood everywhere. Blood on the floor. Shoes wont be any good, shit, just bought em two months ago Henry came again, panting and puffing like a bull in heat. Mike staggered aside and swept the letteropener at him again. It tore through Henrys ragged shirt and pulled a deep cut across his ribs. Henry grunted as Mike shoved him away again. You dirtyfighting nigger! He wailed. Look what you done! Drop the knife, Henry, Mike said. There was a titter from behind them. Henry looked ... and then screamed in utter horror, clapping his hands to his cheeks like an offended old maid. Mikes gaze jerked toward the circulation desk. There was a loud, vibrating kaspanggg! sound, and Stan Uriss head popped up from behind the desk. A spring corkscrewed up and into his severed, dripping neck. His face was livid with greasepaint. There was a feverspot of rouge on each cheek. Great orange pompoms flowered where the eyes had been. This grotesque Staninthebox head nodded back and forth at the end of its spring like one of the giant sunflowers beside the house on Neibolt Street. Its mouth opened and a squealing, laughing voice began to chant Kill him, Henry! Kill the nigger, kill the coon, kill him, kill him, KILL HIM! Mike wheeled back toward Henry, dismally aware that he had been tricked, wondering faintly whose head Henry had seen at the end of that spring. Stans? Victor Crisss? His fathers, perhaps? Henry shrieked and rushed at Mike, the switchblade plunging up and down like the needle of a sewing machine. Gaaaah, nigger! Henry was screaming. Gaaaah, nigger! Gaaaah, nigger! Mike backpedaled, and the leg Henry had stabbed buckled under him almost at once, spilling him to the floor. There was hardly any feeling at all left in that leg. It felt cold and distant. Looking down, he saw that his creamcolored slacks were now bright red. Henrys blade flashed by in front of his nose. Mike stabbed out with the JESUS SAVES letteropener as Henry turned back for another go. Henry ran into it like a bug onto a pin. Warm blood doused Mikes hand. There was a snap, and when he drew his hand back, he only had the haft of the letteropener. The rest was sticking out of Henrys stomach. Gaaah! Nigger! Henry screamed, clapping a hand over the protruding jag of blade. Blood poured through his fingers. He looked at it with bulging, unbelieving eyes. The head at the end of the creaking, dipping jackinthebox squealed and laughed. Mike, feeling sick and dizzy now, looked back at it and saw Belch Hugginss head, a human champagne cork wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap turned backward. He groaned aloud, and the sound was far away, echoey in his own ears. He was aware that he was sitting in a pool of warm blood. If I dont get a tourniquet on my leg, Im going to die. Gaaaaaaaaaah! Neeeeeeegaaaa! Henry screamed. Still holding his bleeding belly with one hand and the switchblade with the other, he staggered away from Mike and toward the library doors. He wove drunkenly from side to side, progressing across the echoing main room like a pinball in an electronic game. He struck one of the easy chairs and knocked it over. His groping hand spilled a rack of newspapers onto the floor. He reached the doors, straightarmed one of them, and plunged out into the night. Mikes consciousness was fading now. He worked at the buckle of his belt with fingers he could barely feel. At last he got it unhooked and managed to pull it free of its loops. He put it around his bleeding leg just below the groin and cinched it tight. Holding it with one hand, he began to crawl toward the circulation desk. The phone was there. He wasnt sure how he was going to reach it, but for now that didnt matter. The trick was just to get there. The world wavered, blurred, grew faint behind waves of gray. He stuck his tongue out and bit down on it savagely. The pain was immediate and exquisite. The world swam back into focus. He became aware that he was still holding the ragged haft of the letteropener, and he tossed it away. Here, at last, was the circulation desk, looking as tall as Everest. Mike got his good leg under him and pushed himself up, clutching at the edge of the desk with the hand that wasnt holding the belt tight. His mouth was drawn down in a trembling grimace, his eyes slitted. At last he managed to get all the way up. He stood there, storklike, and hooked the phone over to him. Taped to the side were three numbers fire, police, and hospital. With one shaking finger that looked at least ten miles away, Mike dialed the hospital 5553711. He closed his eyes as the phone began to ring ... and then they opened wide as the voice of Pennywise the Clown answered. Howdy nigger! Pennywise cried, and then screamed laughter as sharp as broken glass into Mikes ear. What do you say? How you doon? I think youre dead, what do you think? I think Henry did the job on you! Want a balloon, Mikey? Want a balloon? How you doon? Hello there! Mikes eyes turned up to the face of the grandfather clock, the Mueller clock, and saw with no surprise at all that its face had been replaced by his fathers face, gray and raddled with cancer. The eyes were turned up to show only bulging whites. Suddenly his father popped his tongue out and the clock began to strike. Mike lost his grip on the circulation desk. He swayed for a moment on his good leg and then he fell down again. The phone swung before him at the end of its cord like a mesmerists amulet. It was becoming very hard to hold onto the belt now. Hello dere, Amos! Pennywise cried brightly from the swinging telephone handset. Dis heres de Kingfish! I is de Kingfish in Derry, anyhow, and dats de troof. Wouldnt you say so, boy? If theres anyone there, Mike croaked, a real voice behind the one I am hearing, please help me. My name is Michael Hanlon and Im at the Derry Public Library. I am bleeding to death. If youre there, I cant hear you. Im not being allowed to hear you. If youre there, please hurry. He lay on his side, drawing his legs up until he was in a fetal position. He took two turns around his right hand with the belt and concentrated on holding it as the world drifted away in those cottony, balloonlike clouds of gray. Hello dere, howyadoon? Pennywise screamed from the dangling, swinging phone. Howyadoon, you dirty coon? Hello 4 Kansas Street l 1220 P.M. ... there, Henry Bowers said. Howyadoon, you little cunt? Beverly reacted instantly, turning to run. It was a quicker reaction than any of them had expected. She might actually have gotten a running start ... but for her hair. Henry snatched, caught part of its long flow, and pulled her back. He grinned into her face. His breath was thick and warm and stinking. Howyadoon? Henry Bowers asked her. Where ya goin? Back to play with your asshole friends some more? I think Ill cut off your nose and make you eat it. You like that? She struggled to get free. Henry laughed and shook her head back and forth by the hair. The knife flashed dangerously in the hazy August sunshine. Abruptly a carhorn honkeda long blast. Here! Here! What are you boys doing? Let that girl go! It was an old lady behind the wheel of a wellpreserved 1950 Ford. She had pulled up to the curb and was leaning across the blanketcovered seat to peer out the passengerside window. At the sight of her angry honest face, the dazed look left Victor Crisss eyes for the first time and he looked nervously at Henry. What Please! Bev cried shrilly. Hes got a knife! A knife! The old ladys anger now became concern, surprise, and fear as well. What are you boys doing? Let her alone! Across the streetBev saw this quite clearlyHerbert Ross got out of the lawnchair on his porch, approached the porch rail, and looked over. His face was as blank as Belch Hugginss. He folded his paper, turned, and went quietly into the house. Let her be! the old lady cried shrilly. Henry bared his teeth and suddenly ran at her car, dragging Beverly after him by the hair. She stumbled, went to one knee, was dragged. The pain in her scalp was excruciating, monstrous. She felt some of her hair rip out. The old lady screamed and cranked the passengerside window frantically. Henry stabbed down and the switchblade skated across glass. The womans foot came off the old Fords clutchpedal and it went down Kansas Street in three big jerks, bouncing up over the curb, where it stalled. Henry went after it, still pulling Beverly along. Victor licked his lips and looked around. Belch pushed the New York Yankees baseball cap he was wearing up on his forehead and then dug at his ear in a puzzled gesture. Bev saw the old womans white frightened face for one moment and then saw her pawing at the doorlocks, first on the passenger side, then on her own. The Fords engine ground and caught. Henry lifted one booted foot and kicked out a taillight. Get outta here, you driedup old bitch! The tires screamed as the old lady pulled back out in the street. An oncoming pickup truck swerved to avoid her; its horn blatted. Henry turned back toward Bev, beginning to smile again, and she hiked one sneakered foot directly into his balls. The smile on Henrys face turned into a grimace of agony. The switchknife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. His other hand left its nestingplace in the tangle of her hair (pulling once more, terribly, as it went) and then he sank to his knees, trying to scream, holding his crotch. She could see strands of her own coppery hair in one of his hands, and in that instant all of her terror turned to bright hate. She drew in a great, hitching breath and hocked a remarkably large looey onto the top of his head. Then she turned and ran. Belch lumbered three steps after her and stopped. He and Victor went to Henry, who threw them aside and staggered to his feet, both hands still cupping his balls; it was not the first time that summer that he had been kicked there. He leaned over and picked up the switchblade.  ... on, he wheezed. What, Henry? Belch said anxiously. Henry turned a face toward him that was so full of sweating pain and sick, blazing hate that Belch fell back a step. I said ... come ... on! he managed, and began to stagger and lurch up the street after Beverly, holding his crotch. We cant catch her now, Henry, Victor said uneasily. Hell, you can hardly walk. Well catch her, Henry panted. His upper lip was rising and falling in an unconscious doglike sneer. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and ran down his hectic cheeks. Well catch her, all right. Because I know where shes going. Shes going down into the Barrens to be with her asshole 5 The Derry Town House200 A.M. friends, Beverly said. Hmmm? Bill looked at her. His thoughts had been far away. They had been walking handinhand, the silence between them companionable, and slightly charged with mutual attraction. He had caught only the last word of what she had said. A block ahead, the lights of the Town House shone through the low groundfog. I said, you were my best friends. The only friends I ever had back then. She smiled. Making friends has never been my strong suit, I guess, although Ive got a good one back in Chicago. A woman named Kay McCall. I think youd like her, Bill. Probably would. Ive never been real fast to make friends myself. He smiled. Back then, we were all we nuhnuhneeded. He saw beads of moisture in her hair, appreciated the way the lights made a nimbus around her head. Her eyes were turned gravely up to his. I need something now, she said. WWhats that? I need you to kiss me, she said. He thought of Audra, and for the first time it occurred to him that she looked like Beverly. He wondered if maybe that had been the attraction all along, the reason he had been able to find guts enough to ask Audra out near the end of the Hollywood party where they had met. He felt a pang of unhappy guilt ... and then he took Beverly, his childhood friend, in his arms. Her kiss was firm and warm and sweet. Her breasts pushed against his open coat and her hips moved against him ... away ... and then against him again. When her hips moved away a second time, he plunged both of his hands into her hair and moved against her. When she felt him growing hard, she uttered a little gasp and put her face against the side of his neck. He felt her tears on his skin, warm and secret. Come on, she said. Quick. He took her hand and they walked the rest of the way to the Town House. The lobby was old, festooned with plants, and still possessed of a certain fading charm. The decor was very much Nineteenth Century Lumberman. It was deserted at this hour except for the desk clerk, who could be dimly seen in the inner office, his feet cocked up on the desk, watching TV. Bill pushed the thirdfloor button with a finger that trembled just slightlyexcitement? nervousness? guilt? all of the above? Oh yeah, sure, and a kind of almost insane joy and fear as well. These feelings did not mix pleasantly, but they seemed necessary. He led her down the hallway toward his room, deciding in some confused way that if he were to be unfaithful, it should be a complete act of infidelity, consummated in his place and not hers. He found himself thinking of Susan Browne, his first bookagent and, when he was not quite twenty, his first lover. Cheating. Cheating on my wife. He tried to get this through his head, but it seemed both real and unreal at the same time. What seemed strongest was an unhappy sense of homesickness an oldfashioned feeling of falling away. Audra would be up by now, making coffee, sitting at the kitchen table in her robe, perhaps studying lines, perhaps reading a Dick Francis novel. His key rattled in the lock of room 311. If they had gone to Beverlys room on the fifth floor, they would have seen the messagelight on her phone blinking; the TVwatching desk clerk would have given her a message to call her friend Kay in Chicago (after Kays third frantic call, he had finally remembered to post the message), things might have taken a different course the five of them might not have been fugitives from the Derry police when that days light finally broke. But they went to hisas things had perhaps been arranged. The door opened. They were inside. She looked at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, her breast rising and falling rapidly. He took her in his arms and was overwhelmed by the feeling of rightnessthe feeling of the circle between past and present closing with a triumphant seamlessness. He kicked the door shut clumsily with one foot and she laughed her warm breath into his mouth. My heart she said, and put his hand on her left breast. He could feel it below that firm, almost maddening softness, racing like an engine. Your hhheart My heart. They were on the bed, still dressed, kissing. Her hand slipped inside his shirt, then out again. She traced a finger down the row of buttons, paused at his waist ... and then that same finger slipped lower, tracing down the stony thickness of his cock. Muscles he hadnt been aware of jumped and fluttered in his groin. He broke the kiss and moved his body away from hers on the bed. Bill? Got to stuhstuhstop for a mmminute, he said. Or else Im going to shoot in my pppants like a kkid. She laughed again, softly, and looked at him. Is it that? Or are you having second thoughts? Second thoughts, Bill said. I aaalways have those. I dont. I hate him, she said. He looked at her, the smile fading. I didnt know it all the way to the top of my mind until two nights ago, she said. Oh, I knew itsomewhereall along, I guess. He hits and he hurts. I married him because ... because my father always worried about me, I guess. No matter how hard I tried, he worried. And I guess I knew hed approve of Tom. Because Tom always worried, too. He worried a lot. And as long as someone was worrying about me, Id be safe. More than safe. Real. She looked at him solemnly. Her blouse had pulled out of the waistband of her slacks, revealing a white stripe of stomach. He wanted to kiss it. But it wasnt real. It was a nightmare. Being married to Tom was like going back into the nightmare. Why would a person do that, Bill? Why would a person go back into the nightmare of her own accord? Bill said, The ooonly reason I can ffigure is that ppeople go back to fffind themssselves. The nightmares here, Bev said. The nightmare is Derry. Tom looks small compared to that. I can see him better now. I loathe myself for the years I spent with him.... You dont know ... the things he made me do, and oh, I was happy enough to do them, you know, because he worried about me. Id cry ... but sometimes theres too much shame. You know? Dont, he said quietly, and put his hand over hers. She held it tightly. Her eyes were overbright, but the tears didnt fall. Everybody gggoofs it. But its not an ehehexam. You just go through it the bbbest you can. What I mean, she said, is that Im not cheating on Tom, or trying to use you to get my own back on him, or anything like that. For me, it would be like something ... sane and normal and sweet. But I dont want to hurt you, Bill. Or trick you into something youll be sorry for later. He thought about this, thought about it with a real and deep seriousness. But the odd little mnemoniche thrusts his fists, and so onbegan to circle back, breaking into his thoughts. It had been a long day. Mikes call and the invitation to lunch at Jade of the Orient seemed a hundred years ago. So many stories since then. So many memories, like photographs from Georges album. Friends dont tttrick each oother, he said, and leaned toward her on the bed. Their lips touched and he began to unbutton her blouse. One of her hands went to the back of his neck and held him closer while the other first unzipped her slacks and then pushed them down. For a moment his hand was on her stomach, warm; then her panties were gone in a whisper; then he nudged and she guided. As he entered her, she arched her back gently toward the thrust of his sex and muttered, Be my friend ... I love you, Bill. I love you too, he said, smiling against her bare shoulder. They began slowly and he felt sweat begin to flow out of his skin as she quickened beneath him. His consciousness began to drain downward, becoming focused more and more strongly on their connection. Her pores had opened, releasing a lovely musky odor. Beverly felt her climax coming. She moved toward it, working for it, never doubting it would come. Her body suddenly stuttered and seemed to leap upward, not orgasming but reaching a plateau far above any she had reached with Tom or the two lovers she had had before Tom. She became aware that this wasnt going to be just a come; it was going to be a tactical nuke. She became a little afraid ... but her body picked up the rhythm again. She felt Bills long length stiffen against her, his whole body suddenly becoming as hard as the part of him inside herself, and at that same moment she climaxedbegan to climax; pleasure so great it was nearly agony spilled out of unsuspected floodgates, and she bit down on his shoulder to stifle her cries. Oh my God, Bill gasped, and although she was never sure later, she believed he was crying. He pulled back and she thought he was going to withdraw from hershe tried to prepare for that moment, which always brought a fleeting, inexplicable sense of loss and emptiness, something like a footprintand then he thrust forward strongly again. Right away she had a second orgasm, something she hadnt known was possible for her, and the window of memory opened again and she saw birds, thousands of birds, descending onto every roofpeak and telephone line and RFD mailbox in Derry, spring birds against a white April sky, and there was pain mixed with pleasurebut mostly it was low, as a white spring sky seems low. Low physical pain mixed with low physical pleasure and some crazy sense of affirmation. She had bled ... she had ... had ... All of you? she cried suddenly, her eyes widening, stunned. He did pull back and out of her this time, but in the sudden shock of the revelation, she barely felt him go. What? Beverly? AAre you all r All of you? I made love to all of you? She saw shocked surprise on Bills face, the drop of his jaw ... and sudden understanding. But it was not her revelation; even in her own shock she saw that. It was his own. We Bill? What is it? That was yyyour way to get us oout, he said, and now his eyes blazed so brightly they frightened her. Beverly, duhduhdont you uhunderstand? That was yyyour way to get us out! We all ... but we were ... Suddenly he looked frightened, unsure. Do you remember the rest now? she asked. He shook his head slowly. Not the spuhspuhspecifics. But ... He looked at her, and she saw he was badly frightened. What it really cccame down to was, we wuhwuhwished our way out. And Im not shsure ... Beverly, Im not sure that grownups can do that. She looked at him without speaking for a long moment, then sat on the edge of the bed with no particular selfconsciousness. Her body was smooth and lovely, the line of her backbone barely discernible in the dimness as she bent to take off the kneehigh nylon stockings she had been wearing. Her hair was a sheaf coiled over one shoulder. He thought he would want her again before morning, and that feeling of guilt came again, tempered only by the shameful comfort of knowing that Audra was an ocean away. Put another nickel in the jukebox, he thought. This tune is called What She Dont Know Wont Hurt Her. But it hurts somewhere. In the spaces between people, maybe. Beverly got up and turned the bed down. Come to bed. We need sleep. Both of us. AAAll right. Because that was right, that was a big tenfour. More than anything else he wanted to sleep .. but not alone, not tonight. The latest shock was wearing offtoo quickly, perhaps, but he felt so tired now, so usedup. Secondtosecond reality had the quality of a dream, and in spite of his guilt he felt that this was a safe place. It would be possible to lie here for a little while, to sleep in her arms. He wanted her warmth and her friendliness. Both were sexually charged, but that could hurt neither of them now. He stripped off his socks and shirt and got in next to her. She pressed against him, her breasts warm, her long legs cool. Bill held her, aware of the differencesher body was longer than Audras, and fuller at the breast and the hip. But it was a welcome body. It should have been Ben with you, dear, he thought drowsily. I think that was the way it was really supposed to be. Why wasnt it Ben? Because it was you then and its you now, thats all.


Because what goes around always comes around. I think Bob Dylan said that... or maybe it was Ronald Reagan. And maybe its me now because Bens the one whos supposed to see the lady home. Beverly wriggled against him, not in a sexual way (although, even as he fled toward sleep, she felt him stir again against her leg and was glad), but only wanting his warmth. She was already halfasleep herself. Her happiness here with him, after all these years, was real. She knew that because of its bitter undertaste. There was tonight, and perhaps there would be another time for them tomorrow morning. Then they would go down in the sewers as they had before, and they would find their It. The circle would close ever tighter, their present lives would merge smoothly with their own childhoods; they would become like creatures on some crazy Moebius strip. Either that, or they would die down there. She turned over. He slipped an arm between her side and her arm and cupped one breast gently. She did not have to lie awake, wondering if the hand might suddenly clamp down in a hard pinch. Her thoughts began to break up as sleep slid into her. As always, she saw brilliant wildflower patterns as she crossed overmasses and masses of them nodding brightly under a blue sky. These faded and there was a falling sensationthe sort of sensation that had sometimes snapped her awake and sweating as a child, a scream on the other side of her face. Childhood dreams of falling, she had read in her college psychology text, were common. But she didnt snap back this time; she could feel the warm and comforting weight of Bills arm, his hand cradling her breast. She thought that if she was falling, at least she wasnt falling alone. Then she touched down and was running this dream, whatever it was, moved fast. She ran after it, pursuing sleep, silence, maybe just time. The years moved fast. The years ran. If you turned around and ran after your own childhood, you had to really let out your stride and bust your buns. Twentynine, the year she had streaked her hair (faster). Twentytwo, the year she had fallen in love with a football player named Greg Mallory who had damn near raped her after a fraternity party (faster, faster). Sixteen, getting drunk with two of her girlfriends on the Bluebird Hill Overlook in Portland. Fourteen ... twelve ... ... faster, faster, faster ... She ran into sleep, chasing twelve, catching it, running through the barrier of memory that It had cast over all of them (it tasted like cold fog in her laboring dreamlungs), running back into her eleventh year, running, running like hell, running to beat the devil, looking back now, looking back 6 The Barrens1240 P.M. over her shoulder for any sign of them as she slipped and scrambled her way down the embankment. No sign, at least not yet. She had really fetched it to him, as her father sometimes said ... and just thinking of her father brought another wave of guilt and despondency washing over her. She looked under the rickety bridge, hoping to see Silver heeled over on his side, but Silver was gone. There was a cache of toy guns which they no longer bothered to take home, and that was all. She started down the path, looked back ... and there they were, Belch and Victor supporting Henry between them, standing on the edge of the embankment like Indian sentries in a Randolph Scott movie. Henry was horribly pale. He pointed at her. Victor and Belch began to help him down the slope. Dirt and gravel spilled from beneath their heels. Beverly looked at them for a long moment, almost hypnotized. Then she turned and sprinted through the trickle of brookwater that ran out from under the bridge, ignoring Bens steppingstones, her sneakers spraying out flat sheets of water. She ran down the path, the breath hot in her throat. She could feel the muscles in her legs trembling. She didnt have much left now. The clubhouse. If she could get there, she might still be safe. She ran along the path, branches whipping even more color into her cheeks, one striking her eye and making it water. She cut to the right, blundered through tangles of underbrush, and came out into the clearing. Both the camouflaged trapdoor and the slit window stood open; rock n roll drifted up. At the sound of her approach, Ben Hanscom popped up. He had a box of Junior Mints in one hand and an Archie comic book in the other. He got a good look at Bev and his mouth fell open. Under other circumstances it would have been almost funny. Bev, what the hell She didnt bother replying. Behind her, and not too far behind, either, she could hear branches snapping and whipping; there was a muffled shouted curse. It sounded as if Henry was getting livelier. So she just ran at the square trapdoor opening, her hair, tangled now with green leaves and twigs as well as the crud from her scramble under the garbage truck, streaming out behind her. Ben saw she was coming in like the 101st Airborne and disappeared as quickly as he had come out. Beverly jumped and he caught her clumsily. Shut everything, she panted. Hurry up, Ben, for heavens sake! Theyre coming! Who? Henry and his friends! Henrys gone crazy, hes got a knife That was enough for Ben. He dropped his Junior Mints and funnybook. He pulled the trapdoor shut with a grunt. The top was covered with sods; the TangleTrack was still holding them remarkably well. A few blocks of sod had gotten loose, but that was all. Beverly stood on tiptoe and closed the window. They were in darkness. She felt for Ben, found him, and hugged him with panicky tightness. After a moment he hugged her back. They were both on their knees. With sudden horror Beverly realized that Richies transistor radio was still playing somewhere in the blackness Little Richard singing The Girl Cant Help It. Ben ... the radio ... theyll hear ... Oh God! He bunted her with one meaty hip and almost knocked her sprawling in the dark. She heard the radio fall to the floor. The girl cant help it if the menfolks stop and stare, Little Richard informed them with his customary hoarse enthusiasm. Cant help it! the backup group testified, The girl cant help it! Ben was panting now, too. They sounded like a couple of steamengines. Suddenly there was a crunch ... and silence. Oh shit, Ben said. I just squashed it. Richies gonna have a bird. He reached for her in the dark. She felt his hand touch one of her breasts, then jerk away, as if burned. She groped for him, got hold of his shirt, and drew him close. Beverly, what Shhh! He quieted. They sat together, arms around each other, looking up. The darkness was not quite perfect; there was a narrow line of light down one side of the trapdoor, and three others outlined the slit window. One of these three was wide enough to let a slanted ray of sunlight fall into the clubhouse. She could only pray they wouldnt see it. She could hear them approaching. At first she couldnt make out the words ... and then she could. Her grip on Ben tightened. If she went into the bamboo, we can pick up her trail easy, Victor was saying. They play around here, Henry replied. His voice was strained, his words emerging in little puffs, as if with great effort. Boogers Taliendo said so. And the day we had that rockfight, they were coming from here. Yeah, they play guns and stuff, Belch said. Suddenly there were thudding footfalls right above them; the sodcovered cap vibrated up and down. Dirt sifted onto Beverlys upturned face. One, two, maybe even all three of them were standing on top of the clubhouse. A cramp laced her belly; she had to bite down against a cry. Ben put one big hand on the side of her face and pressed it against his arm as he looked up, waiting to see if they would guess ... or if they knew already and were just playing games. They got a place, Henry was saying. Thats what Boogers told me. Some kind of a treehouse or something. They call it their club. Ill club em, if they want a club, Victor said. Belch uttered a thunderous heehaw of laughter at this. Thump, thump, thump, overhead. The cap moved up and down a little more this time. Surely they would notice it; ordinary ground just didnt have that kind of give. Lets look down by the river, Henry said. I bet shes down there. Okay, Victor said. Thump, thump. They were moving off. Bev let a little sigh of relief trickle through her clamped teeth ... and then Henry said You stay here and guard the path, Belch. Okay, Belch said, and he began to march back and forth, sometimes leaving the cap, sometimes coming back across it. More dirt sifted down. Ben and Beverly looked at each other with strained, dirty faces. Bev became aware that there was more than the smell of smoke in the clubhousea sweaty, garbagey stink was rising as well. Thats me, she thought dismally. In spite of the smell, she hugged Ben even tighter. His bulk seemed suddenly very welcome, very comforting, and she was glad there was a lot of him to hug. He might have been nothing but a frightened fatboy when school let out for the summer, but he was more than that now; like all of them, he had changed. If Belch discovered them down here, Ben just might give him a surprise. Ill club em if they want a club, Belch said, and chuckled. A Belch Huggins chuckle was a low, trolllike sound. Club em if they want a club. Thats good. Thats pretty much okeydokey. She became aware that Bens upper body was heaving up and down in short, sharp movements; he was pulling air into his lungs and letting it out in little bursts. For one alarmed moment she thought he was starting to cry, and then she got a closer look at his face and realized he was struggling against laughter. His eyes, leaking tears, caught hers, rolled madly, and looked away. In the faint light which struggled in through the cracks around the closed trapdoor and the window, she could see his face was nearly purple with the strain of holding it in. Club em if they want an ole clubbydubby, Belch said, and sat down heavily right in the center of the cap. This time the roof trembled more alarmingly, and Bev heard a low but ominous crrrack from one of the supports. The cap had been meant to support the chunks of camouflaging sod laid on top of it ... but not the added one hundred and sixty pounds of Belch Hugginss weight. If he doesnt get up hes going to land in our laps, Bev thought, and she began to catch Bens hysteria. It was trying to boil out of her in rancid whoops and brays. In her minds eye she suddenly saw herself pushing the window up enough on its hinges for her hand to creep out and administer a really good goose to Belch Hugginss backside as he sat there in the hazy afternoon sunshine, muttering and giggling. She buried her face against Bens chest in a lastditch effort to keep it inside. Shhh, Ben whispered. For Christs sake, Bev Crrrrackk. Louder this time. Will it hold? she whispered back. It might, if he doesnt fart, Ben said, and a moment later Belch did cut onea loud and fruity trumpetblast that seemed to go on for at least three seconds. They held each other even tighter, muffling each others frantic giggles. Beverlys head hurt so badly that she thought she might soon have a stroke. Then, faintly, she heard Henry yelling Belchs name. What? Belch bellowed, getting up with a thump and a thud that sifted more dirt down on Ben and Beverly. What, Henry? Henry yelled something back; Beverly could only make out the words bank and bushes. Okay! Belch bawled, and his feet crossed the cap for the last time. There was a final cracking noise, this one much louder, and a splinter of wood landed in Bevs lap. She picked it up wonderingly. Five more minutes, Ben said in a low whisper. Thats all it would have taken. Did you hear him when he let go? Beverly asked, beginning to giggle again. Sounded like World War III, Ben said, also beginning to laugh. It was a relief to be able to let it out, and they laughed wildly, trying to do it in whispers. Finally, unaware she was going to say it at all (and certainly not because it had any discernible bearing on this situation), Beverly said Thank you for the poem, Ben. Ben stopped laughing all at once and regarded her gravely, cautiously. He took a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face with it slowly. Poem? The haiku. The haiku on the postcard. You sent it, didnt you? No, Ben said. I didnt send you any haiku. Cause if a kid like mea fat kid like medid something like that, the girl would probably laugh at him. I didnt laugh. I thought it was beautiful. I could never write anything beautiful. Bill, maybe. Not me. Bill will write, she agreed. But hell never write anything as nice as that. May I use your handkerchief? He gave it to her and she began to clean her face as best she could. How did you know it was me? he asked finally. I dont know, she said. I just did. Bens throat worked convulsively. He looked down at his hands. I didnt mean anything by it. She looked at him gravely. You better not mean that, she said. If you do, its really going to spoil my day, and Ill tell you, its going downhill already. He continued to look down at his hands and spoke at last in a voice she could barely hear. Well, I mean I love you, Beverly, but I dont want that to spoil anything. It wont, she said, and hugged him. I need all the love I can get right now. But you specially like Bill. Maybe I do, she said, but that doesnt matter. If we were grownups, maybe it would, a little. But I like you all specially. Youre the only friends I have. I love you too, Ben. Thank you, he said. He paused, trying, and brought it out. He was even able to look at her as he said it. I wrote the poem. They sat without saying anything for a little while. Beverly felt safe. Protected. The images of her fathers face and Henrys knife seemed less vivid and threatening when they sat close like this. That sense of protection was hard to define and she didnt try, although much later she would recognize the source of its strength she was in the arms of a male who would die for her with no hesitation at all. It was a fact that she simply knew it was in the scent that came from his pores, something utterly primitive that her own glands could respond to. The others were coming back, Ben said suddenly. What if they get caught out? She straightened up, aware that she had almost been dozing. Bill, she remembered, had invited Mike Hanlon home to lunch with him. Richie was going to go home with Stan and have sandwiches. And Eddie had promised to bring back his Parcheesi board. They would be arriving soon, totally unaware that Henry and his friends were in the Barrens. Weve got to get to them, Beverly said. Henrys not just after me. If we come out and they come back Yes, but at least we know theyre here. Bill and the other guys dont. Eddie cant even run, they already broke his arm. Jeezumcrow, Ben said. I guess well have to chance it. Yeah. She swallowed and looked at her Timex. It was hard to read in the dimness, but she thought it was a little past one. Ben... What? Henrys really gone crazy. Hes like that kid in The Blackboard Jungle. He was going to kill me and the other two were going to help him. Aw, no, Ben said. Henrys crazy, but not that crazy. Hes just ... Just what? Beverly said. She thought of Henry and Patrick in the automobile graveyard in the thick sunshine. Henrys blank eyes. Ben didnt answer. He was thinking. Things had changed, hadnt they? When you were inside the changes, they were harder to see. You had to step back to see them ... you had to try, anyway. When school let out hed been afraid of Henry, but only because Henry was bigger, and because he was a bullythe kind of kid who would grab a firstgrader, Indianrub his arm, and send him away crying. That was about all. Then he had engraved Bens belly. Then there had been the rockfight, and Henry had been chucking M80s at peoples heads. You could kill somebody with one of those things. You could kill somebody easy. He had started to look different ... haunted, almost. It seemed that you always had to be on watch for him, the way youd always have to be on watch for tigers or poisonous snakes if you were in the jungle. But you got used to it; so used to it that it didnt even seem unusual, just the way things were. But Henry was crazy, wasnt he? Yes. Ben had known that on the day school ended, and had willfully refused to believe it, or remember it. It wasnt the kind of thing you wanted to believe or remember. And suddenly a thoughta thought so strong it was almost a certaintycrept into his mind fullblown, as cold as October mud. Its using Henry. Maybe the others too, but Its using them through Henry. And if thats the truth, then shes probably right. Its not just Indian rubs or rabbitpunches in the back of the neck during studytime near the end of the schoolday while Mrs. Douglas reads her book at her desk, not just a push on the playground so that you fall down and skin your knee. If Its using him, then Henry will use the knife. An old lady saw them trying to beat me up, Beverly was saying. Henry went after her. He kicked her taillight out. This alarmed Ben more than anything else. He understood instinctively, as most kids did, that they lived below the sightlines, and hence the thoughtlines, of most adults. When a grownup was dittybopping down the street, thinking his grownup thoughts about work and appointments and buying cars and whatever else grownups thought about, he never noticed kids playing hopscotch or guns or kickthecan or ringalevio or hideandgoseek. Bullies like Henry could get away with hurting other kids quite a lot if they were careful to stay below that sightline. At the very most, a passing adult was apt to say something like Why dont you quit that? and then just continue dittybopping along without waiting to see if the bully stopped or not. So the bully would wait until the grownup had turned the corner ... and then go back to business as usual. It was like adults thought that real life only started when a person was five feet tall. If Henry had gone after some old lady, he had gone above that sightline. And that more than anything else suggested to Ben that he really was crazy. Beverly saw the belief in Bens face and felt relief sweep over her. She would not have to tell him about how Mr. Ross had simply folded his paper and walked into his house. She didnt want to tell him about that. It was too scary. Lets go up to Kansas Street, Ben said, and abruptly pushed open the trapdoor. Get ready to run. He stood up in the opening and looked around. The clearing was silent. He could hear the chuckling voice of the Kenduskeag close by, birdsong, the thumthudthumthud of a diesel engine snorting its way into the trainyards. He heard nothing else and that made him uneasy. He would have felt much better if hed heard Henry, Victor, and Belch cursing their way through the heavy undergrowth down by the stream. But he couldnt hear them at all. Come on, he said, and helped Beverly up. She also looked around uneasily, brushing her hair back with her hands and grimacing at its greasy feel. He took her hand and they pushed through a screen of bushes toward Kansas Street. Wed better stay off the path. No, she said, weve got to hurry. He nodded. All right. They got to the path and started toward Kansas Street. Once she stumbled over a rock in the path and 7 The Seminary Grounds1217 A.M. fell heavily on the moonsilvered sidewalk. A grunt was forced out of him, and a runner of blood came with the grunt, splatting onto the cracked concrete. In the moonlight it looked as black as beetleblood. Henry looked at it for a long dazed moment, then raised his head to look around. Kansas Street was earlymorning silent, the houses shut up and dark except for a scatter of nightlights. Ah. Here was a sewergrate. A balloon with a smileysmile face was tied to one of its iron bars. The balloon bobbed and dipped in the faint breeze. Henry got to his feet again, one sticky hand pressed to his belly. The nigger had stuck him pretty good, but Henry had gone him one better. Yessir. As far as the nigger was concerned, Henry felt like he was pretty much okeydokey. Kids a gone goose, Henry muttered, and made his shaky staggering way past the floating balloon. Fresh blood glimmered on his hand as it continued to flow from his stomach. Kids all done. Greased the sucker. Gonna grease them all. Teach them to throw rocks. The world was coming in slowrolling waves, big combers like the ones they used to show at the beginning of every Hawaii FiveO episode on the ward TV (book em Danno, haha Jack Fuckin Lord okay. Jack Fuckin Lord was pretty much okeydokey) and Henry could Henry could Henry could almost (hear the sound those Oahu big boys make as they rise curl and shake (shakeshakeshake (the reality of the world. Pipeline.  Chantays. Remember Pipeline? Pipeline was pretty much okeydokey. WipeOut. Crazy laugh there at the start. Sounded like Patrick Hockstetter. Fucking queerboy. Got greased himself, and as far as I) he was concerned that was a (fuck of a lot better than okeydokey, that was just FINE, that was JUST AS FINE AS PAINT (okay Pipeline shoot the line dont back down not my boys catch a wave and (shoot (shootshootshoot (a wave and go sidewalk surfin with me shoot (the line shoot the world but keep) an ear inside his head it kept hearing that kaspanggg sound; an eye inside his head it kept seeing Victors head rising on the end of that spring, eyelids and cheeks and forehead tattooed with rosettes of blood. Henry looked blearily to his left and saw that the houses had been replaced with a tall black stand of hedge. Looming above it was the narrow, gloomily Victorian pile of the Theological Seminary. Not a window shone light. The seminary had graduated its last class in June of 1974. It had closed its doors that summer, and now whatever walked there walked alone ... and only by permission of the chattering womens club that called itself the Derry Historical Society. He came to the walk which led up to the front door. It was barred by a heavy chain from which a metal sign hung NO TRESPASSING THIS ORDER ENFORCED BY DERRY POLICE DEPT. Henrys feet tangled on this track and he fell heavily againwhap!to the sidewalk. Up ahead, a car turned onto Kansas Street from Hawthorne. Its headlights washed down the street. Henry fought the dazzle long enough to see the lights on top it was a fuzzmobile. He crawled under the chain and crabbed his way to the left so he was behind the hedge. The nightdew on his hot face was wonderful. He lay facedown, turning his head from side to side, wetting his cheeks, drinking what he could drink. The police car floated by without slowing. Then, suddenly, its bubblelights came on, washing the darkness with erratic blue pulses of light. There was no need for the siren on the deserted streets, but Henry heard its mill suddenly crank up to full revs. Rubber blistered a startled scream from the pavement. Caught, Im caught, his mind gibbered ... and then he realized that the police car was heading away from him, up Kansas Street. A moment later a hellish warbling sound filled the night, heading toward him from the south. He imagined some huge silky black cat loping through the dark, all green eyes and flexing pelt, It in a new shape, coming for him, coming to gobble him up. Little by little (and only as the warbling began to veer away) he realized it was an ambulance, heading in the direction the fuzzmobile had gone. He lay shuddering on the wet grass, too cold now, struggling (fuzzit cousin buzzit cousin rock it roll it we got chicken in the barn what barn whose barn my) not to vomit. He was afraid that if he vomited, all of his guts would come up ... and there were five of them still to get. Ambulance and police car. Where are they heading? The library, of course. The nigger. But theyre too late. I greased him. Might as well turn off your sireen, boys. He aint gonna hear it. Hes just as dead as a fencepost. He But was he? Henry licked his peeling lips with his arid tongue. If he was dead, there would be no warbling siren in the night. Not unless the nigger had called them. So maybejust maybethe nigger wasnt dead. No, Henry breathed. He rolled over on his back and stared up at the sky, at the billions of stars up there. It had come from there, he knew. From somewhere up in that sky. ... It (came from outer space with a lust for Earthwomen came to rob all the women and rape all the men say Frank dont you mean rob all the men and rape all the women whoth running this show, thilly man, you or Jesse? Victor used to tell that one and that was pretty much) came from the spaces between the stars. Looking up at that starry sky gave him the creeps it was too big, too black. It was all too possible to imagine it turning bloodred, all too possible to imagine a Face forming in lines of fire.... He closed his eyes, shivering and holding his arms crossed on his belly, and he thought The nigger is dead. Someone heard us fighting and sent the cops to investigate, thats all. Then why the ambulance? Shut up, shut up, Henry groaned. He felt the old baffled rage again; he remembered how they had beaten him again and again in the old daysold days that seemed so close and so vital nowhow every time he believed he had them they had somehow slipped through his fingers. It had been like that on the last day, after Belch saw the cooze running down Kansas Street toward the Barrens. He remembered that, oh yes, he remembered that clearly enough. When you got kicked in the balls, you remembered it. It had happened to him again and again that summer. Henry struggled to a sitting position, wincing at the deep dagger of pain in his guts. Victor and Belch had helped him down into the Barrens. He had walked as fast as he could in spite of the agony that griped and pulled at his groin and the root of his belly. The time had come to finish it. They had followed the path to a clearing from which five or six paths radiated like strands of a spiderweb. Yes, there had been kids playing around there; you didnt have to be Tonto to see that. There were scraps of candywrapper, the curled tail of a shotoff roll of Bang caps, red and black. A few boards and a fluffy scatter of sawdust, as if something had been built there. He remembered standing in the center of the clearing and scanning the trees, looking for their baby treehouse. He would spot it and then he would climb up and the girl would be cowering there, and he would use the knife to cut her throat and feel her titties nice and easy until they stopped moving. But he hadnt been able to see any treehouse; neither had Belch or Victor. The old familiar frustration rose in his throat. He and Victor left Belch to guard the clearing while they went down the river. But there had been no sign of her there, either. He remembered bending over and picking up a rock and 8 The Barrensl1255 P.M. heaving it far down the stream, furious and bewildered. Where the fuck did she go? he demanded, wheeling toward Victor. Victor shook his head slowly. Dont know, he said. Youre bleeding. Henry looked down and saw a dark spot, the size of a quarter, on the crotch of his jeans. The pain had withdrawn to a low, throbbing ache, but his underpants felt too small and too tight. His balls were swelling. He felt that anger inside him again, something like a knotted rope around his heart. She had done this. Where is she? he hissed at Victor. Dont know, Victor said again in that same dull voice. He seemed hypnotized, sunstruck, not really there at all. Ran away, I guess. She could be all the way over to the Old Cape by now. Shes not, Henry said. Shes hiding. Theyve got a place and shes hiding there. Maybe its not a treehouse. Maybe its something else. What? I . . . dont . . . know! Henry shouted, and Victor flinched back. Henry stood in the Kenduskeag, the cold water boiling over the tops of his sneakers, looking around. His eyes fixed on a cylinder poking out of the embankment about twenty feet downstreama pumpingstation. He climbed out of the water and walked down to it, feeling a sort of necessary dread settle into him. His skin seemed to be tightening, his eyes widening so that they were able to see more and more; it seemed he could feel the tiny hairs in his ears stirring and moving like kelp in an underwater tidal flow. Low humming came from the pumpingstation, and beyond it he could see a pipe jutting out of the embankment over the Kenduskeag. A steady flow of sludge pulsed out of the pipe and ran into the water. He leaned over the cylinders round iron top. Henry? Victor called nervously. Henry? What you doing? Henry paid no attention. He put his eye to one of the round holes in the iron and saw nothing but blackness. He exchanged eye for ear. Wait . . . The voice drifted up to him from the blackness inside, and Henry felt his interior temperature plummet to zero, his veins and arteries freezing into crystal tubes of ice. But with these sensations came an almost unknown feeling love. His eyes widened. A clownish smile spread his lips in a large nerveless arc. It was the voice from the moon. Now It was down in the pumpingstation ... down in the drains. Wait . . . watch . . . He waited, but there was no more only the steady soporific drone of the pumping machinery. He walked back down to where Victor stood on the bank, watching him cautiously. Henry ignored him and hollered for Belch. In a little while Belch came. Come on, he said. What are we gonna do, Henry? Belch asked. Wait. Watch. They crept back toward the clearing and sat down. Henry tried to pull his underpants away from his aching balls, but it hurt too much. Henry, what Belch began. Shhh! Belch fell obligingly silent. Henry had Camels but he didnt share them out. He didnt want the bitch to smell cigarette smoke if she was around. He could have explained, but there was no need. The voice had spoken only two words to him, but these seemed to explain everything. They played down here. Soon the others would come back. Why settle for just the bitch when they could have all seven of the little shitepokes? They waited and watched. Victor and Belch seemed to have gone to sleep with their eyes open. It was not a long wait, but there was time for Henry to think of a good many things. How he had found the switchblade this morning, for instance. It wasnt the same one hed had on the last day of school; hed lost that one somewhere. This one looked a lot cooler. It came in the mail. Sort of. He had stood on the porch, looking at their battered leaning RFD box, trying to grasp what he was seeing. The box was decked with balloons. Two were tied to the metal hook where the postman sometimes hung packages; others were tied to the flag. Red, yellow, blue, green. It was as if some weird circus had crept by on Witcham Road in the dead of night, leaving this sign. As he approached the mailbox, he saw there were faces on the balloonsthe faces of the kids who had deviled him all this summer, the kids who seemed to mock him at every turn. He had stared at these apparitions, gapemouthed, and then the balloons popped, one by one. That had been good; it was as if he were making them pop just by thinking about it, killing them with his mind. The front of the mailbox suddenly swung down. Henry walked toward it and peered in. Although the mailman didnt get this far out until the middle of the afternoon, Henry felt no surprise when he saw a flat rectangular package inside. He pulled it out. MR. HENRY BOWERS, RFD 2, DERRY, MAINE, the address read. There was even a returnaddress of sorts MR. ROBERT GRAY, DERRY, MAINE. He opened the package, letting the brown paper drift down heedlessly by his feet. There was a white box inside. He opened it. Lying on a bed of white cotton had been the switchknife. He took it into the house.


His father was lying on his pallet in the bedroom they shared, surrounded by empty beer cans, his belly bulging over the top of his yellow underpants. Henry knelt beside him, listening to the snort and flutter of his fathers breathing, watching his fathers horsey lips purse and pucker with each breath. Henry placed the businessend of the switchknife against his fathers scrawny neck. His father moved a little and then settled back into beery sleep again. Henry kept the knife like that for almost five minutes, his eyes distant and thoughtful, the ball of his left thumb caressing the silver button set into the switchblades neck. The voice from the moon spoke to himit whispered like the spring wind which is warm with a cold blade buried somewhere in its middle, it buzzed like a paper nest full of roused hornets, it huckstered like a hoarse politician. Everything the voice said seemed pretty much okeydokey to Henry and so he pushed the silver button. There was a click inside the knife as the suicidespring let go, and six inches of steel drove through Butch Bowerss neck. It went in as easily as the tines of a meatfork into the breast of a wellroasted chicken. The tip of the blade popped out on the other side, dripping. Butchs eyes flew open. He stared at the ceiling. His mouth dropped open. Blood ran from the corners of it and down his cheeks toward the lobes of his ears. He began to gurgle. A large bloodbubble formed between his slack lips and popped. One of his hands crept to Henrys knee and squeezed convulsively. Henry didnt mind. Presently the hand fell away. The gurgling noises stopped a moment later. Butch Bowers was dead. Henry pulled the knife out, wiped it on the dirty sheet that covered his fathers pallet, and pushed the blade back in until the spring clicked again. He looked at his father without much interest. The voice had told him about the days work while he knelt beside Butch with the knife against Butchs neck. The voice had explained everything. So he went into the other room to call Belch and Victor. Now here they were, all three, and although his balls still ached horribly, the knife made a comforting bulge in his left front pants pocket. He felt that the cutting would begin soon. The others would come back down to resume whatever baby game they had been playing, and then the cutting would begin. The voice from the moon had laid it out for him as he knelt by his father, and on his way into town he had been unable to take his eyes from that pale ghostdisc in the sky. He saw that there was indeed a man in the moona grisly, glimmering ghostface with cratered holes for eyes and a glabrous grin that seemed to reach halfway up its cheekbones. It talked (we float down here Henry we all float youll float too) all the way to town. Kill them all, Henry, the ghostvoice from the moon said, and Henry could dig it; Henry felt he could second that emotion. He would kill them all, his tormentors, and then those feelingsthat he was losing his grip, that he was coming inexorably to a larger world he would not be able to dominate as he had dominated the playyard at Derry Elementary, that in the wider world the fatboy and the nigger and the stuttering freak might somehow grow larger while he somehow only grew olderwould be gone. He would kill them all, and the voicesthose inside and the one which spoke to him from the moonwould leave him alone. He would kill them and then go back to the house and sit on the back porch with his fathers souvenir Jap sword across his lap. He would drink one of his fathers Rheingolds. He would listen to the radio, too, but no baseball. Baseball was strictly Squaresville. He would listen to rock and roll instead. Although Henry didnt know it (and wouldnt have cared if he did), on this one subject he and the Losers agreed rock and roll was pretty much okeydokey. We got chicken in the barn, whose barn, what barn, my barn. Everything would be good then; everything would be the ginchiest then; everything would be okeyfine then, and anything which might come next would not matter. The voice would take care of himhe sensed that. If you took care of It, It would take care of you. That was how things had always been in Derry. But the kids had to be stopped, stopped soon, stopped today. The voice had told him so. Henry took his new knife out of his pocket, looked at it, turned it this way and that, admiring the way the sun winked and slid off the chrome facing. Then Belch was grabbing his arm and hissing Looka that, Henry! Jeezlyoldcrow! Looka that! Henry looked and felt the clear light of understanding burst over him. A square section of the clearing was rising as if by magic, revealing a growing slice of darkness beneath. For just a moment he felt a jolt of terror as it occurred to him that this might be the owner of the voice . . . for surely It lived somewhere under the city. Then he heard the gritty squall of dirt in the hinges and understood. They hadnt been able to see the treehouse because there was none. By God, we was standin right on top of em, Victor grunted, and as Bens head and shoulders appeared in the square hatchway in the center of the clearing, he made as if to charge forward. Henry grabbed him and held him back. Aint we gonna get em, Henry? Victor asked as Ben boosted himself up. Well get em, Henry said, never taking his eyes from the hated fatboy. Another ballkicker. Ill kick your balls so high up you can wear them for earrings, you fat fuck. Wait and see if I dont. Dont worry. The fatboy was helping the bitch out of the hole. She looked around doubtfully, and for a moment Henry believed she looked right at him. Then her eyes passed on. The two of them murmured together and then they pushed their way into the thick undergrowth and were gone. Come on, Henry said, when the sound of snapping branches and rustling leaves had faded almost to inaudibility. Well follow em. But keep back and keep quiet. I want em all together. The three of them crossed the clearing like soldiers on patrol, bent low, their eyes wide and moving. Belch paused to look down into the clubhouse and shook his head in admiring wonder. Sittin right over their heads, I was, he said. Henry motioned him forward impatiently. They took the path, because it was quieter. They were halfway back to Kansas Street when the bitch and the fatboy, holding hands (Isnt that cute? Henry thought in a kind of ecstasy), emerged almost directly in front of them. Luckily, their backs were to Henrys group, and neither of them looked around. Henry, Victor, and Belch froze, then drew into the shadows at the side of the path. Soon Ben and Beverly were just two shirts seen through a tangle of shrubs and bushes. The three of them began to pursue again . . . cautiously. Henry took the knife out again and 9 Henry Gets a Liftl230 A.M. pressed the chrome button in the handle. The blade popped out. He looked at it dreamily in the moonlight. He liked the way the starlight ran along the blade. He had no idea exactly what time it was. He was drifting in and out of reality now. A sound impinged on his consciousness and began to grow. It was a car engine. It drew closer. Henrys eyes widened in the dark. He held the knife more tightly, waiting for the car to pass by. It didnt. It drew up at the curb beyond the seminary hedge and simply stopped there, engine idling. Grimacing (his belly was stiffening now; it had gone boardhard, and the blood seeping sluggishly between his fingers had the consistency of sap just before you took the taps out of the maples in late March or early April), he got on his knees and pushed aside the stiff hedgebranches. He could see headlights and the shape of a car. Cops? His hand squeezed the knife and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed. I sent you a ride, Henry, the voice whispered. Sort of a taxi, if you can dig that. After all, we have to get you over there to the Town House pretty soon. The nights getting old. The voice uttered one thin bonelike chuckle and fell silent. Now the only sounds were the crickets and the steady rumble of the idling car. Sounds like cherrybomb mufflers, Henry thought distractedly. He got awkwardly to his feet and worked his way back to the seminary walk. He peeked around at the car. Not a fuzzmobile no bubbles on the roof, and the shape was all wrong. The shape was . . . old. Henry heard that giggle again . . . or perhaps it was only the wind. He emerged from the shadow of the hedge, crawled under the chain, got to his feet again, and began to walk toward the idling car, which existed in a blackandwhite Polaroidsnapshot world of bright moonlight and impenetrable shadow. Henry was a mess his shirt was black with blood, and it had soaked through his jeans almost to the knees. His face was a white blotch under an institutional crewcut. He reached the intersection of the seminary path and the sidewalk and peered at the car, trying to make sense out of the hulk behind the wheel. But it was the car he recognized firstit was the one his father always swore he would own someday, a 1958 Plymouth Fury. It was red and white and Henry knew (hadnt his father told him often enough?) that the engine rumbling under the hood was a V8 327. Available horsepower of 255, able to hit seventy from the gitgo in just about nine seconds, gobbling hitest through its fourbarrel carb. Im gonna get that car and then when I die they can bury me in it, Butch had been fond of saying . . . except, of course, he had never gotten the car and the state had buried him after Henry had been taken away, raving and screaming of monsters, to the funny farm. If thats him inside I dont think I can take it, Henry thought, squeezing down on the knife, swaying drunkenly back and forth, looking at the shape behind the wheel. Then the passenger door of the Fury swung open, the domelight came on, and the driver turned to look at him. It was Belch Huggins. His face was a hanging ruin. One of his eyes was gone, and a rotted hole in one parchment cheek revealed blackened teeth. Perched on Belchs head was the New York Yankees baseball cap he had been wearing the day he died. It was turned around backward. Graygreen mold oozed along the bill. Belch! Henry cried, and agony ripped its way up from his belly, making him cry out again, wordlessly. Belchs dead lips stretched in a grin, splitting open in whitishgray bloodless folds. He held one twisted hand out toward the open door in invitation. Henry hesitated, then shuffled around the Furys grille, allowing one hand to touch the Vshaped emblem there, just as he had always touched it when his father took him into the Bangor showroom when he was a kid to look at this same car. As he reached the passenger side, grayness overwhelmed him in a soft wave and he had to grab the open door to keep his feet. He stood there, head down, breathing in snuffling gasps. At last the world came backpartway, anyhowand he was able to work his way around the door and fall into the seat. Pain skewered his guts again, and fresh blood squirted out into his hand. It felt like warm jelly. He put his head back and gritted his teeth, the cords on his neck standing out. At last the pain began to subside a little. The door swung shut by itself. The domelight went out. Henry saw one of Belchs rotted hands close over the transmission lever and drop it into drive. The bunched white knots of Belchs knuckles glimmered through the decaying flesh of his fingers. The Fury began to move down Kansas Street toward UpMile Hill. How you doin, Belch? Henry heard himself say. It was stupid, of courseBelch couldnt be here, dead people couldnt drive carsbut it was all he could think of. Belch didnt reply. His one sunken eye stared at the road. His teeth glared sickly at Henry through the hole in his cheek. Henry became vaguely aware that ole Belch smelled pretty ripe. Ole Belch smelled, in fact, like a bushelbasket of tomatoes that had gone bad and watery. The glove compartment flopped open, banging Henrys knees, and in the light of the small bulb inside he saw a bottle of Texas Driver, halffull. He took it out, opened it, and had himself a good shot. It went down like cool silk and hit his stomach like an explosion of lava. He shuddered all over, moaning . . . and then began to feel a little better, a little more connected to the world. Thanks, he said. Belchs head turned toward him. Henry could hear the tendons in Belchs neck; the sound was like the scream of rusty screendoor hinges. Belch regarded him for a moment with a dead oneeyed stare, and Henry realized for the first time that most of Belchs nose was gone. It looked like something had been at the ole Belchers nose. Dog, maybe. Or maybe rats. Rats seemed more likely. The tunnels they had chased the little kids into that day had been full of rats. Moving just as slowly, Belchs head turned toward the road again. Henry was glad. Ole Belch staring at him that way, well, Henry hadnt been able to dig it too much. There had been something in Belchs single sunken eye. Reproach? Anger? What? There is a dead boy behind the wheel of this car. Henry looked down at his arm and saw that huge goosebumps had formed there. He quickly had another snort from the bottle. This one hit a little easier and spread its warmth farther. The Plymouth rolled down UpMile Hill and made its way around the counterclockwise traffic circle . . . except at this time of night there was no traffic; all the trafficlights had changed to yellow blinkers splashing the empty streets and closed buildings with steady pulses of light. It was so quiet that Henry could hear the relays clicking inside each light ... or was that his imagination? Never meant to leave you behind that day, Belcher, Henry said. I mean, if that was, you know, on your mind. That scream of dried tendons again. Belch looking at him again with his one sunken eye. And his lips stretched in a terrible grin that revealed grayblack gums which were growing their own garden of mold. What sort of a grin is that? Henry asked himself as the car purred silkily up Main Street, past Freeses on the one side, Nans Luncheonette and the Aladdin Theater on the other. Is it a forgiving grin? An oldpals grin? Or is it the kind of grin that says Im going to get you, Henry, Im going to get you for running out on me and Vic? What kind of grin? You have to understand how it was, Henry said, and then stopped. How had it been? It was all confused in his mind, the pieces jumbled up like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had just been dumped out on one of the shitty cardtables in the rec room at Juniper Hill. How had it been, exactly? They had followed the fatboy and the bitch back to Kansas Street and had waited back in the bushes, watching them climb up the embankment to the top. If they had disappeared from view, he and Victor and Belch would have dropped the stalking game and simply gone after them; two of them were better than none at all, and the rest would be along in time. But they hadnt disappeared. They had simply leaned against the fence, talking and watching the street. Every now and then they would check down the slope into the Barrens, but Henry kept his two troops well out of sight. The sky, Henry remembered, had become overcast, clouds moving in from the east, the air thickening. There would be rain that afternoon. What had happened next? What A bony, leathery hand closed over his forearm and Henry screamed. He had been drifting away again into that cottony grayness, but Belchs dreadful touch and the dagger of pain in his stomach from the scream brought him back. He looked around and Belchs face was less than two inches from Henrys; he gasped in breath and wished he hadnt. The ole Belcher really had gone to seed. Henry was again reminded of tomatoes going quietly putrescent in some shadowy shed corner. His stomach roiled. He remembered the end suddenlythe end for Belch and Vic, anyway. How something had come out of the darkness as they stood in a shaft with a sewergrating at the top, wondering which way to go next. Something... Henry hadnt been able to tell what. Until Victor shrieked, Frankenstein! Its Frankenstein! And so it was, it was the Frankenstein monster, with bolts coming out of its neck and a deep stitched scar across its forehead, lurching along in shoes like a childs blocks. Frankenstein! Vic had screamed, FrAnd then Vics head was gone, Vics head was flying across the shaftway to strike the stonework of the far side with a sour sticky thud. The monsters watery yellow eyes had fallen on Henry, and Henry had frozen. His bladder let go and he felt warmth flood down his legs. The creature lurched toward him, and Belch . . . Belch had... Listen, I know I ran, Henry said. I shouldnt have done that. But . . . but . . . Belch only stared. I got lost, Henry whispered, as if to tell the ole Belcher that he had paid, too. It sounded weak, like saying Yeah, I know you got killed, Belch, but I got one fuck of a splinter under my thumbnail. But it had been bad . . . really bad. He had wandered around in a world of stinking darkness for hours, and finally, he remembered, he had started to scream. At some point he had fallena long, dizzying fall, in which he had time to think Oh good in a minute Ill be dead, Ill be out of thisand then he had been in fastrunning water. Under the Canal, he supposed. He had come out into fading sunlight, had flailed his way toward the bank, and had finally climbed out of the Kenduskeag less than fifty yards from the place where Adrian Mellon would drown twentysix years later. He slipped, fell, bashed his head, blacked out. When he woke up it was after dark. He had somehow found his way out to Route 2 and had hooked a ride to the home place. And there the cops had been waiting for him. But that was then and this was now. Belch had stepped in front of Frankensteins monster and it had peeled the left side of his face down to the skullso much Henry had seen before fleeing. But now Belch was back, and Belch was pointing at something. Henry saw that they had pulled up in front of the Derry Town House, and suddenly he understood perfectly. The Town House was the only real hotel left in Derry. Back in 58 there had also been the Eastern Star at the end of Exchange Street, and the Travellers Rest on Torrault Street. Both had disappeared during urban renewal (Henry knew all about this; he had read the Derry News faithfully every day in Juniper Hill). Only the Town House was left, and a bunch of tickytacky little motels out by the Interstate. Thats where theyll be, he thought. Right in there. All of them that are left. Asleep in their beds, with visions of sugarplumsorsewers, maybedancingin their heads. And Ill get them. One by one, Ill get them. He took the bottle of Texas Driver out again and bit off a snort. He could feel fresh blood trickling into his lap, and the seat was tacky beneath him, but the wine made it better; the wine seemed to make it not matter. He could have done with some good bourbon, but the Driver was better than nothing. Look, he said to Belch, Im sorry I ran. I dont know why I ran. Please . . . dont be mad. Belch spoke for the first and only time, but the voice wasnt his voice. The voice that came from Belchs rotting mouth was deep and powerful, terrifying. Henry whimpered at the sound of it. It was the voice from the moon, the voice of the clown, the voice he had heard in his dreams of drains and sewers where water rushed on and on. Just shut up and get them, the voice said. Sure, Henry whined. Sure, okay, I want to, no problem He put the bottle back in the glove compartment. Its neck chattered briefly like teeth. And he saw a paper where the bottle had been. He took it out and unfolded it, leaving bloody fingerprints on the corners. Embossed across the top was this logo, in bright scarlet Below this, carefully printed in capital letters Their room numbers. That was good. That saved time. Thanks, Be But Belch was gone. The drivers seat was empty. There was only the New York Yankees baseball cap lying there, mold crusted on its bill. And some slimy stuff on the knob of the gearshift. Henry stared, his heart beating painfully in his throat . . . and then he seemed to hear something move and shift in the back seat. He got out quickly, opening the door and almost falling to the pavement in his haste. He gave the Fury, which still burbled softly through its dual cherrybomb mufflers (cherrybombs had been outlawed in the State of Maine in 1962), a wide berth. It was hard to walk; each step pulled and tore at his belly. But he gained the sidewalk and stood there, looking at the eightfloor brick building which, along with the library and the Aladdin Theater and the seminary, was one of the few he remembered clearly from the old days. Most of the lights on the upper floors were out now, but the frostedglass globes which flanked the main doorway blazed softly in the darkness, haloed with moisture from the lingering groundfog. Henry made his laborious way toward and between them, shouldering open one of the doors. The lobby was weehours silent. There was a faded Turkish rug on the floor. The ceiling was a huge mural, executed in rectangular panels, which showed scenes from Derrys logging days. There were overstuffed sofas and wing chairs and a great fireplace which was now dead and silent, a birch log thrown across the andironsa real log, no gas; the fireplace in the Town House was not just a piece of lobby stage dressing. Plants spilled out of low pots. The glass double doors leading to the bar and the restaurant were closed. From some inner office, Henry could hear the gabble of a TV, turned low. He lurched across the lobby, his pants and shirt streaked with blood. Blood was grimed into the folds of his hands; it ran down his cheeks and slashed his forehead like warpaint. His eyes bulged from their sockets. Anyone in the lobby who had seen him would have run, screaming, in terror. But there was no one. The elevator doors opened as soon as he pushed the UP button. He looked at the paper in his hand, then at the floor buttons. After a moment of deliberation, he pushed 6 and the doors closed. There was a faint hum of machinery as the elevator began to rise. Might as well start at the top and work my way down. He slumped against the rear wall of the car, eyes halfclosed. The hum of the elevator was soothing. Like the hum of the machinery in the pumpingstations of the drainage system. That day it kept coming back to him. How everything seemed almost prearranged, as if all of them were just playing parts. How Vic and the ole Belcher had seemed . . . well, almost drugged. He remembered The car came to a stop, jolting him and sending another wave of griping pain into his stomach. The doors slid open. Henry stepped out into the silent hallway (more plants here, hanging ones, spiderplants, he didnt want to touch any of them, not those oozy green runners, they reminded him too much of the things that had been hanging down there in the dark). He rechecked the paper. Kaspbrak was in 609. Henry started down that way, running one hand along the wall for support, leaving a faint bloody track on the wallpaper as he went (ah, but he stepped away whenever he came close to one of the hanging spiderplants; he wanted no truck with those). His breathing was harsh and dry. Here it was. Henry pulled the switchblade from his pocket, swashed his dry lips with his tongue, and knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, louder this time. Whozit? Sleepy. Good. Hed be in his jammies, only halfawake. And when he opened the door, Henry would drive the switchblade directly into the hollow at the base of his neck, the vulnerable hollow just below the adams apple. Bellboy, sir, Henry said. Message from your wife. Did Kaspbrak have a wife? Maybe that had been a stupid thing to say. He waited, coldly alert. He heard footstepsthe shuffle of slippers. From Myra? He sounded alarmed. Good. He would be more alarmed in a few seconds. A pulse beat steadily in Henrys right temple. I guess so, sir. Theres no name. It just says your wife. There was a pause, then a metallic rattle as Kaspbrak fumbled with the chain. Grinning, Henry pushed the button on the switchblades handle. Click. He held the blade up by his cheek, ready. He heard the thumbbolt turn. In just a moment he would plunge the blade into the skinny little creeps throat. He waited. The door opened and Eddie 10 The Losers All Together120 P.M. saw Stan and Richie just coming out of the Costello Avenue Market, each of them eating a Rocket on a pushup stick. Hey! he shouted. Hey, wait up! They turned around and Stan waved. Eddie ran to join them as quickly as he could, which was not, in truth, very quickly. One arm was immured in a plasterofParis cast and he had his Parcheesi board under the other. Whatchoo say, Eddie? Whatchoo say, boy? Richie asked in his grandly rolling Southern Gentleman Voice (the one that sounded more like Foghorn Leghorn in the Warner Brothers cartoons than anything else). Ah say . . . Ah say ... the boys got a broken ahm! Lookit that, Stan, the boys got a broken ahm! Ah say . . . be a good spote and carreh the boys Pawcheeseh bowud for him! I can carry it, Eddie said, a little out of breath. How about a lick on your Rocket? Your mom wouldnt approve, Eddie, Richie said sadly. He began to eat faster. He had just gotten to the chocolate stuff in the middle, his favorite part. Germs, boy! Ah say . . . Ah say you kin get germs eatin after someone else! Ill chance it, Eddie said. Reluctantly, Richie held his Rocket up to Eddies mouth ... and snatched it away quickly as soon as Eddie had gotten in a couple of moderately serious licks. You can have the rest of mine, if you want, Stan said. Im still full from lunch. Jews dont eat much, Richie instructed. Its part of their religion. The three of them were walking along companionably enough now, headed up toward Kansas Street and the Barrens. Derry seemed lost in a deep hazy afternoon doze. The blinds of most of the houses they passed were pulled down. Toys stood abandoned on lawns, as if their owners had been hastily called in from play or put down for naps. Thunder rumbled thickly in the west. Is it? Eddie asked Stan. No, Richies just pulling your leg, Stan said. Jews eat as much as normal people. He pointed at Richie. Like him. You know, youre pretty fucking mean to Stan, Eddie told Richie. How would you like somebody to say all that madeup shit about you, just because youre a Catholic? Oh, Catholics do plenty, Richie said. My dad told me once that Hitler was a Catholic, and Hitler killed billions of Jews. Right, Stan? Yeah, I guess so, Stan said. He looked embarrassed. My mom was furious when my dad told me that, Richie went on. A little reminiscent grin had surfaced on his face. Absolutely fyoorious. Us Catholics also had the Inquisition, that was the little dealie with the rack and the thumbscrews and all that stuff. I figure all religions are pretty weird. Me too, Stan said quietly. Were not Orthodox, or anything like that. I mean, we eat ham and bacon. I hardly even know what being a Jew is. I was born in Derry, and sometimes we go up to synagogue in Bangor for stuff like Yom Kippur, but He shrugged. Ham? Bacon? Eddie was mystified. He and his mom were Methodists. Orthodox Jews dont eat stuff like that, Stan said. It says something in the Torah about not eating anything that creeps through the mud or walks on the bottom of the ocean. I dont know exactly how it goes. But pigs are supposed to be out, also lobster. But my folks eat them. I do too. Thats weird, Eddie said, and burst out laughing. I never heard of a religion that told you what you could eat. Next thing, theyll be telling you what kind of gas you can buy. Kosher gas, Stan said, and laughed by himself. Neither Richie nor Eddie understood what he was laughing about. You gotta admit, Stanny, it is pretty weird, Richie said. I mean, not being able to eat a sausage just because you happen to be Jewish. Yeah? Stan said. You eat meat on Fridays? Jeez, no! Richie said, shocked. You cant eat meat on Friday, because He began to grin a little. Oh, okay, I see what you mean. Do Catholics really go to hell if they eat meat on Fridays? Eddie asked, fascinated, totally unaware that, until two generations before, his own people had been devout Polish Catholics who would no more have eaten meat on Friday than they would have gone outside with no clothes on. Well, Ill tell you what, Eddie, Richie said. I dont really think God would send me down to the Hot Place just for forgetting and having a baloney sandwich for lunch on a Friday, but why take a chance? Right? I guess not, Eddie said. But it seems so So stupid, he was going to say, and then he remembered a story Mrs. Portleigh had told the Sundayschool class when he was just a little kida first grader in Little Worshippers. According to Mrs. Portleigh, a bad boy had once stolen some of the communionbread when the tray was passed and put it in his pocket. He took it home and threw it into the toiletbowl just to see what would happen. At onceor so Mrs. Portleigh reported to her rapt Little Worshippersthe water in the toiletbowl had turned a bright red. It was the Blood of Christ, she said, and it had appeared to that little boy because he had done a very bad act called a BLASPHEMY. It had appeared to warn him that, by throwing the flesh of Jesus into the toilet, he had put his immortal soul in danger of Hell. Up until then, Eddie had rather enjoyed the act of communion, which he had only been allowed to take since the previous year. The Methodists used Welchs grape juice instead of wine, and the Body of Christ was represented by cutup cubes of fresh, springy Wonder Bread. He liked the idea of taking in food and drink as a religious rite. But following Mrs. Portleighs story, his awe of the ritual darkened into something more potent, something rather dreadful. Simply reaching for the cubes of bread became an act which required courage, and he always feared an electrical shock . . . or worse, that the bread would suddenly change color in his hand, become a bloodclot, and a disembodied Voice would begin to thunder in the church Not worthy! Not worthy! Damned to Hell! Damned to Hell! Often, after he had taken communion, his throat would close up, his breath would begin to wheeze in and out, and he would wait with panicky impatience for the benediction to be over so he could hurry into the vestibule and use his aspirator. You dont want to be so silly, he told himself as he grew older. That was nothing but a story, and Mrs. Portleigh sure wasnt any saintMammasaid she was divorced down in Kittery and that she plays Bingo at Saint Marys in Bangor, and that real Christians dont gamble, real Christians leave gambling for pagans and Catholics. All that made perfect sense, but it didnt relieve his mind. The story of the communion bread that turned the water in the toiletbowl to blood worried at him, gnawed at him, even caused him to lose sleep. It came to him one night that the way to get this behind him once and for all would be to take a piece of the bread himself, toss it in the toilet, and see what happened. But such an experiment was far beyond his courage; his rational mind could not stand against that sinister image of the blood spreading its cloud of accusation and potential damnation in the water. It could not stand against that talismanic magical incantation This is my body, take, eat; this is my blood, shed for you and for many. No, he had never made the experiment. I guess all religions are weird, Eddie said now. But powerful, his mind added, almost magical . . . or was that BLASPHEMY? He began to think about the thing they had seen on Neibolt Street, and for the first time he saw a crazy parallelthe Werewolf had, after all, come out of the toilet.