Quabbin Reservoir. The water supply for Boston and the adjacent metropolitan area.
He knows about the cottage,” Jonesy said. Of course. The cottage in Ware, some sixty miles west of Boston. And he’d know the story of the Russian woman, everyone knew it; Jonesy had passed it on himself. It was too gruesomely good not to pass on. They knew it in Ware, in New Salem, in Cooleyville and Belchertown, Hardwick and Packardsville and Pel-ham. All the surrounding towns. And what, pray tell, did those towns surround?
Why, the Quabbin, that was what they surrounded. Quabbin Reservoir. The water supply for Boston and the adjacent metropolitan area. How many people drank their daily water from the Quabbin? Two million? Three? Jonesy didn’t know for sure, but a lot more than had ever drunk from the supply stored in the Derry Standpipe. Mr. Gray, rolling seven after seven, a run for the ages and now only one away from breaking the bank.
Two or three million people. Mr. Gray wanted to introduce them to Lad the border collie, and to Lad’s new friend.
And delivered in this new medium, the byrus would take.
