Dreamcatcher

19

“Boss.”

Kurtz was on the verge of dozing again when Perlmutter turned-not without effort-and spoke to him. They had just gone through the New Hampshire tolls, Freddy Johnson being careful to use the automated exact-change lane (he was afraid a human toll-taker might notice the stench in the Humvee’s cabin, the broken window in back, the weaponry… or all three).

Kurtz looked into Archie Perlmutter’s sweat-streaked, haggard face with interest. With fascination, even. The colorless bean-counting bureaucrat, he of the briefcase on station and clipboard in the field, hair always neatly combed and parted ruler-straight on the left? The man who could not for the life of him train himself out of using the word sir? That man was gone. Thin though it was, he thought Pearly’s countenance had somehow richened. He’s turning into Ma Joad, Kurtz thought, and almost giggled.

“Boss, I’m still thirsty.” Pearly cast longing eyes on Kurtz’s Pepsi, then blew out another hideous fart. Ma Joad on trumpet in hell Kurtz thought and this time he did giggle. Freddy cursed, but not with his former shocked disgust; now he sounded resigned, almost bored.

“I’m afraid this is mine, buck,” Kurtz. “And I’m a wee parched myself.”

Perlmutter began to speak, then winced as a fresh pain struck him. He fatted again, the sound thinner this time, not a trumpet but an untalented child blowing over a piccolo. His eyes narrowed, became crafty. “Give me a drink and I’ll tell you something you want to know.” A pause. “Something you need to know.”

Kurtz considered. Pain slapped the side of the car and came in through the busted window. The goddamned window was a pain in the ass, praise Jesus, the arm of his jacket was soaked right through, but he would have to bear up. Who was responsible, after all?

“You are,” Pearly said, and Kurtz jumped. The mind-reading thing was just so spooky. You thought you were getting used to it and then realized that no negative, you were not. “You’re responsible. So give me a fucking drink. Boss.”

“Watch your mouth, cheeseboy,” Freddy rumbled.

“Tell me what you know and you can have the rest of this.” Kurtz raised the Pepsi bottle, waggling it in front of Pearly’s tortured gaze. Kurtz was not without humorous self-loathing as he did this. Once he had commanded whole units and had used them to alter entire geopolitical landscapes. Now his command was two men and a soft drink. He had fallen low. Pride had brought him low, praise God. He had the pride of Satan, and if it was a fault, it was a hard one to give up. Pride was the belt you could use to hold up your pants even after your pants were gone.

“Do you promise?” Pearly’s red-fizzed tongue came out and licked at his parched lips.

“If I’m lyin I’m dyin,” Kurtz said solemnly. “Hell, buck, read my fucking mind!”

Pearly studied him for a moment and Kurtz could almost feel the man’s creepy little fingers (mats of red stuff now growing under each nail) in his head. An awful sensation, but he bore it.At last Perlmutter seemed satisfied. He nodded. “I’m getting more now,” he said, and then his voice lowered to a confidential, horrified whisper. “It’s eating me, you know. It’s eating my guts. I can feel it.”

Kurtz patted him on the arm. just now they were passing a sign which read WELCOME TO MASSACHUSETTS. “I’m going to take care of you, laddie-buck; I promised, didn’t I? Meantime, tell me what you’re getting.”

“Mr Gray is stopping. He’s hungry. “Kurtz had left his hand on Perlmutter’s arm. Now he tightened his grip, turning his fingernails into talons. “Where?”

“Close to where he’s going. It’s a store.” In a chanting, childish voice that made Kurtz’s skin crawl, Archie Perlmutter said: “'Best bait, why wait? Best bait, why wait?'” Then, resuming a more normal tone: “Jonesy knows Henry and Owen and Duddits are coming. That’s why he made Mr Gray stop.”

The idea of Owen’s catching Jonesy/Mr Gray filled Kurtz with panic. “Archie, listen to me carefully.”

“I’m thirsty,” Perlmutter whined. “I’m thirsty, you son of a bitch.”

Kurtz held the Pepsi bottle up in front of Perlmutter’s eyes, then slapped away Perlmutter’s hand when Pearly reached for it.

“Do Henry, Owen, and Dud-Duts know Jonesy and Mr Gray have stopped?”

“Dud-dits, you old fool!” Perlmutter snarled, then groaned with pain and clutched at his stomach, which was on the rise again. “Dits, dits, Dud-dits! Yes, they know! Duddits helped make Mr Gray hungry! He and Jonesy did it together!”

“I don’t like this,” Freddy said.

Join the club, Kurtz thought.

“Please, boss,” Pearly said. “I’m so thirsty.”

Kurtz gave him the bottle, watched with a jaundiced eye as Perlmutter drained it.

“495, boss,” Freddy announced. “What do I do?”

“Take it,” Perlmutter said. “Then 90 west.” He burped. It was loud but blessedly odorless. “It wants another Pepsi. It likes the sugar. Also the caffeine.”

Kurtz pondered. Owen knew their quarry had stopped, at least temporarily. Now Owen and Henry would sprint, trying to make up as much of that ninety to a hundred-minute lag as they could. Consequently, they must sprint, as well.

Any cops who got in their way would have to die, God bless them. One way or the other, this was coming to a head.

“Freddy.”

“Boss.”

“Pedal to the metal. Make this bitch strut, God love you. Make her strut.”

Freddy Johnson did as ordered.

20

There was no barn, no corral, no paddock, and instead Of OUT-OF-STATE LICS the sign in the window showed a photograph of the Quabbin Reservoir over the legend BEST BAIT, WHY WAIT?, but otherwise the little store could have been Gosselin’s all over again: same ratty siding, same mud-brown shingles, same crooked chimney dribbling smoke into the rainy sky, same rusty gas-pump out front. Another sign leaned against the pump, this one reading NO GAS BLAME THE RAGHEADS.

On that early afternoon in November the store was empty save for the proprietor, a gentleman named Deke McCaskell. Like most other folks, he had spent the morning glued to the TV. All the coverage (repetitive stuff, for the most part, and with that part of the North Woods cordoned off, no good pictures of anything but Army, Navy, and Air Force hardware) had led up to the President’s speech. Deke called the President Okeefenokee, on account of the fucked-up way he’d been elected-couldn’t anybody down there fucking count? Although he had not exercised his own option to vote since the Gipper (now there had been a President), Deke hated President Okeefenokee, thought he was an oily, untrustworthy motherfucker with big teeth (good-looking wife, though), and he thought the President’s eleven o'clock speech had been the usual blah-dee-blah. Deke didn’t believe a word old Okeefenokee said. In his view, the whole thing was probably a hoax, scare tactics calculated to make the American taxpayer more willing to hike defense spending and thus taxes. There was nobody out there in space, science had proved it. The only aliens in America (except for President Okeefenokee himself, that was) were the beaners who swam across the border from Mexico. But people were scared, sitting home and watching TV. A few would be in later for beer or bottles of wine, but for now the place was as dead as a cat run over in the highway.

Deke had turned off the TV half an hour ago-enough was enough, by the Christ-and when the bell over his door jangled at quarter past one, he was studying a magazine from the rack at the back of the store, where a sign proclaimed B 21 OR B GONE. This particular periodical was titled Lasses in Glasses, a fair title since all the lasses within were wearing spectacles. Nothing else, but glasses, si.

He looked up at the newcomer, started to say something like “How ya doin” or “Roads gettin slippery yet,” and then didn’t. He felt a bolt of unease, followed by a sudden certainty that he was going to be robbed… and if robbery was all, he’d be off lucky. He never had been robbed, not in the twelve years he’d owned the place-if a fellow wanted to risk prison for a handful of cash, there were places in the area where bigger handfuls could be had. A guy would have to be…

Deke swallowed. A guy would have to be crazy, he’d been thinking, and maybe this guy was, maybe he was one of those maniacs who’d just offed his whole family and then decided to ramble around a bit, kill a few more folks before turning one of his guns on himself.

Deke wasn’t paranoid by nature (he was lumpish by nature, his ex-wife would have told you), but that didn’t change the fact that he felt suddenly menaced by the afternoon’s first customer. He didn’t care very much for the fellows who sometimes turned up and loafed around the store, talking about the patriots or the Red Sox or telling stories about the whoppers they’d caught up to the Reservoir, but he wished for a few of them now. A whole gang of them, actually.

The man just stood there inside the door at first, and yeah, there was something wrong with him. He was wearing an orange hunting coat and deer season hadn’t started yet in Massachusetts, but that could have been nothing. What Deke didn’t like were the scratches on the man’s face, as if he had spent at least some of the last couple of days going cross-country through the woods, and the haunted, drawn quality of the features themselves. His mouth was moving, as though he was talking to himself. Something else, too. The gray afternoon light slanting in through the dusty front window glinted oddly on his lips and chin.

That sonofabitch is drooling, Deke thought. Be goddamned if he ain’t.

The newcomer’s head snapped around in quick little tics while his body remained perfectly still, reminding Deke of the way an owl remains perfectly still on its branch as it looks for prey. Deke thought briefly of sliding out of his chair and hiding under the counter, but before he could do more than begin to consider the pros and cons of such a move (not a particularly quick thinker, his ex-wife would have told you that, as well), the guy’s head did another of those quick flicks and was pointing right at him.

The rational part of Deke’s mind had been harboring the hope (it was not quite an articulated idea) that he was imagining the whole thing, just suffering the whimwhams from all the weird news and weirder rumors, each dutifully reported by the press, coming out of northern Maine. Maybe this was just a guy who wanted smokes or a six-pack or maybe a bottle of coffee brandy and a stroke-book, something to get him through a long, sleety night in a motel outside of Ware or Belchertown.

That hope died when the man’s eyes met his.

It wasn’t the gaze of a family-murdering maniac off on his own private cruise to nowhere; it almost would have been better if that had been the case. The newcomer’s eyes, far from empty, were too full. A million thoughts and ideas seemed to be crossing them, like one of those big-city

tickertapes being run at super speed. They seemed almost to be hopping in their sockets.

And they were the hungriest eyes Deke McCaskell had seen in his entire life.

“We’re closed,” Deke said. The words came out in a croak that didn’t sound like his voice at all. “Me and my partner-he’s in the back-we closed for the day. On account of the goings-on up north. I-we, I mean-just forgot to flip over the sign. We-”

He might have run on for hours-days, even-but the man in the hunting coat interrupted him. “Bacon,” he said. “Where is it?”