Dreamcatcher(134)

6

Jonesy thought that if Mr Gray had remained still, he would have done a full-fledged pre-schooler's tantrum, perhaps right down to the rolling around in the snow and the kicking of the feet; in spite of his best efforts not to, Mr Gray was bingeing on Jonesy's emotional chemistry set, as helpless to stop now that he had started as an alcoholic with a key to McDougal's Bar.

Instead of throwing a fit or having a snit, he thrust Jonesy's body across the bald top of the hill and toward the squat stone pedestal that stood where he had expected to find the storage facility for the city's drinking water: seven hundred thousand gallons of it. He fell in the snow, floundered back up, limped forward on Jonesy's bad hip, fell again and got up again, all the time spitting Beaver's litany of childish curses into the gale: doodlyf*ck, kiss my bender, munch my meat, bite my bag, shit in your f**kin hat and wear it backward, Bruce. Coming from Beaver (or Henry, or Pete), these had always been amusing. Here, on this deserted hill, screamed into the teeth of the storm by this lunging, falling monster that looked like a human being, they were awful.

He, it, whatever Mr Gray was, at last reached the pedestal, which stood out clearly enough in the glow cast by the Ram's headlights. It had been built to a child's height, about five feet, and of the plain rock which had shaped so many New England stone walls. On top were two figures cast in bronze, a boy and a girl with their hands linked and their heads lowered, as if in prayer or in grief.

The pedestal was drifted to most of its height in snow, but the top of the plaque screwed to the front was visible. Mr Gray fell to Jonesy's knees, scraped snow away, and read this:

TO THOSE LOST IN THE STORM

MAY 31, 1985

AND TO THE CHILDREN

ALL THE CHILDREN

LOVE FROM BILL, BEN, BEV, EDDIE, RICHIE, STAN, MIKE

THE LOSERS' CLUB

Spray-painted across it jagged red letters, also perfectly visible in the truck's headlights, was this further message:

7

Mr Gray knelt looking at this for nearly five minutes, ignoring the creeping numbness in Jonesy's extremities. (And why would he take care? Jonesy was just your basic rental job, drive it as hard as you want and butt out your cigarettes on the floormat.) He was trying to make sense of it. Storm? Children? Losers? Who or what was Pennywise? Most of all, where was the Standpipe, which Jonesy's memories had insisted was here?

At last he got up, limped back to the truck, got in, and turned up the heater. In the blast of hot air, Jonesy's body began to shake. Soon enough, Mr Gray was back at the locked door of the office, demanding an explanation.

'Why do you sound so angry?' Jonesy asked mildly, but he was smiling. Could Mr Gray sense that? 'Did you expect me to help you? Come on, pal  -  I don't know the specifics, but I have a pretty good idea what the overall plan is: twenty years from now and the whole planet is one big redheaded ball, right? No more hole in the ozone layer, but no more people, either.'

'Don't you smartass me! Don't you dare!'

Jonesy fought back the temptation to taunt Mr Gray into another tantrum. He didn't believe his unwelcome guest would be capable of huffing down the door between them no matter how angry he became, but what sense was there in putting that idea to the test? And besides, Jonesy was emotionally exhausted, his nerves jumping and his mouth full of a burnt-copper taste.

'How can it not be here?'

Mr Gray brought one hand down on the center of the steering wheel. The horn honked. Lad the border collie raised his head and looked at the man behind the wheel with large, nervous eyes. 'You can't lie to me! I have your memories!'

'Well . . . I did get a few. Remember?'

'Which ones? Tell me.'

'Why should I?' Jonesy asked. 'What'll you do for me?'

Mr Gray fell silent. Jonesy felt him accessing various files. Then, suddenly, smells began to waft into the room from under the door and through the heating and cooling vent. They were his favorite aromas: popcorn, coffee, his mother's fish chowder. His stomach immediately began to roar.

'Of course I can't promise you your mother's chowder,' Mr Gray said. 'But I'll feed you. And you're hungry, aren't you?'

'With you driving my body and pigging out on my emotions, it'd be a wonder if I wasn't,' Jonesy replied.

'There's a place south of here  -  Dysart's. According to you, it's open twenty-four hours a day, which is a way of saying all the time.

Or are you lying about that, too?'

'I never lied,' Jonesy replied. 'As you said, I can't. You've got the controls, you've got the memory banks, you've got everything but what's in here.'

'Where is there? How can there be a there?'

'I don't know,' Jonesy said truthfully. 'How do I know you'll feed me?'

'Because I have to,' Mr Gray said from his side of the door, and Jonesy realized Mr Gray was also being truthful. If you didn't pour gas into the machine from time to time, the machine stopped running. 'But if you satisfy my curiosity, I'll feed you the things you like. If you don't . . .'

The smells from under the door changed, became the greenly assaultive odor of broccoli and brussels sprouts.

'All right,' Jonesy said. 'I'll tell you what I can, and you feed me pancakes and bacon at Dysart's. Breakfast twenty-four hours a day, you know. Deal?'