Dreamcatcher(177)

He felt for Jonesy. Jonesy was there, hunkered in his perplexing safety zone. 'What you up to, partner?' Mr Gray murmured.

No answer . . . but he sensed Jonesy listening.

'What you doing?'

No answer still. And really, what could he be doing? He was locked in and blind. Still, it would behoove him not to forget Jonesy . . . Jonesy with his somehow exciting suggestion that Mr Gray forgo the imperative  -  the need to seed  -  and simply enjoy life on earth. Every now and then a thought would occur to Mr Gray, a letter pushed under the door from Jonesy's haven. This sort of thought, according to Jonesy's files, was a 'slogan'. Slogans were simple and to the point. The most recent said: BACON IS JUST THE BEGINNING. And Mr Gray was sure that was true. Even in his hospital room (what hospital room? what hospital? who is Marcy? who wants a shot?), he understood that life here was very delicious. But the imperative was deep and unbreakable: he would seed this world and then die. And if he got to eat a little bacon along the way, why, so much the better.

'Who was Richie? Was he a Tiger? Why did you kill him?'

No answer. But Jonesy was listening. Very carefully. Mr Gray hated having him in there. It was (the simile came from Jonesy's store) like having a tiny fishbone stuck in your throat. Not big enough to choke you, but plenty big enough to 'bug' you.

'You annoy the shit out of me, Jonesy.' Putting on his gloves now, the ones that had belonged to the owner of the Dodge Ram. The owner of Lad.

This time there was a reply. The feeling is mutual, partner. So why don't you go someplace where you're wanted? Take your act and put it on the road?

'Can't do that,' Mr Gray said. He extended a hand to the dog, and Lad sniffed gratefully at the scent of its master on the glove. Mr Gray sent it a be-calm thought, then got out of the plow and began to walk toward the side of the restaurant. Around back would be the 'employee's parking lot'.

Henry and the other guy are right on top of you, ass**le. Sniffing up your tailpipe. So relax. Spend as much time here as you want. Have a triple order of bacon.

'They can't feel me,' Mr Gray said, his breath puffing out in front of him (the sensation of the cold air in his mouth and throat and lungs was exquisite, invigorating  -  even the smells of gasoline and diesel fuel were wonderful). 'If I can't feel them, they can't feel me.'

Jonesy laughed  -  actually laughed. It stopped Mr Gray in his tracks beside the Dumpster.

The rules have changed, my friend. They stopped for Duddits, and Duddits sees the line.

'I don't know what that means.'

Of course you do, ass**le.

'Stop calling me that!' Mr Gray snapped.

If you stop insulting my intelligence, maybe I will.

Mr Gray started walking again, and yes, here, around the comer, was a little clutch of cars, most of them old and battered.

Duddits sees the line.

He knew what it meant, all right; the one named Pete had possessed the same thing, the same talent, although likely not as strongly as this puzzling other, this Duddits.

Mr Gray didn't like the idea of leaving a trail 'Duddits' could see, but he knew something Jonesy didn't. 'Pearly' believed that Henry, Owen, and Duddits were only fifteen miles south of Pearly's own position. If that was indeed the case, Henry and Owen were forty-five miles back, somewhere between Pittsfield and Waterville. Mr Gray didn't believe that actually qualified as 'sniffing up one's tailpipe'.

Still, it would not do to linger here.

The back door of the restaurant opened. A young man in a uniform the Jonesy-files identified as 'cook's whites' came out carrying two large bags of garbage, clearly bound for the Dumpsters. This young man s name was John, but his friends called him 'Butch'. Mr Gray thought it would be enjoyable to kill him, but 'Butch' looked a good deal stronger than Jonesy, not to mention younger and probably much quicker. Also, murder had annoying side effects, the worst being how quickly it rendered a stolen car useless.

Hey, Butch.

Butch stopped, looking at him alertly.

Which car is yours?

Actually, it wasn't his but his mother's, and that was good. Butch's own rustbucket was back home, victim of a dead battery. He had his Mom's unit, an all-wheel-drive Subaru. Mr Gray, Jonesy would have said, had just rolled another seven.

Butch handed over the keys willingly enough. He still looked alert ('bright-eyed and bushy-tailed' was how Jonesy put it, although the young cook had no tail Mr Gray could see), but his consciousness was gone. 'Out on his feet,' Jonesy thought.

You won't remember this, Mr Gray said.

'No,' Butch agreed.

Just back to work.

'You bet,' Butch agreed. He picked up his bags of garbage and headed for the Dumpsters again. By the time his shift was over and he realized his mother's car was gone, all this would likely be over.

Mr Gray unlocked the red Subaru and got in. There was half a bag of barbecue potato chips on the seat. Mr Gray gobbled them greedily as he drove back to the plow. He finished by licking Jonesy's fingers. Greasy. Good. Like the bacon. He got the dog. Five minutes later he was on the turnpike again.

South and south and south.

2

The night roars with music and laughter and loud voices; the air is big with the smell of grilled hotdogs, chocolate, roasted peanuts; the sky blooms with colored fire. Binding it all together, identifying it, signing it like summer's own autograph, is an amplified rock-and-roll song from the speakers that have been set up in Strawford Park: