There was a moment of silence that might have been awkward but was not. Richie broke it by saying his best part was when the Teenage Werewolf got the evil hypnotist. They talked about the movies-and other horror movies they had seen, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents on TV-for an hour or more. Bev spotted daisies growing on the riverbank and picked one. She held it first under Richie's chin and then under Ben's chin to see if they liked butter. She said they both did. As she held the flower under their chins, each was conscious of her light touch on their shoulders and the clean scent of her hair. Her face was close to Ben's only for a moment or two, but that night he dreamed of how her eyes had looked during that brief endless span of time.
Conversation was fading a little when they heard the crackling sounds of people approaching along the path. The three of them turned quickly toward the sound and Richie was suddenly, acutely aware that the river was at their backs. There was no place to run.
The voices drew closer. They got to their feet, Richie and Ben moving a little in front of Beverly without even thinking about it.
The screen of bushes at the end of the path shook-and suddenly Bill Denbrough emerged. Another kid was with him, a fellow Richie knew a little bit. His name was Bradley something, and he had a terrible lisp. Probably went up to Bangor with Bill for that speech-therapy thing, Richie thought.
"Big Bill!" he said, and then in the Voice of Toodles: "We are glad to see you, Mr Denbrough, mawster."
Bill looked at them and grinned-and a peculiar certainty stole over Richie as Bill looked from him to Ben to Beverly and then back to Bradley Whatever-His-Name-Was. Beverly was a part of them. Bill's eyes said so. Bradley What's-His-Name was not. He might stay for awhile today, might even come down to the Barrens again-no one would tell him no, so sorry, the Losers" Club membership is full, we already have our speech-impediment member-but he was not part of it. He was not part of them.
This thought led to a sudden, irrational fear. For a moment he felt the way you did when you suddenly realized you had swum out too far and the water was over your head. There was an intuitive flash: We're being drawn into something. Being picked and chosen. None of this is accidental. Are we all here yet?
Then the intuition fell into a meaningless jumble of thought-like the smash of a glass pane on a stone floor. Besides, it didn't matter. Bill was here, and Bill would take care; Bill would not let things get out of control. He was the tallest of them, and surely the most handsome. Richie only had to look sideways at Bev's eyes, fixed on Bill, and then farther, to Ben's eyes, fixed knowingly and unhappily on Bev's face, to know that. Bill was also the strongest of them-and not just physically. There was a good deal more to it than that, but since Richie did not know either the word charisma or the full meaning of the word magnetism... he only felt that Bill's strength ran deep and might manifest itself in many ways, some of them probably unexpected. And Richie suspected if Beverly fell for him, or "got a crush on him," or whatever they called it, Ben would not be jealous (like he would, Richie thought, if she got a crush on me); he would accept it as nothing but natural. And there was something else: Bill was good. It was stupid to think such a thing (he did not, in fact, precisely think it; he felt it), but there it was. Goodness and strength seemed to radiate from Bill. He was like a knight in an old movie, a movie that was corny but still had the power to make you cry and cheer and clap at the end. Strong and good. And five years later, after his memories of what had happened in Derry both during and before that summer had begun to fade rapidly, it occurred to a Richie Tozier in his mid-teens that John Kennedy reminded him of Stuttering
Bill.
Who? His mind would respond.
He would look up, faintly puzzled, and shake his head. Some guy I used to know, he would think, and would dismiss vague unease by pushing his glasses up on his nose and turning to his homework again. Some guy I used to know a long time ago.
Bill Denbrough put his hands on his hips, smiled sunnily, and said: "Wuh-wuh-well, h-here we a-a-are... now wuh-wuh-wuh-what are w-we d-d-doing?"
"Got any cigarettes?" Richie asked hopefully.
11
Five days later, as June drew toward its end, Bill told Richie that he wanted to go down to Neibolt Street and investigate under the porch where Eddie had seen the leper.
They had just arrived back at Richie's house, and Bill was walking Silver. He had ridden Richie double most of the way home, an exhilarating speed-trip across Derry, but he had been careful to let Richie dismount a block away from his house. If Richie's mother saw Bill riding Richie double she'd have a bird.
Silver's wire basket was full of play six-shooters, two of them Bill's, three of them Richie's. They had been down in the Barrens for most of the afternoon, playing guns. Beverly Marsh had shown up around three o'clock, wearing faded jeans and toting a very old Daisy air rifle that had lost most of its pop-when you pulled its tape-wrapped trigger, it uttered a wheeze that sounded to Richie more like someone sitting on a very old Whoopee Cushion than a rifleshot. Her specialty was Japanese-sniper. She was very good at climbing trees and shooting the unwary as they passed below. The bruise on her cheekbone had faded to a faint yellow.
"What did you say?" Richie asked. He was shocked... but also a little intrigued.
"I w-w-want to take a l-look under that puh-puh-porch," Bill said. His voice was stubborn but he wouldn't look at Richie. There was a hard spot of flush high on each of his cheekbones. They had arrived in front of Richie's house. Maggie Tozier was on the porch, reading a book. She waved to them and called, "Hi, boys! Want some iced tea?"
"We'll be right there, Mom," Richie said, and then to Bill: "There isn't going to be anything there. He probably just saw a hobo and got all bent out of shape, for God's sake. You know Eddie."
"Y-Yeah, I nun-know E-E-Eddie. B-But ruh-remem-member the pi-pi-picture in the a-album?"
Richie shifted his feet, uncomfortable. Bill raised his right hand. The Band-Aids were gone now, but Richie could see circlets of healing scab on Bill's first three fingers.
"Yeah, but-"
"Luh-luh-histen to me-me," Bill said. He began to speak very slowly, holding Richie's eyes with his own. Once more he related the similarities between Ben's story and Eddie's... and tied those to what they had seen in the picture that moved. He suggested again that the clown had murdered the boys and girls who had been found dead in Berry since the previous December. "A-And muh-muh-haybe not just t-thein," Bill finished. "W-What about a-a-all the o-ones who d-disappeared? W-What about E-E-Eddie Cuh-Cuh-Corcoran?"
"Shit, his stepfather scared him off," Richie said. "don't you read the papers?"
"W-well, m-maybe he d-d-did, and m-maybe he d-d-didn't," Bill said. "I knew him a l-lih-little bit, t-too, and I nuh-nuh-know his d-dad b-b-beat him. And I a-also k-know he u-u-used to stay out n-nuh-hights s-sometimes to g-get aw-way from h-h-him."
"So maybe the clown got him while he was staying away," Richie said thoughtfully. "Is that it?"
Bill nodded.
"What do you want, then? Its autograph?"
"If the cluh-cluh-cluh-hown killed the o-o-others, then h-he k-k-killed Juh-Georgie," Bill said. His eyes caught Richie's. They were like slate-hard, uncompromising, unforgiving. "I w-want to k-k-kill it."
"Jesus Christ," Richie said, frightened. "How are you going to do that?"
"Muh-my d-dad's got a pih-pih-pistol," Bill said. A little spittle flew from his lips but Richie barely noticed. "H-He doesn't nuh-know I know, but I d-d-do. It's on the top sh-shelf in his cluh-cluh-hoset."
That's great if it's a man," Richie said, "and if we can find him sitting on a pile of kids" bones-"
"I poured the tea, boys!" Richie's mom called cheerily. "Better come and get it!"
"Right there, Mom!" Richie called again, offering a big, false smile. It disappeared immediately as he turned back to Bill. "Because I wouldn't shoot a guy just because he was wearing a clown suit, Billy. You're my best friend, but I wouldn't do it and I wouldn't let you do it if I could stop you."
"Wh-what i-if there r-really w-was a p-pile of buh-buh-bones?"
Richie licked his lips and said nothing for a moment. Then he asked Bill, "What are you going to do if it's not a man, Billy? What if it really is some kind of monster? What if there really are such things? Ben Hanscom said it was the mummy and the balloons were floating against the wind and it didn't cast a shadow. The picture in Georgie's album... either we imagined that or it was magic, and I gotta tell you, man, I don't think we just imagined it. Your fingers sure didn't imagine it, did they?"
Bill shook his head.
"So what are we going to do if it's not a man, Billy?"
"Th-then wuh-wuh-we'll have to f-figure suh-homething e-else out."
"Oh yeah," Richie said. "I can see it. After you shoot it four or five times and it keeps comin at us like the Teenage Werewolf in that movie me and Ben and Bev saw, you can try your Bullseye on it. And if the Bullseye doesn't work, I'll throw some of my sneezing powder at it. And if it keeps on coming after that we'll just call time and say, "Hey now, hold on. This ain't getting it, Mr Monster. Look, I got to read up on it at the library. I'll be back. Pawdon me." Is that what you're going to say, Big Bill?"
He looked at his friend, his head thudding rapidly. Part of him wanted Bill to press on with his idea to check under the porch of that old house, but another part wanted-desperately wanted-Bill to give the idea up. In some ways all of this was like having stepped into one of those Saturday-afternoon horror movies at the Aladdin, but in another way-a crucial way-it wasn't like that at all. Because this wasn't safe like a movie, where you knew everything would turn out all right and even if it didn't it was no skin off your ass. The picture in Georgie's room hadn't been like a movie. He had thought he was forgetting that, but apparently he had been fooling himself because now he could see those cuts whirling up Billy's fingers. If he hadn't pulled Bill back -
Incredibly, Bill was grinning. Actually grinning. "Y-Y-You wuh-wanted m-me to take y-you to luh-luh-look at a p-picture," he said. "N-Now I w-want to t-take you to l-look at a h-house. Tit for t-tat."
"You got no tits," Richie said, and they both burst out laughing.
"T-Tomorrow muh-muh-morning," Bill said, as if it had been resolved.
"And if it's a monster?" Richie asked, holding Bill's eyes. "If your dad's gun doesn't stop it, Big Bill? If it just keeps coming?"
"Wuh-wuh-we'll thuh-thuh-think of suh-homething else," Bill said again. "We'll h-h-have to." He threw back his head and laughed like a loon. After a moment Richie joined him. It was impossible not to.
They walked up the crazy-paving to Richie's porch together. Maggie had set out huge glasses of iced tea with mint-sprigs in them and a plate of vanilla wafers.
"Yuh-you w-w-want t-t-to?"
"Well, no," Richie said. "But I will."
Bill clapped him on the back, hard, and that seemed to make the fear bearable-although Richie was suddenly sure (and he was not wrong) that sleep would be long coming that night.
"You boys looked like you were having a serious discussion out there," Mrs Tozier said, sitting down with her book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. She looked at the boys expectantly.
"Aw, Denbrough's got this crazy idea the Red Sox are going to finish in the first division," Richie said.
"M-Me and my d-d-d-d-dad th-think t-they got a sh-shot at t-third," Bill said, and slipped his iced tea. T-This is veh-veh-very go-good, Muh-Mrs Tozier."
Thank you, Bill."
"The year the Sox finish in the first division will be the year you stop stuttering, mush mouth," Richie said.
"Richie!" Mrs Tozier screamed, shocked. She nearly dropped her glass of iced tea. But both Richie and Bill Denbrough were laughing hysterically, totally cracked up. She looked from her son to Bill and back to her son again, touched by wonder that was mostly simple perplexity but partly a fear so thin and sharp that it found its way deep into her inner heart and vibrated there like a tuning-fork made of clear ice.
I don't understand either of them, she thought. Where they go, what they do, what they want... or what will become of them. Sometimes, oh sometimes their eyes are wild, and sometimes I'm afraid for them and sometimes I'm afraid of them...
She found herself thinking, not for the first time, that it would have been nice if she and Went could have had a girl as well, a pretty blonde girl that she could have dressed in skirts and matching bows and black patent-leather shoes on Sundays. A pretty little girl who would ask to bake cupcakes after school and who would want dolls instead of books on ventriloquism and Revell models of cars that went fast.
A pretty little girl she could have understood.
12
"Did you get it?" Richie asked anxiously.
They were walking their bikes up Kansas Street beside the Barrens at ten o'clock the next morning. The sky was a dull gray. Rain had been forecast for that afternoon. Richie hadn't gotten to sleep until after midnight and he thought Denbrough looked as if he had spent a fairly restless night himself; ole Big Bill was toting a matched set of Samsonite bags, one under each eye.
"I g-got it," Bill said. He patted the green duffel coat he was wearing.
"Lemme see," Richie said, fascinated.
"Not now," Bill said, and then grinned. "someone eh-eh-else might see, too. But l-l-look what else I bruh-brought." He reached behind him, under the coat, and brought his Bullseye slingshot out of his back pocket.
"Oh shit, we're in trouble," Richie said, beginning to laugh.
Bill pretended to be hurt. "Ih-Ih-It was y-your idea, T-T-Tozier."
Bill had gotten the custom aluminum slingshot for his birthday the year before. It had been Zack's compromise between the.22 Bill had wanted and his mother's adamant refusal to even consider giving a boy Bill's age a firearm. The instruction booklet said a slingshot could be a fine hunting weapon, once you learned to use it. "In the right hands, your Bullseye Slingshot is as deadly and effective as a good ash bow or a high-powered firearm," the booklet proclaimed. With such virtues dutifully extolled, the booklet went on to warn that a slingshot could be dangerous; the owner should no more aim one of the twenty ball-bearing slugs which came with it at a person than he would aim a loaded pistol at a person.