Dreamcatcher

No mistaking Kurtz’s rasp, Kurtz who had gotten clear of the red crap in plenty of time. Almost, Owen thought, as if he knew what was going to happen.

“Get your ass out of there now, or I guarantee that by next week you’ll be shovelling camel-shit in a hot climate where booze is illegal. Out.”

Nothing more from Blue Boy Three. The two surviving gunships pulled back to their original rally-point plus a hundred and fifty yards. Owen sat watching the furious upward spiral of the Ripley fungus, wondering if Kurtz had known or just intuited, wondering if he and Blakey had cleared the area in time. Because they were infectious, of course; whatever the grayboys said, they were infectious. Owen didn’t know if that justified what they had just done, but he thought the survivors of Pay Deforest’s Blue Boy Four were most likely dead men walking. Or worse: live men changing. Turning into God knew what.

“Owen.” The radio.

Tony looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“Owen.”

Sighing, Owen flicked the toggle over to Kurtz’s closed channel with his chin. “I’m here, boss.”

9

Kurtz sat in the Kiowa with the newspaper hat still in his lap. He and Freddy were wearing their masks; so were the rest of boys in the attack group. Likely even the poor fellows now on the ground were still wearing them. The masks were probably unnecessary, but Kurtz, who had no intention of contracting Ripley if he could avoid it, was the big cheese. Among other things, he was supposed to set an example. Besides, he played the odds. As for Freddy Johnson… well, he had plans for Freddy.

“I’m here, boss,” Underhill said in his phones.

“That was good shooting, better flying, and superlative thinking. You saved some lives. You and I are back where we were. Right back to Square One. Got that?”

“I do, boss. Got it and appreciate it.”

And if you believe it, Kurtz thought, you’re even stupider than you look.

10

Behind Owen, Cavanaugh was still making noises, but the volume was decreasing now. Nothing from Joe Blakey, who was maybe coming to understand the implications of that gauzy red-gold whirlwind, which they might or might not have managed to avoid.

“Everything okay, buck?” Kurtz asked.

“We have some injuries,” Owen replied, “but basically five-by. Work for the sweepers, though; it’s a mess back there,” Kurtz’s crowlike laughter came back, loud in Owen’s headphones.

11

“Freddy-”

“Yes, boss.”

“We need to keep an eye on Owen Underhill.”

“Okay.”

“If we need to leave suddenly-Imperial Valley-Underhill stays here.”

Freddy Johnson said nothing, just nodded and flew the helicopter. Good lad. Knew which side of the line he belonged on, unlike some.Kurtz again turned to him. “Freddy, get us back to that godforsaken little store and don’t spare the horses. I want to be

there at least fifteen minutes before Owen and Joe Blakey. Twenty, if possible.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And I want a secure satellite uplink to Cheyenne Mountain.”

“You got it. Take about five.”

“Make it three, buck. Make it three.”

Kurtz settled back and watched the pine forest flow under them. So much forest, so much wildlife, and not a few human beings-most of them at this time of year wearing orange. And a week from now maybe in seventy-two hours-it would all be as dead as the mountains of the moon. A shame, but if there was one thing of which there was no shortage in Maine, it was woods.

Kurtz spun the cocked hat on the end of his finger. If possible, he intended to see Owen Underhill wearing it after he had ceased breathing.

“He just wanted to hear if any of it had changed,” Kurtz said softly.

Freddy Johnson, who knew which side his bread was buttered on, said nothing.

12

Halfway back to Gosselin’s and Kurtz’s speedy little Kiowa already a speck that might or might not still be there, Owen’s eyes fixed on Tony Edward’s right hand, which was gripping one branch of the Chinook’s Y-shaped steering yoke. At the base of the right thumbnail, fine as a spill of sand, was a curving line of reddish-gold. Owen looked down at his own hands, inspecting them as closely as Mrs. Jankowski had during Personal Hygiene, back in those long-ago days when the Rapeloews had been their neighbors. He could see nothing yet, not on his, but Tony had his mark, and Owen guessed his own would come in time.

Baptists the Underhills had been, and Owen was familiar with the story of Cain and Abel. The voice of thy brother’s blood cried unto me from the ground, God had said, and he had sent Cain out to live in the land of Nod, to the east of Eden. With the low men, according to his mother. But before Cain was set loose to wander, God had put a mark upon him, so even the low men of Nod would know him for what he was. And now, seeing that red-gold thread on the nail of Eddie’s thumb and looking for it on his own hands and wrists, Owen guessed he knew what color Cain’s mark had been.

Chapter Eleven THE EGGMAN’s JOURNEY

1

Suicide, Henry had discovered, had a voice. It wanted to explain itself The problem was that it didn’t speak much English; mostly it lapsed into its own fractured pidgin. But it didn’t matter; just the talking seemed to be enough. Once Henry allowed suicide its voice, his life had improved enormously. He even had nights when he slept again (not a lot of them, but enough), and he had never had a really bad day.

Until today. It had been Jonesy’s body on the Arctic Cat, but the thing now inside his old friend was full of alien images and alien purpose. Jonesy might also still be inside-Henry rather thought he was-but if so, he was now too deep, too small and powerless, to be of any use. Soon Jonesy would be gone completely, and that would likely be a mercy.

Henry had been afraid the thing now running Jonesy would sense him, but it went by without slowing. Toward Pete. And then what? Then where? Henry didn’t want to think, didn’t want to care.

At last he started back to camp again, not because there was anything left at Hole in the Wall but because there was no place else to go. As he reached the gate with its one-word sign-CLARENDON-he spat another tooth into his gloved hand, looked at it, then tossed it away. The snow was over, but the sky was still dark and he thought the wind was picking up again. Had the radio said something about a storm with a one-two punch? He couldn’t remember, wasn’t sure it mattered.

Somewhere to the west of him, a huge explosion hammered the day. Henry looked dully in that direction, but could see nothing. Something had either crashed or exploded, and at least some of the nagging voices in his head had stopped. He had no idea if those things were related or not, no idea if he should care. He stepped through the open gate, walking on the packed snow marked with the tread of the departing Arctic Cat, and approached Hole in the Wall.

The generator brayed steadily, and above the granite slab that served as their welcome mat, the door stood open. Henry paused outside for a moment, examining the slab. At first he thought there was blood on it, but blood, either fresh or dried, did not have that unique red-gold sheen. No, he was looking at some sort of organic growth. Moss or maybe fungus. And something else…

Henry tipped his head back, flared his nostrils, and sniffed gently-he had a memory, both clear and absurd, of being in Maurice’s a month ago with his ex- wife, smelling the wine the sommelier had just poured, seeing Rhonda there across the table and thinking, We sniff the wine, dogs sniff each other’s assholes, and it all comes to about the same. Then, in a flash, the memory of the milk running down his father’s chin had come, He had smiled at Rhonda, she had smiled back, and he had thought what a relief the end would be, and if it were done, than “twere well it were done quickly.

What he smelled now wasn’t wine but a marshy, sulfurous odor. For a moment he couldn’t place it, then it came: the woman who had wrecked them. The smell of her wrong innards was here, too.

Henry stepped onto the granite slab, aware that he had come to this place for the last time, feeling the weight of all the years-the laughs, the talks, the beers, the occasional lid of pot, a food-fight in “96 (or maybe it had been “97), the gunshots, that bitter mixed smell of powder and blood that meant deer season, the smell of death and friendship and childhood’s brilliance.

As he stood there, he sniffed again. Much stronger, and now more chemical than organic, perhaps because there was so much of it. He looked inside. There was more of that fuzzy, mildev,7ystuff on the floor, but you could see the hardwood. On the Navajo rug, however, it had already grown so thick that it was hard to make out the pattern. No doubt whatever it was did better in the heat, but still, the rate of growth was scary.