The city plows had been out, and although there was hardly any traffic (there wouldn’t have been much at this hour even on a clear night), the turnpike was in passable shape. Mr Gray increased the Ram’s speed to forty miles an hour. They passed three exits Jonesy knew well from his childhood (KANSAS STREET, AIRPORT, UPMILE HILL/STRAWFORD PARK) then slowed.

Suddenly Jonesy thought he understood.

He looked at the boxes he’d dragged in here, most marked DUDDITS, a few marked DERRY. The latter ones he’d taken as an afterthought. Mr Gray thought he still had the memories he needed-the information he needed-but if Jonesy was right about where they were going (and it made perfect sense), Mr Gray was in for a surprise. Jonesy didn’t know whether to be glad or afraid, and found he was both.

Here was a green sign reading EXIT 25-WITCHAM STREET. His hand flicked on the Ram’s turnsignal.

At the top of the ramp, he turned left onto Witcham, then left again, half a mile later, onto Carter Street. Carter went up at a steep angle, heading back toward Upmile Hill and Kansas Street on the other side of what had once been a high, wooded ridge and the site of a thriving Micmac Indian village. The street hadn’t been plowed in several hours, but the four-wheel drive was up to the task. The Ram threaded its way among the snow-covered humps on either side-cars that had been street-parked in defiance of municipal snow-emergency regulations.

Halfway up Mr Gray turned again, this time onto an even narrower track called Carter Lookout. The Ram skidded, its rear end fishtailing. Lad looked up briefly, whined, then put his nose back down on the floormat as the tires took hold, biting into the snow and puffing the Ram the rest of the way up.

Jonesy stood at his window on the world, fascinated, waiting for Mr Gray to discover… well, to discover.

At first Mr Gray wasn’t dismayed when the Ram’s high beams showed nothing at the crest but more swirling snow. He was confident he’d see it in a few seconds, of course he would… just a few more seconds and he’d see the big white tower which stood here overlooking the drop to Kansas Street, the tower with the windows marching around it in a rising spiral. In just a few more seconds…

Except now there were no more seconds. The Ram had chewed its way to the top of what had once been called Standpipe Hill. Here Carter Lookout-and three or four other similar little lanes-ended in a large open circle. They had come to the highest, most open spot in Derry. The wind howled like a banshee, a steady fifty miles an hour with gusts up to seventy and even eighty. In the Ram’s high beams, the snow flew horizontally, a storm of daggers.

Mr Gray sat motionless. Jonesy’s hands slid off the wheel and clumped to either side of Jonesy’s body like birds shot out of the sky. At last he muttered, “Where is it?”

His left hand rose, fumbled at the doorhandle, and at last pulled it up. He swung a leg out, then fell to Jonesy’s knees in a snowdrift as the howling wind snatched the door out of his hand. He got up again and floundered around to the front of the truck, his jacket rippling around him and the legs of his jeans snapping like sails in a gale. The wind-chill was well below zero (in the Tracker Brothers” office, the temperature went from cool to cold in the space of a few seconds), but the redblack cloud which now inhabited most of Jonesy’s brain and drove Jonesy’s body could not have cared less.

Where is it?” Mr Gray screamed into the howling mouth of the storm. Where’s the fucking STANDPIPE?”

There was no need for Jonesy to shout; storm or no storm, Mr Gray would hear even a whisper.

“Ha-ha, Mr Gray,” he said. “Hardy-fucking-har. Looks like the joke’s on you. The Standpipe’s been gone since 1985.”

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: doodlyfuck, kiss my bender, munch my meat, bite my bag, shit in your fuckin 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:

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?”