Ben suddenly found himself thinking of Broderick Crawford, who played Dan Matthews on Highway Patrol — that bastard was tough, that bastard was mean, that bastard took zero shit from anybody — and then he bur st into tears. Dan Matthews would have belted these guys right through the fence, down the embankment, and into the puckerbrush. He would have done it with his belly.
'Oh boy, lookit the baby!' Victor chortled. Belch joined in. Henry smiled a little, bu t his face still held that grave, reflective cast — that look that was somehow almost sad. It frightened Ben. It suggested he might be in for more than just a beating.
As if to confirm this idea, Henry reached into his jeans pocket and brought out a Buck knife.
Ben's terror exploded. He had been whipsawing his body futilely to either side; now he suddenly lunged straight forward. There was an instant when he believed he was going to get away. He was sweating heavily, and the boys holding his arms ha d greasy grips at best. Belch
managed to hold on to his right wrist, but just barely. He pulled entirely free of Victor. Another lunge —
Before he could make it, Henry stepped forward and gave him a shove. Ben flew backward. The railing creaked more loudly this tune, and he felt it give a little under his weight. Belch and Victor grabbed him again.
'Now you hold him,' Henry said. 'You hear me?'
'Sure, Henry,' Belch said. He sounded a trifle uneasy. 'He ain't gonna get away. Don't worry.'
Henry stepped forward until his flat stomach almost touched Ben's belly. Ben stared at him, tears spilling helplessly out of his wide eyes. Caught! I'm caught! a part of his mind yammered. He tried to stop it — he couldn't think at all with that yammering going on — but it wouldn't stop. Caught! Caught! Caught!
Henry pulled out the blade, which was long and wide and engraved with his name. The tip glittered in the afternoon sunshine.
'I'll gonna test you now,' Henry said in that same reflective voice. 'It's exam time, Tits, and you better be ready.'
Ben wept. His heart thundered madly in his chest. Snot ran out of his nose and collected on his upper lip. His library books lay in a scatter at his feet. Henry stepped on Bulldozer, glanced down, and dealt it into the gutter with a sideswipe of one black engineer boot.
'Here's the first question on your exam, Tits. When somebody says "Let me copy" during finals, what are you going to say?'
'Yes!' Ben exclaimed immediately. 'I'm going to say yes! Sure! Okay! Copy all you want!'
The Buck's tip slid through two inches of air and pressed against Ben's stomach. It was as cold as an ice-cube tray just out of the Frigidaire. Ben gasped his belly away from it. For a moment the world went gray. Henry's mouth was moving but Ben couldn't tell what he was saying. Henry was like a TV with the sound turned off and the world was swimming . . . swimming . . .
Don't you dare faint! the panicky voice shrieked. If you faint he may get mad enough to kill y ou!
The world came back into some kind of focus. He saw that both Belch and Victor had stopped laughing. They looked nervous . . . almost scared. Seeing that had the effect of a head-clearing slap on Ben. All of a sudden they don't know what he's going to do, or how far he might go. However bad you thought things were, that's how bad they really are . . . maybe even a little worse. You got to think. If you never did before or never do again, you better think now. Because his eyes say they're right to look nervous. His eyes say he's crazy as a bedbug.
'That's the wrong answer, Tits,' Henry said. 'If just anyone says "Let me copy," I don't give a red fuck what you do. Got it?'
'Yes,' Ben said, his belly hitching with sobs. 'Yes, I got it.'
'Well, okay. That's one wrong, but the biggies are still coming up. You ready for the biggies?'
'I . . . I guess so.'
A car came slowly toward them. It was a dusty '51 Ford with an old man and woman propped up in the front seat like a pair of neglected department store mannequins. Ben saw the old man's head turn slowly toward him. Henry stepped closer to Ben, hiding the knife. Ben could feel its point dimpling his flesh just above his bellybutton. It was still cold. He didn't see how that could be, but it was.
'Go ahead, yell,' Henry said. 'You'll be pickin your fuckin guts off your sneakers.' They were close enough to kiss. Ben could smell the sweet smell of Juicy Fruit gum on Henry's breath.
The car passed and continued on down Kansas Street, as slow and serene as the pace car in the Tournament of Roses Parade.
'All right, Tits, here's the second question. If I say "Let me copy" during finals, what are you going to say?'
'Yes. I'll say yes. Right away.'
Henry smiled. 'That's good. You got that one right, Tits. Now here's the third question: how am I going to be sure you never forget that?'
'I . . . I don't know,' Ben whispered.
Henry smiled. His face lit up and was for a moment almost handsome. 'I know!' he said, as if he had discovered a great truth. 'I know, Tits! I'll carve my name on your big fat gut!'
Victor and Belch abruptly began laughing again. For a moment Ben felt a species of bewildered relief, thinking it had all been nothing but make-believe — a little shuck-and-jive the three of them had whomped up to scare the living hell out of him. But Henry Bowers wasn't laughing, and Ben suddenly understood that Victor and Belch were laughing because they were relieved. It was obvious to both of them that Henry couldn't be serious. Except Henry was .
The Buck knife slid upward, smooth as butter. Blood welled in a bright red line on Ben's pallid skin.
'Hey!' Victor cried. The word came out muffled, in a startled gulp.
'Hold him!' Henry snarled. 'You just hold him, hear me?' Now there was nothing grave and reflective on Henry's face; now it was the twisted face of a devil.
'Jeezwm-crow Henry don't really cut im!' Belch screamed, and his voice was high, almost a girl's voice.
Everything happened fast then, b ut to Ben Hanscom it all seemed slow; it all seemed to happen in a series of shutterclicks, like action stills in a Life-magazine photo –essay. His panic was gone. He had discovered something inside him suddenly, and because it had no use for panic, that something just ate the panic whole.
In the first shutterclick, Henry had snatched his sweatshirt all the way up to his nipples. Blood was pouring from the shallow vertical cut above his bellybutton.
In the second shutterclick, Henry drew the knife down again, operating fast, like a lunatic battle –surgeon under an aerial bombardment. Fresh blood Sowed.
Backward, Ben thought coldly as blood flowed down and pooled between the waistband of his jeans and his skin. Got to go backward. That's the only direction I can get away in. Belch and Victor weren't holding him anymore. In spite of Henry's command, they had drawn away. They had drawn away in horror. But if he ran, Bowers would catch him.
In the third shutterclick, Henry connected the two vertical slashes with a short horizontal line. Ben could feel blood running into his underpants now, and a sticky snail-trail was creeping down his left thigh.
Henry leaned back momentarily, frowning with the studied concentration of an artist painting a landscape. After H comes E, Ben thought, and that was all it took to get him moving. He pulled forward a little bit and Henry shoved him back again. Ben pushed with his legs, adding his own force to Henry's. He hit the white-washed railing between Kansas Street and the drop into the Barrens. As he did, he raised his right foot and planted it in Henry's belly. This was not a retaliatory act; Ben only wanted to increase his backward force. And yet when he saw the expression of utter surprise on Henry's face, he was filled with a clear savage joy — a feeling so intense that for a split second he thought the top of his head was going to come off.