Dreamcatcher (12 page)

“Four quick points,” Henry said. “First, you can't have a town meeting in the Jefferson Tract because there's no town—even Kineo's just an unincorporated township with a name. Second, the meeting will be held around Old Man Gosselin's Franklin stove and half those attending will be shot on peppermint schnapps or coffee brandy.”

Pete snickered.

“Third, what else have they got to do? And fourth—this concerns the hunters—they probably either got tired of it and went home, or they all got drunk and decided to get rich at the rez casino up in Carrabassett.”

“You think, huh?” Pete looked crestfallen, and
Henry felt a great wave of affection for him. He reached over and patted Pete's knee.

“Never fear,” he said. “The world is full of strange things.” If the world had really been full of strange things, Henry doubted he would have been so eager to leave it, but if there was one thing a psychiatrist knew how to do (other than write prescriptions for Prozac and Paxil and Ambien, that was), it was tell lies.

“Four hunters all disappearing at the same time seems pretty strange to me, all right.”

“Not a bit,” Henry said, and laughed. “
One
would be odd.
Two
would be strange. Four? They went off together, depend on it.”

“How far are we from Hole in the Wall, Henry?” Which, when translated, meant
Do I have time for another beer?

Henry had zeroed the Scout's tripmeter at Gosselin's, an old habit that went back to his days working for the State of Massachusetts, where the deal had been twelve cents a mile and all the psychotic geriatrics you could write up. The mileage between the store and the Hole was easy enough to remember: 22.2. The odometer currently read 12.7, which meant—

“Look out!”
Pete shouted, and Henry snapped his gaze back to the windshield.

The Scout had just topped the steep rise of a tree-covered ridge. The snow here was thicker than ever, but Henry was running with the high beams on and clearly saw the person sitting in the road about a hundred feet ahead—a person wearing a duffel coat, an
orange vest that blew backward like Superman's cape in the strengthening wind, and one of those Russian fur hats. Orange ribbons had been attached to the hat, and they also blew back in the wind, reminding Henry of the streamers you sometimes saw strung over used-car lots. The guy was sitting in the middle of the road like an Indian that wants to smoke-um peace pipe, and he did not move when the headlights struck him. For one moment Henry saw the sitting figure's eyes, wide open but still, so still and bright and blank, and he thought:
That's how my eyes would look if I didn't guard them so closely.

There was no time to stop, not with the snow. Henry twisted the wheel to the right and felt the thump as the Scout came out of the ruts again. He caught another glimpse of the white, still face and had time to think,
Why, goddam! It's a woman.

Once out of the ruts the Scout began to skid again at once. This time Henry turned against it, deliberately snowplowing the wheels to deepen the skid, knowing without even thinking about it (there was no time to think) that it was the road-sitter's only chance. And he didn't rate it much of one, at that.

Pete screamed, and from the corner of his eye, Henry saw him raise his hands in front of his face, palms out in a warding-off gesture. The Scout tried to go broadside and
now
Henry spun the wheel back, trying to control the skid just enough so that the rear end wouldn't smash the road-sitter's face backward into her skull. The wheel spun with greasy, giddy ease under his gloved hands. For perhaps three seconds the Scout shot down
the snow-covered Deep Cut Road at a forty-five-degree angle, a thing belonging partly to Henry Devlin and partly to the storm. Snow flew up and around it in a fine spray; the headlights painted the snow-slumped pines on the left side of the road in a pair of moving spots. Three seconds, not long, but just long enough. He saw the figure pass by as if she were moving instead of them, except she never moved, not even when the rusty edge of the Scout's bumper flirted past her with perhaps no more than an inch of snowy air between it and her face.

Missed you!
Henry exulted.
Missed you, you bitch!
Then the last thin thread of control broke and the Scout broached broadside. There was a juddering vibration as the wheels found the ruts again, only crosswise this time. It was still trying to turn all the way around, swapping ends—
Frontsies-backsies!
they used to cry when in line back in grammar school—and then it hit a buried rock or perhaps a small fallen tree with a terrific thud and rolled over, first on the passenger side, the windows over there disintegrating into glittering crumbs, then over onto the roof. One side of Henry's seatbelt broke, spilling him onto the roof on his left shoulder. His balls thumped against the steering column, producing instant leaden pain. The turnsignal stalk broke off against his thigh and he felt blood begin to run at once, soaking his jeans.
The claret,
as the old boxing radio announcers used to call it, as in
Look out, folks, the claret has begun to flow.
Pete was yelling or screaming or both.

For several seconds the overturned Scout's engine
continued to run, then gravity did its work and the motor died. Now it was just an overturned hulk in the road, wheels still spinning, lights shining at the snow-loaded trees on the left side of the road. One of them went out, but the other continued to shine.

2

Henry had talked with Jonesy a lot about his accident (listened, really; therapy was creative listening), and he knew that Jonesy had no memory of the actual collision. As far as Henry could tell, he himself never lost consciousness following the Scout's flip, and the chain of recollection remained intact. He remembered fumbling for the seatbelt clasp, wanting to be all the way free of the fucking thing, while Pete bellowed that his leg was broken, his cocksucking
leg
was broken. He remembered the steady
whick-thump, whick-thump
of the windshield wipers and the glow of the dashlights, which were now up instead of down. He found the seatbelt clasp, lost it, found it again, and pushed it. The seatbelt's lap-strap released him and he thumped awkwardly against the roof, shattering the domelight's plastic cover.

He flailed with his hand, found the doorhandle, couldn't move it.

“
My leg!
Oh man, my fucking
leg
!”

“Shut up about it,” Henry said. “Your leg's okay.” As if he knew. He found the doorhandle again, yanked, and there was nothing. Then he realized why—he was upside down and yanking the wrong way. He reversed
his grip and the domelight's uncovered bulb glared hotly in his eye as the door clicked open. He shoved the door with the back of his hand, sure there would be no real result; the frame was probably bent and he'd be lucky to get six inches.

But the door grated and suddenly he could feel snow swirling coldly around his face and neck. He pushed harder on the door, getting his shoulder into it, and it wasn't until his legs came free of the steering column that he realized they had been hung up. He did half a somersault and was suddenly regarding his own denim-covered crotch at close range, as if he had decided to try and kiss his throbbing balls, make them all well. His diaphragm folded in on itself and it was hard to breathe.

“Henry, help me! I'm caught! I'm fuckin
caught
!”

“Just a minute.” His voice sounded squeezed and high, hardly his own voice at all. Now he could see the upper left leg of his jeans darkening with blood. The wind in the pines sounded like God's own Electrolux.

He grabbed the doorpost, grateful he'd left his gloves on while he was driving, and gave a tremendous yank—he had to get out, had to unfold his diaphragm so he could breathe.

For a moment nothing happened, and then Henry popped out like a cork out of a bottle. He lay where he was for a moment, panting and looking up into a sifting, falling net of snow. There was nothing odd about the sky then; he would have sworn to it in court on a stack of Bibles. Just the low gray bellies of the clouds and the psychedelic downrush of the snow.

Pete was calling his name again and again, with increasing panic.

Henry rolled over, got to his knees, and when that went all right he lurched to his feet. He only stood for a moment, swaying in the wind and waiting to see if his bleeding left leg would buckle and spill him into the snow again. It didn't, and he limped around the back of the overturned Scout to see what he could do about Pete. He spared one glance at the woman who had caused all this fuckarow. She sat as she had, cross-legged in the middle of the road, her thighs and the front of her parka frosted with snow. Her vest snapped and billowed. So did the ribbons attached to her cap. She had not turned to look at them but stared back in the direction of Gosselin's Market just as she had when they came over the rise and saw her. One swooping, curving tire-track in the snow came within a foot of her cocked left leg, and he had no idea, absolutely none at all, how he could have missed her.

“Henry!
Henry, help me!
”

He hurried on, slipping in the new snow as he rounded the passenger side. Pete's door was stuck, but when Henry got on his knees and yanked with both hands, it came open about halfway. He reached in, grabbed Pete's shoulder, and yanked. Nothing.

“Unbuckle your belt, Pete.”

Pete fumbled but couldn't seem to find it even though it was right in front of him. Working carefully, with not the slightest feeling of impatience (he supposed he might be in shock), Henry unclipped the belt and Pete thumped to the roof, his head bending
sideways. He screamed in mingled surprise and pain and then came floundering and yanking his way out of the half-open door. Henry grabbed him under his arms and pulled backward. They both went over in the snow and Henry was afflicted with
déjà vu
so strong and so sudden it was like swooning. Hadn't they played just this way as kids? Of course they had. The day they'd taught Duddits how to make snow angels, for one. Someone began to laugh, startling him badly. Then he realized it was him.

Pete sat up, wild-eyed and glowering, the back of him covered with snow. “The fuck are
you
laughing about? That asshole almost got us killed! I'm gonna strangle the son of a bitch!”

“Not her son but the bitch herself,” Henry said. He was laughing harder than ever and thought it quite likely that Pete didn't understand what he was saying—especially with the wind thrown in—but he didn't care. Seldom had he felt so delicious.

Pete flailed to his feet much as Henry had done himself, and Henry was just about to say something wise, something about how Pete was moving pretty well for a guy with a broken leg, when Pete went back down with a cry of pain. Henry went to him and felt Pete's leg, thrust out in front of him. It seemed intact, but who could tell through two layers of clothing?

“It ain't broke after all,” Pete said, but he was panting with pain. “Fucker's locked up is all, just like when I was playin football. Where is she? You sure it's a woman?”

“Yes.”

Pete got up and hobbled around the front of the car holding his knee. The remaining headlight still shone bravely into the snow. “She better be crippled or blind, that's all I can say,” he told Henry. “If she's not, I'm gonna kick her ass all the way back to Gosselin's.”

Henry began to laugh again. It was the mental picture of Pete hopping . . . then
kicking.
Like some fucked-up Rockette. “Peter, don't you really hurt her!” he shouted, suspecting any severity he might have managed was negated by the fact that he was speaking between gusts of maniacal laughter.

“I won't unless she puts some sass on me,” Pete said. The words, carried back to Henry on the wind, had an offended-old-lady quality to them that made him laugh harder than ever. He scooted down his jeans and long underwear and stood there in his Jockeys to see how badly the turnsignal stalk had wounded him.

It was a shallow gash about three inches long on the inside of his thigh. It had bled copiously—was still oozing—but Henry didn't think it was deep.

“What in the
hell
did you think you were doing?” Pete scolded from the other side of the overturned Scout, whose wipers were still
whick-thumping
back and forth. And although Pete's tirade was laced with profanity (much of it decidedly Beaverish), his friend still sounded to Henry like an offended old lady schoolteacher, and this got him laughing again as he hauled up his britches.

“Why you sittin out here in the middle of the
motherfuckin road in the middle of a motherfuckin snowstorm? You drunk? High on drugs? What kind of dumb doodlyfuck are you? Hey, talk to me! You almost got me n my buddy killed, the least you can do is . . .
oww, FUCK-ME-FREDDY!
”

Henry came around the wreck just in time to see Pete fall over beside Ms. Buddha. His leg must have locked up again. She never looked at him. The orange ribbons on her hat blew out behind her. Her face was raised into the storm, wide eyes not blinking as the snowflakes whirled into them to melt on their warm living lenses, and Henry felt, in spite of everything, his professional curiosity aroused. Just what had they found here?

3

“Oww, fuck me sideways, shit-a-goddam, don't that fuckin HURT!”

“Are you all right?” Henry asked, and that started him laughing again. What a foolish question.

“Do I
sound
all right, shrink-boy?” Pete asked waspishly, but when Henry bent toward him, he raised one hand and waved him away. “Nah, I got it, it's lettin go, check Princess Dipshit. She just
sits
there.”

Henry dropped to his knees in front of the woman, wincing at the pain—his legs, yes, but his shoulder also hurt where he had banged it on the roof and his neck was stiffening rapidly—but still chuckling.