Dreamcatcher (70 page)

“I don't need a guilt-trip from someone who was planning to barbecue a few hundred civilians,” Henry grumbled.

Owen stamped on the brake with both feet, throwing them forward into their harnesses again, this time hard enough to lock them. The Humvee skidded to a diagonal stop in the street.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Don't be talking shit you don't understand.

“I'm likely going to be a”

dead man because of

“you, so why don't you just keep all your fucking”

self-indulgent

(picture of a spoiled-looking kid with his lower lip stuck out)

“rationalizing bullshit”

to yourself.

Henry stared at him, shocked and stunned. When was the last time someone had talked to him that way? The answer was probably never.

“I only care about one thing,” Owen said. His face was pale and strained and exhausted. “I want to find your Typhoid Jonesy and stop him. All right? Fuck your precious tender feelings, fuck how tired you are, and fuck you. I'm here.”

“All right,” Henry said.

“I don't need lessons in morality from a guy planning to blow his overeducated, self-indulgent brains out.”

“Okay.”

“So fuck
your
mother and die.”

Silence inside the Humvee. Nothing from outside but the monotonous vacuum-cleaner shriek of the wind.

At last Henry said, “Here's what we'll do. I'll fuck
your
mother, then die; you fuck
my
mother, then die. At least we'll avoid the incest taboo.”

Owen began to smile. Henry smiled back.

What're Jonesy and Mr. Gray doing?
Owen asked Henry.
Can you tell?

Henry licked at his lips. The itching in his leg had largely stopped, but his tongue tasted like an old piece of shag rug. “No. They're cut off. Gray's responsible for that, probably. And your fearless leader? Kurtz? He's getting closer, isn't he?”

“Yeah. If we're going to maintain any kind of lead on him at all, we better make this quick.”

“Then we will.” Owen scratched the red stuff on the side of his face, looked at the bits of red that came off on his fingers, then got moving again.

Number 41, you said?

Yeah. Owen?

What?

I'm scared.

Of Duddits?

Sort of, yeah.

Why?

I don't know.

Henry looked at Owen bleakly.

I feel like there's something wrong with him.

7

It was her after-midnight fantasy made real, and when the knock came at the door, Roberta was unable to get up. Her legs felt like water. The night was gone, but it had been replaced by a pallid, creepy morning light that wasn't much better, and they were out there, Pete and Beav, the dead ones had come for her son.

The fist fell again, booming, rattling the pictures on the walls. One of them was a framed front page of the Derry
News,
the photo showing Duddits, his friends, and Josie Rinkenhauer, all of them with their arms around each other, all of them grinning like mad (how well Duddits had looked in that picture, how strong and normal) below a headline reading
HIGH-SCHOOL CHUMS PLAY DETECTIVE, FIND MISSING GIRL.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

No,
she thought,
I'll just sit here and eventually they'll go away, they'll have to go away, because with dead people you have to invite them in and if I just sit tight—

But then Duddits was running past her rocker—
running,
when these days just walking wore him out, and his eyes were full of their old blazing brightness, such good boys they had been and such happiness they had brought him, but now they were
dead,
they had come to him through the storm and they were
dead
—

“Duddie, no!”
she screamed, but he paid her no attention. He rushed past that old framed picture—Duddits Cavell on the front page, Duddits Cavell a hero, would wonders never cease—and she heard what he was shouting just as he opened the door on the dying storm:

“Ennie! Ennie! ENNIE!”

8

Henry opened his mouth—to say what he never knew, because nothing came out. He was thunderstruck,
dumbstruck. This wasn't Duddits, couldn't be—it was some sickly uncle or older brother, pale and apparently bald beneath his pushed-back Red Sox cap. There was stubble on his cheeks, crusts of blood around his nostrils, and deep dark circles beneath his eyes. And yet—

“Ennie! Ennie! Ennie!”

The tall, pale stranger in the doorway threw himself into Henry's arms with all of Duddie's old extravagance, knocking him backward on the snowy step not by force of his weight—he was as light as milkweed fluff—but simply because Henry was unprepared for the assault. If Owen hadn't steadied him, he and Duddits would have gone tumbling into the snow.

“Ennie! Ennie!”

Laughing. Crying. Covering him with those big old Duddits smackeroos. Deep in the storehouse of his memory, Beaver Clarendon whispered,
If you guys tell anybody he did that
 . . . And Jonesy:
Yeah, yeah, you'll never chum with us again, ya fuckin wank.
It was Duddits, all right, kissing Henry's byrus-speckled cheeks . . . but the pallor on Duddits's cheeks, what was that? He was so thin—no, beyond thin,
gaunt
—and what was that? The blood in his nostrils, the smell drifting off his skin . . . not the smell that had been coming from Becky Shue, not the smell of the overgrown cabin, but a deathly smell just the same.

And here was Roberta, standing in the hall beside a photograph of Duddits and Alfie at the Derry Days carnival, riding the carousel, dwarfing their wild-eyed plastic horses and laughing.

Didn't go to Alfie's funeral, but sent a card,
Henry thought, and loathed himself.

She was wringing her hands together, her eyes full of tears, and although she had put on weight at breast and hip, although her hair was now almost entirely gray, it was her, she was still she, but Duddits . . . oh boy,
Duddits
 . . .

Henry looked at her, his arms wrapped around the old friend who was still crying his name. He patted at Duddits's shoulder blade. It felt insubstantial beneath his palm, as fragile as the bone in a bird's wing.

“Roberta,” he said. “Roberta, my God! What's wrong with him?”

“ALL,” she said, and managed a wan smile. “Sounds like a laundry detergent, doesn't it? It stands for acute lymphocytic leukemia. He was diagnosed nine months ago, and by then curing him was no longer an option. All we've been doing since then is fighting the clock.”

“Ennie!” Duddits exclaimed. The old goofy smile illuminated his gray and tired face. “Ay ih, iffun-nay!”

“That's right,” Henry said, and began to cry. “Same shit, different day.”

“I know why you're here,” she said, “but don't. Please, Henry. I'm begging you. Don't take my boy away from me. He's dying.”

9

Kurtz was about to ask Perlmutter for an update on Underhill and his new friend—Henry was the new
friend's name, Henry Devlin—when Pearly let out a long, ululating scream, his face turned up to the roof of the Humvee. Kurtz had helped a woman have a baby in Nicaragua (
and they always call us the bad guys,
he thought sentimentally), and this scream reminded him of hers, heard on the shores of the beautiful La Juvena River.

“Hold on, Pearly!” Kurtz cried. “Hold on, buck! Deep breaths, now!”

“Fuck you!”
Pearly screamed.
“Look what you got me into, you dirty cunt! FUCK YOU!”

Kurtz did not hold this against him. Women said terrible things in childbirth, and while Pearly was definitely one of the fellas, Kurtz had an idea that he was going through something as close to childbirth as any man had ever experienced. He knew it might be wise to put Perlmutter out of his misery—

“You better not,”
Pearly groaned. Tears of pain were rolling down his red-bearded cheeks. “You better not, you lizard-skin old fuck.”

“Don't you worry, laddie,” Kurtz soothed, and patted Perlmutter's shivering shoulder. From ahead of them came the steady clanking rumble of the plow Kurtz had persuaded to break trail for them (as gray light began to creep back into the world, their speed had risen to a giddy thirty-five miles an hour). The plow's taillights glowed like dirty red stars.

Kurtz leaned forward, looking at Perlmutter with bright-eyed interest. It was very cold in the back seat of the Humvee because of the broken window, but for the moment Kurtz didn't notice this. The front of
Pearly's coat was swelling outward like a balloon, and Kurtz once more drew his nine-millimeter.

“Boss, if he pops—”

Before Freddy could finish, Perlmutter produced a deafening fart. The stench was immediate and enormous, but Pearly appeared not to notice. His head lolled back against the seat, his eyes half-lidded, his expression one of sublime relief.

“Oh my fuckin GRANDMOTHER!”
Freddy cried, and cranked his window all the way down despite the draft already coursing through the vehicle.

Fascinated, Kurtz watched Perlmutter's distended belly deflate. Not yet, then. Not yet and probably just as well. It was possible that the thing growing inside Perlmutter's works might come in handy. Not likely, but possible. All things served the Lord, said the Scripture, and that might include the shit-weasels.

“Hold on, soldier,” Kurtz said, patting Pearly's shoulder with one hand and putting the nine on the seat beside him with the other. “You just hold on and think about the Lord.”

“Fuck the Lord,” Perlmutter said sullenly, and Kurtz was mildly amazed. He never would have dreamed Perlmutter could have so much profanity in him.

Ahead of them, the plow's taillights flashed bright and pulled over to the right side of the road.

“Oh-oh,” Kurtz said.

“What should I do, boss?”

“Pull right in behind him,” Kurtz said. He spoke
cheerfully, but picked the nine-millimeter up off the seat again. “We'll see what our new friend wants.” Although he believed he knew. “Freddy, what do you hear from our old friends? Are you picking them up?”

Very reluctantly, Freddy said, “Only Owen. Not the guy with him or the guys they're chasing. Owen's off the road. In a house. Talking with someone.”

“A house in Derry?”

“Yeah.”

And here came the plow's driver, striding through the snow in great green gumrubber boots and a hooded parka fit for an Eskimo. Wrapped around the lower part of his face was a vast woolen muffler, its ends flying out behind him in the wind, and Kurtz didn't have to be telepathic to know the man's wife or mother had made it for him.

The plowman leaned in the window and wrinkled his nose at the lingering aroma of sulfur and ethyl alcohol. He looked doubtfully at Freddy, at the only-half-conscious Perlmutter, then at Kurtz in the back seat, who was leaning forward and looking at him with bright-eyed interest. Kurtz thought it prudent to hold his weapon beneath his left knee, at least for the time being.

“Yes, Cap'n?” Kurtz asked.

“I've had a radio message from a fella says his name is Randall.” The plowman raised his voice to be heard over the wind. His accent was pure downeast Yankee. “
Gen'rul
Randall. Claimed to be talkin to me by satellite relay straight from Cheyenne Mountain in Wyomin.”

“Name means nothing to me, Cap,” Kurtz said in
the same bright tone—absolutely ignoring Perlmutter, who groaned “You lie, you lie, you lie.”

The plow driver's eyes flicked to him, then returned to Kurtz. “Fella gave me a code phrase.
Blue exit.
Mean anything to you?”

“ ‘The name is Bond, James Bond,' ” Kurtz said, and laughed. “Someone's pulling your leg, Cap.”

“Said to tell you that your part of the mission's over and your country thanks you.”

“Did they mention anything about a gold watch, laddie-buck?” Kurtz asked, eyes sparkling.

The plowman licked his lips. It was interesting, Kurtz thought. He could see the exact moment the plowman decided he was dealing with a lunatic. The
exact moment.

“Don't know nawthin bout no gold watch. Just wanted to tell you I can't take you any further. Not without authorization, that is.”

Kurtz produced the nine from where it had been hiding under his knee and pointed it into the plowman's face. “Here's your authorization, buck, all signed and filed in triplicate. Will it suit?”

The plowman looked at the gun with his long Yankee eyes. He did not look particularly afraid. “Ayuh, that looks to be in order.”

Kurtz laughed. “Good man!
Very
good man! Now let's get going. And you want to speed it up a little, God love you. There's someone in Derry I have to” Kurtz searched for
le mot juste,
and found it. “To debrief.”

Perlmutter half-groaned, half-laughed. The plowman glanced at him.

“Don't mind him, he's pregnant,” Kurtz said in a confiding tone. “Next thing you know, he'll be yelling for oysters and dill pickles.”

“Pregnant,” the plowman echoed. His voice was perfectly flat.

“Yes, but never mind that. Not your problem. The thing is, buck—” Kurtz leaned forward, speaking warmly and confidentially over the barrel of his nine-millimeter—“this fellow I have to catch is in Derry
now.
I expect he'll be back on the road again before too long, I'd guess he must know I'm coming for his ass—”

“He knows, all right,” Freddy Johnson said. He scratched the side of his neck, then dropped his hand into his crotch and scratched there.