Dreamcatcher(156)

MISSING, says the single block-capital word under the photo.

And below that, in slightly smaller type: JOSETTE RINKENHAUER, LAST SEEN STRAWFORD PARK SOFTBALL FIELD, JUNE 7, 1982. Below this there is more copy, but Henry doesn't bother reading it. Instead he reflects on how odd Derry is about missing children  -  not like other towns at all. This is June eighth, which means the Rinkenhauer girl has only been gone a day, and vet this poster has been tacked way up in the comer of the notice-board (or moved there), like somebody's afterthought. Nor is that all. There was nothing in the paper this morning  -  Henry knows, because he read it. Skimmed through it, anyway, while he was slurping up his cereal. Maybe it was buried way back in the Local section, he thinks, and knows at once that's it. The key word is buried. Lots of things are buried in Derry. Talk of missing children, for instance. There have been a lot of child disappearances here over the years  -  these boys know it, it certainly crossed their minds on the day they met Duddits Cavell, but nobody talks much about it. It's as if the occasional missing kid is the price of living in such a nice, quiet place. At this idea Henry feels a dawning indignation stealing in first to mix with and then replace his former goofy happiness. She was sweet, too, with her BarbieKen. Sweet like Duddits. He remembers how the four of them would deliver Duddits to school  -  all those walks  -  and how often she'd be outside, Josie Rinkenhauer with her scabby knees and her great big plastic purse: 'Hi, Duddie.' She was sweet.

And still is, Henry thinks. She's -

'She's alive,' Beaver says flatly. He takes the chewed-up toothpick out of his mouth, looks at it, and drops it to the grass. 'Alive and still around. Isn't she?'

'Yeah,' Pete says. He's still looking at the picture, fascinated, and Henry knows what Pete is thinking, almost the same thing as he is: she grew up. Even Josie, who in a fairer life might have been Doug Cavell's girlfriend. 'But I think she's . . . you know . . .'

'She's in deep shit,' Jonesy says. He has stepped out of his gown and now folds it over his arm.

'She's stuck,' Pete says dreamily, still looking at the picture. His finger has begun to go back and forth, tick-tock, tick-tock.

'Where?' Henry asks, but Pete shakes his head. So does Jonesy.

'Let's ask Duddits,' Beaver says suddenly. And they all know why. There is no need of discussion. Because Duddits sees the line. Duddits

11

' - sees the line!' Henry shouted suddenly, and jerked upright in the passenger seat of the Humvee. It scared the bell out of Owen, who was deep in some private place where there was only him and the storm and the endless line of reflectors to tell him he was still on the road. 'Duddits sees the line!'

The Humvee swerved, skidded, came back under control. 'Jesus, man!' Owen said. 'Give me a little warning next time before you blow your top, would you?'

Henry ran a hand down his face, drew in a deep breath, and let it out. 'I know where we're going and what we have to do - '

'Well, good - '

' - but I have to tell you a story so you'll understand.'

Owen glanced at him. 'Do you understand?'

'Not everything, but more than I did.'

'Go ahead. We've got an hour before Derry. Is that time enough?'

Henry thought it would be more than enough, especially talking mind to mind. He started at the beginning  -  what he now understood the beginning to be. Not the coming of the grays, not the byrus or the weasels, but four boys who had been hoping to see a picture of the Homecoming Queen with her skirt pulled up, no more than that. As Owen drove, his mind filled with a series of connected images, more like a dream than a movie. Henry told him about Duddits, about their first trip to Hole in the Wall, and Beaver puking in the snow. He told Owen about all those walks to school, and about the Duddits version of the game: they played and Duddits pegged. About the time they had taken Duddits to see Santa Claus  -  what a f**kin pisser that had been. And about how they had seen Josie Rinkenhauer's picture on the DERRY DOIN's board the day before the three older boys graduated. Owen saw them going to Duddits's house on Maple Lane in Henry's car, the gowns and mortarboard caps piled in back; saw them saying hi to Mr and Mrs Cavell, who were in the living room with an ashy-pale man in a Derry Gas coverall and a weeping woman

-  Roberta Cavell has her arm around Ellen Rinkenhauer's shoulders and is telling her it will be all right, she knows that God won't let anything happen to dear little Josie.

It's strong, Owen thought dreamily. Man, what this guy's got is so strong. How can that be?

The Cavells barely look at the boys, because the boys are such frequent visitors here at 19 Maple Lane, and the Rinkenhauers are too deep in their terror to even notice them. They have not touched the coffee Roberta has served. He's in his room, guys, Alfie Cavell says, giving them a wan smile. And Duddits, looking up at them from his GI Joe figures  -  he has all of them  -  gets up as soon as he sees them in the doorway. Duddits never wears his shoes in his room, always his bunny slippers that Henry gave him for his last birthday  -  he loves the bunny slippers, will wear them until they are nothing but pink rags held together with strapping tape  -  but his shoes are on now. He has been waiting for them, and although his smile is as sunny as ever, his eyes are serious. Eh ee own? Duddits asks  -  Where we goin? And -