It

it, only to discover — when it was too late — well . . . that it was too late.’
Mike regarded them again, eyes sunken and tired in his brown face. ‘So I think we need to take a vote. Stay and try it again, or go home. Those are the choices. I got you here on the strength of an old promise I wasn’t even sure you’d remember, but I can’t hold you here on the strength of that promise. The results of that would be worse and more of it.’
He looked at Bill, and in that moment Bill understood what was coming. He dreaded it, was helpless to stop it, and then, with the same feeling of relief he imagined must come to a suicide when he takes his hands off the wheel of the speeding car and simply uses them to
cover his eyes, he accepted it. Mike had gotten them here, Mike had laid it all neatly out for them . . . and now he was relinquishing the mantle of leadership. He intended that mantle to go back to the person who had worn it in 1958.
‘What do you say, Big Bill? Call the question.’
‘Before I do,’ Bill said, ‘d– does everyone understand the question? You were going to say something, Bev.’
She shook her head.
‘All right; I g-guess the question is, do we stay and fight or do we forget the whole thing? Those in favor of staying?’
No one at the table moved at all for perhaps five seconds, and Bill was reminded of auctions he had attended where the price on an item suddenly soared into the stratosphere and those who didn’t want to bid anymore almost literally played statues; one was afraid to scratch an itch or wave a fly off the end of one’s nose for fear the auctioneer would take it for another five grand or twenty-five.
Bill thought of Georgie, Georgie who had meant no one any harm, who had only wanted to get out of the house after being cooped up all week, Georgie with his color high, his newspaper boat in one hand, snapping the buckles of his yellow rainslicker with die other, Georgie thanking him . . . and then bending over and kissing Bill’s fever-heated cheek: Thanks, Bill. It’s a neat boat.
He felt the old rage rise in him, but he was older now and his perspective was wider. It wasn’t just Georgie now. A horrid slew of names marched through his head: Betty Ripsom, found frozen into the ground, Cheryl Lamonica, fished out of the Kenduskeag, Matthew Clements, torn from his tricycle, Veronica Grogan, nine years old and found in a sewer, Steven Johnson, Lisa Albrecht, all the others, and God only knew how many of the missing.
He raised his hand slowly and said, ‘Let’s kill It. This time let’s really kill It.’
For a moment his hand hung there alone, like the hand of the only kid in class who knows the right answer, the one all the other kids hate. Then Richie sighed, raised his own hand, and said: ‘What the hell. It can’t be any worse than interviewing Ozzy Osbourne.’
Beverly raised her hand. Her color was back now, but in hectic patches that flared along her cheekbones. She looked both tremendously excited and scared to death.
Mike raised his hand.
Ben raised his.
Eddie Kaspbrak sat back in his chair, looking as if he wished he could actually melt into it and thus disappear. His face, thin and delicate-looking, was miserably afraid as he looked first right and then left and then back to Bill. For a moment Bill felt sure Eddie was simply going to push back his chair, rise, and bolt from the room without looking back. Then he raised one hand in the air and grasped his aspirator tightly in the other.
‘Way to go, Eds,’ Richie said. ‘We’re really gonna have ourselves some chucks this time, I bet.’
‘Beep-beep, Richie,’ Eddie said in a wavering voice.
6
The Losers Get Dessert
‘So what’s your one idea, Mike?’ Bill asked. The mood had been broken by Rose, the hostess, who had come in with a dish of fortune cookies. She looked around at the six people who had their hands in the air with a carefully polite lack of curiosity. They lowered them hastily, and no one said anything until Rose was gone again. ‘It’s simple enough,’ Mike said, ‘but it might be pretty damn dangerous, too.’
‘Spill it,’Richie said.
‘I think we ought to split up for the rest of the day. I think each of us ought to go back to the place in Derry he or she remembers best . . . outside the Barrens, that is. I don’t think any of us should go there — not yet. Think of it as a series of walking –tours, if you like.’
‘What’s the purpose, Mike?’ Ben asked.
‘I’m not entirely sure. You have to understand that I’m going pretty much on intuition here — ‘
‘But this has got a good beat and you can dance to it,’ Richie said.
The others smiled. Mike did not; he nodded instead. ‘That’s as good a way of putting it as any. Going on intuition