Think like Hercule Poirot, he told himself. Exercise those little gray cells. Never mind your memories for the time being, think about Mr. Gray. Think logically. What does he want?
Think like Hercule Poirot, he told himself. Exercise those little gray cells. Never mind your memories for the time being, think about Mr. Gray. Think logically. What does he want?
Jonesy stopped. What Gray wanted was obvious, really. He had gone to the Standpipe—where the Standpipe had been, anyway—because he wanted water. Not just any water; drinking water. But the Standpipe was gone, destroyed in the big blow of ’85—ha, ha, Mr. Gray, gotcha last—and Derry’s current water supply was north and east, probably not reachable because of the storm, and not concentrated in one place, anyway. So Mr. Gray had, after consulting Jonesy’s available store of knowledge, turned south again. Toward—
