Dreamcatcher(153)

'A he!' said the man in the doorway. 'A total lie! I'm perfectly clean! One hundred per cent - ' 

McAvoy snatched off the watchcap her second prisoner was wearing. The man's thinning blond hair was much thicker now, and appeared to have been dyed red.

'I can explain, sir,' Archie Perlmutter said, his voice fading even as he spoke. 'There is . . . you see . . . Then it died away entirely.

Kurtz was beaming at him, but he had donned his filter-mask again  -  they all had  -  and it gave his reassuring smile an oddly sinister look, the expression of a child molester inviting a little kid in for a piece of pie.

'Pearly, it's going to be all right,' Kurtz said. 'We're going for a ride, that's all. There's someone we need to find, someone you know - '

'Owen Underhill,' Perlmutter whispered.

'That's right, buck,' Kurtz said. He turned to McAvoy. 'Bring this soldier his clipboard, McAvoy. I'm sure he'll feel better once he has his clipboard. Then you can carry on hunting, which I feel quite sure you're eager to do.'

'Yes, boss.'

'But first, watch this  -  a little trick I learned back in Kansas.' Kurtz sprayed the cards. In the crazy blizzard-wind coming through the door, they flew every whichway. Only one landed faceup in the hat, but it was the ace of spades.

7

Mr Gray held the menu, looking at the lists of stuff  -  meatloaf, sliced beets, roast chicken, chocolate silk pie  -  with interest and an almost total lack of understanding. Jonesy realized it wasn't just not knowing how food tasted; Mr Gray didn't know what taste was. How could he? When you cut to the chase, he was nothing but a mushroom with a high IQ.

Here came a waitress, moving under a vast tableland of frozen ash-blonde hair. The badge on her not inconsiderable bosom read WELCOME TO DYSART'S, I AM YOUR WAITRESS DARLENE.

'Hi, hon, what can I get you?'

'I'd like scrambled eggs and bacon. Crisp, not limp.'

'Toast?'

'How about canpakes?' 

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him over her pad. Beyond her, at the counter, the State Trooper was eating some kind of drippy sandwich and talking with the short-order cook.

'Sorry  -  cakepans, I meant to say.'

The eyebrows went higher. Her question was plain, blinking at the front of her mind like a neon sign in a saloon window: was this guy a mushmouth, or was he making fun of her?

Standing at his office window, smiling, Jonesy relented.

'Pancakes,' Mr Gray said.

'Uh-huh, I sort of figured. Coffee with that?'

'Please.'

She snapped her pad closed and started away. Mr Gray was back at the locked door of Jonesy's office at once, and furious all over again.

How could you do that? he asked. How could you do that from in there? An ill-natured thump as Mr Gray hit the door. And he was more than angry, Jonesy realized. He was frightened, as well. Because if Jonesy could interfere, everything was in jeopardy.

I don't know, Jonesy said, and truthfully enough. But don't take it so hard. Enjoy your breakfast. I was just f**king with you a little.

Why? Still furious. Still drinking from the well of Jonesy's emotions, and liking it in spite of himself. Why would you do that?

Call it payback for trying to roast me in my office while I was sleeping, Jonesy said.

With the restaurant section of the truck stop almost deserted, Darlene was back with the food in no time. Jonesy considered seeing if he could gain control of his mouth long enough to say something outrageous (Darlene, can I bite your hair? was what came to mind), and thought better of it.

She set his plate down, gave him a dubious look, then started away. Mr Gray, looking at the bright yellow lump of eggs and the dark twigs of bacon (not just crispy but almost incinerated, in the great Dysart's tradition) through Jonesy's eyes, was feeling the same dubiety.

Go on, Jonesy said. He was standing at his office window, watching and waiting with amusement and curiosity. Was it possible that the bacon and eggs would kill Mr Gray? Probably not, but it might at least make the hijacking motherf*cker good and sick. Go on, Mr Gray, eat up. Bon - f**kin-appétit.

Mr Gray consulted Jonesy's files on the proper use of the silverware, then picked up a tiny clot of scrambled eggs on the tines of his fork, and put them in Jonesy's mouth.

What followed was both amazing and hilarious. Mr Gray gobbled everything in huge bites, pausing only to drown the pan?cakes in fake maple syrup. He loved it all, but most particularly the bacon.

Flesh! Jonesy heard him exulting  -  it was almost the voice of the creature in one of those corny old monster movies from the thirties. Flesh! Flesh! This is the taste of flesh!

Funny . . . but maybe not all that funny, either. Maybe sort of horrible. The cry of a new-made vampire.

Mr Gray looked around, ascertained that he wasn't being watched (the State Bear was now addressing a large piece of cherry pie), then picked up the plate and licked the grease from it with big swipes of Jonesy's tongue. He finished by licking the sticky syrup from the ends of his fingers.

Darlene returned, poured more coffee, looked at the empty dishes. 'Why, you get a gold star,' she said. 'Anything else?'

'More bacon,' Mr Gray said. He consulted Jonesy's files for the correct terminology, and added: 'A double order.'