Dreamcatcher(29)

Henry pulled his glove off and snapped his fingers in front of those staring eyes. They blinked. It wasn't much, but more than he had expected, given the fact that a multi-ton vehicle had just missed her by inches and never a twitch from her.

'Hey!' he shouted in her face. 'Hey, come back! Come back!' He snapped his fingers again and could hardly feel them  -  when had it turned so cold? We're in a goddam situation here, he thought.

The woman burped. The sound was startlingly loud even with the wind in the trees, and before it was snatched away by the moving air, he got a whiff of something both bitter and pungent ?it smelled like medicinal alcohol. The woman shifted and grimaced, then broke wind  -  a long, purring fart that sounded like ripping cloth. Maybe, Henry thought, it's how the locals say hello. The idea got him laughing again.

'Holy shit,' Pete said, almost in his ear. 'Sounds like she nipped out the seat of her pants with that one. What you been drinkin, lady, Prestone?' And then, to Henry: 'She's been drinkin somethin, by Christ, and if it ain't antifreeze, I'm a monkey.'

Henry could smell it, too.

The woman's eyes suddenly shifted, met Henry's own. He was shocked by the pain he saw in them. 'Where's Rick?' she asked. 'I have to find Rick  -  he's the only one left.' She grimaced, and when her lips peeled back, Henry saw that half her teeth were gone. Those remaining looked like stakes in a dilapidated fence. She belched again, and the smell was strong enough to make his eyes water.

'Aw, holy Christ!' Pete nearly screamed. 'What's wrong with her?'

'I don't know,' Henry said. The only things he knew for sure were that the woman's eyes had gone blank again and that they were in a goddam situation here. Had he been alone, he might have considered sitting down next to the woman and putting his arm around her  -  a much more interesting and unique answer to the final problem than the Hemingway Solution. But there was Pete to think about  -  Pete hadn't even been through his first alcohol rehab yet, although that was undoubtedly in the cards.

And besides, he was curious.

4

Pete was sitting in the snow, working at his knee again with his hands, looking at Henry, waiting for him to do something, which was fair enough, since so often he had been the idea man of their quartet. They hadn't had a leader, but Henry had been the closest thing to it. Even back in junior high school that had been true. The woman, meanwhile, was looking at no one, just staring off into the snow again.

Settle, Henry thought. Just take a deep breath and settle.

He took the breath, held it, and let it out. Better. A little better. All right, what was up with this lady? Never mind where she'd come from, what she was doing here, or why she smelled like diluted antifreeze when she burped. What was up with her right now?

Shock, obviously. Shock so deep it was like a form of catatonia  -  witness how she had not so much as stirred when the Scout went skidding by her at shaving distance. And yet she hadn't retreated so far inside that only a hypo of something excitable could reach her; she had responded to the snap of his fingers, and she had spoken. Had inquired about someone named Rick.

'Henry - '

'Quiet a minute.'

He took off his gloves again, held his hands in front of her face, and clapped them smartly. He thought the sound very small compared to the steady whoosh of the wind in the trees, but she blinked again.

'On your feet!'

Henry took her gloved hands and was encouraged when they closed reflexively around his. He leaned forward, getting into her face, smelling that ethery odor. No one who smelled like that could be very well.

'On your feet, get up! With me! On three! One, two, three!'

He stood, holding her hands. She rose, her knees popping, and burped again. She broke wind again as well. Her hat went askew, dipping over one eye. When she made no move to straighten it, Henry said. 'Fix her hat.'

'Hub?' Pete had also gotten up, although he didn't look very steady.

'I don't want to let go of her. Fix her hat, get it out of her eye.'

Gingerly, Pete reached out and straightened her hat. The woman bent slightly, grimaced, farted.

'Thank you very much,' Pete said sourly. 'You've been a wonderful audience, good night.'

Henry could feel her sagging and tightened his grip.

'Walk!' he shouted, getting into her face again. 'Walk with me!

On three! One, two, three!'

He began walking backwards, toward the front of the Scout. She was looking at him now and he held her gaze. Without glancing at Pete  -  he didn't want to risk losing her  -  he said, 'Take my belt. Lead me.'

'Where?'

'Around the other side of the Scout.'

'I'm not sure I can - '

'You have to, Pete, now do it.'

For a moment there was nothing, and then he felt Pete's hand slip under his coat, fumble, and catch hold of his belt. They shuffled across the narrow string of road in an awkward conga-line, through the staring yellow spotlight of the Scout's remaining headlamp. On the far side of the overturned vehicle they were at least partly sheltered from the wind, and that was good.

The woman abruptly pulled her hands out of Henry's and leaned forward, mouth opening. Henry stepped back, not wanting to be splattered when she let go . . . but instead of vomiting she belched, the loudest one yet. Then, while still bent over, she broke wind again. The sound was like nothing Henry had ever heard before, and he would have sworn he'd heard everything on the wards in western Massachusetts. She kept her feet, though, breathing through her nose in big horselike snuffles of air.