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quiet as they can—even the newspaper doesn’t play it up—but there was some nasty work. Murders.
Half a dozen at least. Kids. Found one down in the Barrens just recently. Patrick Hockstetter, his
name was. All decayed.”
“The Barrens?”
“It’s this swampy patch that runs right through the center of town. You probably saw it when you
flew in.”
I’d been in a car, but I still knew what he was talking about.
The bartender’s eyes widened. “That’s not the real estate you’re interested in, is it?”
“Can’t say,” I told him. “If word got around, I’d be looking for a new job.”
“Understood, understood.” He drank half his Coke, then stifled a belch with the back of his hand.
“But I hope it is. They ought to pave that goddam thing over. It’s nothing but stinkwater and
mosquitoes. You’d be doing this town a favor. Sweeten it up a little bit.”
“Other kids found down there?” I asked. A serial child-murderer would explain a lot about the
gloom I’d been feeling ever since I crossed the town line.
“Not that I know of, but people say that’s where some of the disappeared ones went, because that’s
where all the big sewage pumping stations are. I’ve heard people say there are so many sewer pipes
under Derry—most of em laid in the Great Depression—that nobody knows where all of em are. And
you know how kids are.”
“Adventurous.”
He nodded emphatically. “Right with Eversharp. There’s people who say it was some vag who’s
since moved on. Other folks say he was a local who dressed up like a clown to keep from being
recognized. The first of the victims—this was last year, before I came—they found him at the
intersection of Witcham and Jackson with his arm ripped clean off. Denbrough was his name, George
Denbrough. Poor little tyke.” He gave me a meaningful look. “And he was found right next to one of
those sewer drains. The ones that dump into the Barrens.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“I hear you using the past tense about all this stuff.”
I got ready to explain what I meant, but apparently this guy had been listening in English class as
well as bartending school. “It seems to’ve stopped, knock on wood.” He rapped his knuckles on the
bar. “Maybe whoever was doing it packed up and moved on. Or maybe the sonofabitch killed himself,
sometimes they do that. That’d be good. But it wasn’t any homicidal maniac in a clown suit who
killed the little Corcoran boy. The clown who did that murder was the kid’s own father, if you can
believe it.”
That was close enough to why I was here to feel like fate rather than coincidence. I took a careful
sip of my beer. “Is that so?”
“You bet it is. Dorsey Corcoran, that was the kid’s name. Only four years old, and you know what
his goddam father did? Beat him to death with a recoilless hammer.”
A hammer. He did it with a hammer. I maintained my look of polite interest—at least I hope I did—
but I felt gooseflesh go marching up my arms. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, and not the wor—” He broke off and looked over my shoulder. “Get you another, sir?”
It was the businessman. “Not me,” he said, and handed over a dollar bill. “I’m going to bed, and
tomorrow I’m blowing this pop-shop. I hope they remember how to order hardware in Waterville and
Augusta, because they sure don’t here. Keep the change, son, buy yourself a DeSoto.” He plodded out
with his head down.
“See? That’s a perfect example of what we get at this oasis.” The bartender looked sadly after his
departing customer. “One drink, off to bed, and tomorrow it’s seeya later, alligator, after awhile,