by Stephen King
19
"IT'S TIME," ROLAND SAID.
Eddie sat up. Susannah sat up beside him, rubbing her palms over her face. As Eddie's head cleared, his mind was filled with urgency. "Yes. Let's go, and fast. "
"He's getting close, isn't he?"
"Very close." Eddie got to his feet, grasped Susannah around the waist, and boosted her into her chair.
She was looking at him anxiously. "Do we still have enough time to get there?"
Eddie nodded. "Barely."
Three minutes later they were headed down the Great Road again. It glimmered ahead of them like a ghost. And an hour after that, as the first light of dawn began to touch the sky in the east, a rhythmic sound began far ahead of them.
The sound of drums, Roland thought.
Machinery, Eddie thought. Some huge piece of machinery.
It's a heart, Susannah thought. Some huge, diseased, beating heart . . . and it's in that city, where we have to go.
Two hours later, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun. White, featureless clouds had begun to fill the sky above them, first veiling the early sun, then blotting it out. The circle of standing stones lay less than five miles ahead now, gleaming in the shadowless light like the teeth of a fallen monster.
20
SPAGHETTI WEEK AT THE MAJESTIC!
the battered, dispirited marquee jutting over the corner of Brooklyn and Markey Avenues proclaimed.
2 SERGIO LEONE CLASSIX!
A FISTFUL OF $$ PLUS GOOD BAD & UGLY!
99C/ ALL SHOWS
A gum-chewing cutie with rollers in her blonde hair sat in the box office listening to Led Zep on her transistor and reading one of the tabloids of which Mrs. Shaw was so fond. To her left, in the theater's remaining display case, there was a poster showing Clint Eastwood.
Jake knew he should get moving--three o'clock was almost here--but he paused a moment anyway, staring at the poster behind the dirty, cracked glass. Eastwood was wearing a Mexican serape. A cigar was clamped in his teeth. He had thrown one side of the serape back over his shoulder to free his gun. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Bombardier's eyes.
It's not him, Jake thought, but it's almost him. It's the eyes, mostly . . . the eyes are almost the same.
"You let me drop," he said to the man in the old poster, the man who was not Roland. "You let me die. What happens this time?"
"Hey, kid," the blonde ticket-seller called, making Jake start. "You gonna come in or just stand there and talk to yourself?"
"Not me," Jake said. "I've already seen those two."
He got moving again, turning left on Markey Avenue.
Once again he waited for the feeling of remembering forward to seize him, but it didn't come. This was just a hot, sunny street lined with sandstone-colored apartment buildings that looked like prison cellblocks to Jake. A few young women were walking along, pushing baby-carriages in pairs and talking desultorily, but the street was otherwise deserted. It was unseasonably hot for May--too hot to stroll.
What am I looking for? What?
From behind him came a burst of raucous male laughter. It was followed by an outraged female shriek: "You give that back!"
Jake jumped, thinking the owner of the voice must mean him.
"Give it back, Henry! I'm not kidding!"
Jake turned and saw two boys, one at least eighteen and the other a lot younger . . . twelve or thirteen. At the sight of this second boy, Jake's heart did something that felt like a loop-the-loop in his chest. The kid was wearing green corduroys instead of madras shorts, but the yellow T-shirt was the same, and he had a battered old basketball under one arm. Although his back was to Jake, Jake knew he had found the boy from last night's dream.
21
THE GIRL WAS THE gum-chewing cutie from the ticket-booth. The older of the two boys--who looked almost old enough to be called a man--had her newspaper in his hands. She grabbed for it. The newspaper-grabber--he was wearing denims and a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up--held it over his head and grinned.
"Jump for it, Maryanne! Jump, girl, jump!"
She stared at him with angry eyes, her cheeks flushed. "Give it to me!" she said. "Quit fooling around and give it back! Bastard!"
"Oooo wisten to dat, Eddie!" the old kid said. "Bad wang-gwidge! Naughty, naughty!" He waved the newspaper just out of the blonde ticket-seller's grasp, grinning, and Jake suddenly understood. These two were walking home from school together--although they probably didn't go to the same one, if he was right about the difference in their ages--and the bigger boy had gone over to the box office, pretending he had something interesting to tell the blonde. Then he had reached through the slot at the bottom and snatched her paper.
The big boy's face was one that Jake had seen before; it was the face of a kid who would think it the height of hilarity to douse a cat's tail with lighter fluid or feed a bread-ball with a fishhook planted in the middle to a hungry dog. The sort of kid who sat in the back of the room and snapped bra-straps and then said "Who me?" with a big, dumb look of surprise on his face when someone finally complained. There weren't many kids like him at Piper, but there were a few. Jake supposed there were a few in every school. They dressed better at Piper, but the face was the same. He guessed that in the old days, people would have said it was the face of a boy who was born to be hung.
Maryanne jumped for her newspaper, which the old boy in the black pants had rolled into a tube. He pulled it out of her reach just before she could grab it, then whacked her on the head with it, the way you might whack a dog for piddling on the carpet. She was beginning to cry now--mostly from humiliation, Jake guessed. Her face was now so red it was almost glowing. "Keep it, then!" she yelled at him. "I know you can't read, but you can look at the pictures, at least!"
She began to turn away.
"Give it back, why don't you?" the younger boy--Jake's boy--said softly.
The old boy held out the newspaper tube. The girl snatched it from him, and even from his place thirty feet farther down the street, Jake heard it rip. "You're a turd, Henry Dean!" she cried. "A real turd!"
"Hey, what's the big deal?" Henry sounded genuinely injured. "It was just a joke. Besides, it only ripped in one place--you can still read it, for Chrissake. Lighten up a little, why don'tcha?"
And that was right, too, Jake thought. Guys like this Henry always pushed even the most unfunny joke two steps too far . . . then looked wounded and misunderstood when someone yelled at them. And it was always Wassa matter? and it was Can'tcha take a joke? and it was Why don'tcha lighten up a little?
What are you doing with him, kid? Jake wondered. If you're on my side, what are you doing with a jerk like that?
But as the younger kid turned around and they started to walk down the street again, Jake knew. The old boy's features were heavier, and his complexion was badly pitted with acne, but otherwise the resemblance was striking. The two boys were brothers.
22
JAKE TURNED AWAY AND began to idle up the sidewalk ahead of the two boys. He reached into his breast pocket with a shaky hand, pulled out his father's sunglasses, and managed to fumble them onto his face.
Voices swelled behind him, as if someone was gradually turning up the volume on a radio.
"You shouldn't have ranked on her that bad, Henry. It was mean."
"She loves it, Eddie." Henry's voice was complacent, worldly-wise "When you get a little older, you'll understand."
"She was cryin"
"Prob'ly got the rag on," Henry said in a philosophical tone.
They were very close now. Jake shrank against the side of the building. His head was down, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans. He didn't know why it seemed so vitally important that he not be noticed, but it did. Henry didn't matter, one way or the other, but--
The younger one isn't supposed to remember me, he thought. I don't know why, exactly, but he's not.
They passed him without so much as a glance, the one Henry had called E
ddie walking on the outside, dribbling the basketball along the gutter.
"You gotta admit she looked funny," Henry was saying. "Ole Be-Bop Maryanne, jumpin for her newspaper. Woof! Woof!"
Eddie looked up at his brother with an expression that wanted to be reproachful . . . and then he gave up and dissolved into laughter. Jake saw the unconditional love in that upturned face and guessed that Eddie would forgive a lot in his big brother before giving it up as a bad job.
"So are we going?" Eddie asked now. "You said we could. After school."
"I said maybe. I dunno if I wanna walk all the way over there. Mom'll be home by now, too. Maybe we just oughtta forget it. Go upstairs and watch some tube."
They were now ten feet ahead of Jake and pulling away.
"Ah, come on! You said!"
Beyond the building the two boys were currently passing was a chainlink fence with an open gate in it. Beyond it, Jake saw, was the playground of which he had dreamed last night . . . a version of it, anyway. It wasn't surrounded by trees, and there was no odd subway kiosk with diagonal slashes of yellow and black across the front, but the cracked concrete was the same. So were the faded yellow foul lines.
"Well . . . maybe. I dunno." Jake realized Henry was teasing again. Eddie didn't, though; he was too anxious about wherever it was he wanted to go. "Let's shoot some hoops while I think it over."
He stole the ball from his younger brother, dribbled clumsily onto the playground, and went for a lay-up that hit high on the backboard and bounced back without even touching the rim of the hoop. Henry was good at stealing newspapers from teenage girls, Jake thought, but on the basketball court he sucked the big one.
Eddie walked in through the gate, unbuttoned his corduroy pants, and slipped them down. Beneath them were the faded madras shorts he had been wearing in Jake's dream.
"Oh, is he wearing his shortie panties?" Henry said. "Ain't they cuuute?" He waited until his brother balanced himself on one leg to pull off his cords, then flung the basketball at him. Eddie managed to bat it away, probably saving himself a bloody nose, but he lost his balance and fell clumsily to the concrete. He didn't cut himself, but he could have done so, Jake saw; a great deal of broken glass glittered in the sun along the chainlink.
"Come on, Henry, quit it," he said, but with no real reproach. Jake guessed Henry had been pulling shit like this on him so long that Eddie only noticed it when Henry pulled it on someone else--someone like the blonde ticket-seller.
"Tum on, Henwy, twit it."
Eddie got to his feet and trotted out onto the court. The ball had struck the chainlink fence and bounced back to Henry. Henry now tried to dribble past his younger brother. Eddie's hand went out, lightning-quick but oddly delicate, and stole the ball. He easily ducked under Henry's outstretched, flailing arm and went for the basket. Henry dogged him, frowning thunderously, but he might as well have been taking a nap. Eddie went up, knees bent, feet neatly cocked, and laid the ball in. Henry grabbed it and dribbled out to the stripe.
Shouldn't have done that, Eddie, Jake thought. He was standing just beyond the place where the fence ended, watching the two boys. This seemed safe enough, at least for the moment. He was wearing his dad's sunglasses, and the two boys were so involved in what they were doing that they wouldn't have noticed if President Carter had strolled up to watch. Jake doubted if Henry knew who President Carter was, anyway.
He expected Henry to foul his brother, perhaps heavily, as a payback for the steal, but he had underestimated Eddie's guile. Henry offered a head-fake that wouldn't have fooled Jake's mother, but Eddie appeared to fall for it. Henry broke past him and drove for the basket, gaily travelling the ball most of the way. Jake was quite sure Eddie could have caught him easily and stolen the ball again, but instead of doing so, the kid hung back. Henry laid it up--clumsily--and the ball bounced off the rim again. Eddie grabbed it . . . and then let it squirt through his fingers. Henry snatched it, turned, and put it through the netless hoop.
"One-up," Henry panted. "Play to twelve?"
"Sure."
Jake had seen enough. It would be close, but in the end Henry would win. Eddie would see to it. It would do more than save him from getting lumped up; it would put Henry in a good mood, making him more agreeable to whatever it was Eddie wanted to do.
Hey Moose--I think your little brother has been playing you like a violin for a long time now, and you don't have the slightest idea, do you?
He drew. back until the apartment building which stood at the north end of the court cut off his view of the Dean brothers, and their view of him. He leaned against the wall and listened to the thump of the ball on the court. Soon Henry was puffing like Charlie the Choo-Choo going up a steep hill. He would be a smoker, of course; guys like Henry were always smokers.
The game took almost ten minutes, and by the time Henry claimed victory, the street was filled up with other home-going kids. A few gave Jake curious glances as they passed by.
"Good game, Henry," Eddie said.
"Not bad," Henry panted. "You're still falling for the old head-fake."
Sure he is, Jake thought. I think he'll go on falling for it until he's gained about eighty pounds. Then you might get a surprise.
"I guess I am. Hey, Henry, can't we please go look at the place?"
"Yeah, why not? Let's do it."
"All right!" Eddie yelled. There was the smacking sound of flesh on flesh; probably Eddie giving his brother a high-five. "Boss!"
"You go on up to the apartment. Tell Mom we'll be in by four-thirty, quarter of five. But don't say anything about The Mansion. She'd have a shit-fit. She thinks it's haunted, too."
"You want me to tell her we're going over Dewey's?"
Silence as Henry considered this. "Naw. She might call Mrs. Bunkowski. Tell her . . . tell her we're goin down to Dahlie's to get Hoodsie Rockets. She'll believe that. Ask her for a coupla bucks, too."
"She won't give me any money. Not two days before payday."
"Bullshit. You can get it out of her. Go on, now."
"Okay." But Jake didn't hear Eddie moving. "Henry?"
"What?" Impatiently.
"Is The Mansion haunted, do you think?"
Jake sidled a little closer to the playground. He didn't want to be noticed, but he strongly felt that he needed to hear this.
"Naw. There ain't no real haunted houses--just in the fuckin movies."
"Oh." There was unmistakable relief in Eddie's voice.
"But if there ever was one," Henry resumed (perhaps he didn't want his little brother feeling too relieved, Jake thought), "it'd be The Mansion. I heard that a couple of years ago, two kids from Norwood Street went in there to bump uglies and the cops found em with their throats cut and all the blood drained out of their bodies. But there wasn't any blood on em or around em. Get it? The blood was all gone."
"You shittin me?" Eddie breathed.
"Nope. But that wasn't the worst thing."
"What was?"
"Their hair was dead white," Henry said. The voice that drifted to Jake was solemn. He had an idea that Henry wasn't teasing this time, that this time he believed every word he was saying. (He also doubted that Henry had brains enough to make such a story up.) "Both of em. And their eyes were wide open and staring, like they saw the most gross-awful thing in the world."
"Aw, gimme a break," Eddie said, but his voice was soft, awed.
"You still wanna go?"
"Sure. As long as we don't . . . you know, hafta get too close."
"Then go see Mom. And try to get a couple of bucks out of her. I need cigarettes. Take the fuckin ball up, too."
Jake drifted backward and stepped into the nearest apartment building entryway just as Eddie came out through the playground gate.
To his horror, the boy in the yellow T-shirt turned in Jake's direction. Holy crow! he thought, dismayed. What if this is his building?
It was. Jake just had time to turn around and begin to scan the names beside the rank of buzzers
before Eddie Dean brushed past him, so close that Jake could smell the sweat he had worked up on the basketball court. He half-sensed, half-saw the curious glance the boy tossed in his direction. Then Eddie was in the lobby and headed for the elevators with his school-pants bundled under one arm and the scuffed basketball under the other.
Jake's heart was thudding heavily in his chest. Shadowing people was a lot harder in real life than it was in the detective novels he sometimes read. He crossed the street and stood between two apartment buildings half a block up. From here he could see both the entrance to the Dean brothers' building and the playground. The playground was filling up now, mostly with little kids. Henry leaned against the chainlink, smoking a cigarette and trying to look full of teenage angst. Every now and then he would stick out a foot as one of the little kids bolted toward him at an all-out run, and before Eddie returned, he had succeeded in tripping three of them. The last of these went sprawling full-length, smacking his face on the concrete, and ran wailing up the street with a bloody forehead. Henry flicked his cigarette butt after him and laughed cheerfully.
Just an all-around fun guy, Jake thought.
After that, the little kids wised up and began giving him a wide berth. Henry strolled out of the playground and down the street to the apartment building Eddie had entered five minutes before. As he reached it, the door opened and Eddie came out. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt; he had also tied a green bandanna, the same one he had been wearing in Jake's dream, around his forehead. He was waving a couple of dollar bills triumphantly. Henry snatched them, then asked Eddie something. Eddie nodded, and the two boys set off.
Keeping half a block between himself and them, Jake followed.
23
THEY STOOD IN THE high grass at the edge of the Great Road, looking at the speaking ring.
Stonehenge, Susannah thought, and shuddered. That's what it looks like. Stonehenge.
Although the thick grass which covered the plain grew around the bases of the tall gray monoliths, the circle they enclosed was bare earth, littered here and there with white things.
