Free Dreamcatcher by Stephen King Page B

gee.”
    Jonesy had to restrain a smile at this. When he got going, McCarthy sounded a little like a character in that movie, Fargo.
    â€œSo we better take you out. If, that is—”
    â€œI don’t want to be a bother—”
    â€œWe’ll take you out. If we can. I mean, this weather came in fast. ”
    â€œIt sure did,” McCarthy said bitterly. “You’d think they could do better with all their darn satellites and doppler radar and gosh knows what else. So much for fair and seasonably cold, huh?”
    Jonesy looked at the man under the comforter, just the flushed face and the thatch of thinning brown hair showing, with some perplexity. The forecasts he had heard—he, Pete, Henry, and the Beav—had been full of the prospect of snow for the last two days. Some of the prognosticators hedged their bets, saying the snow could change over to rain, but the fellow on the Castle Rock radio station that morning (WCAS was the only radio they could get up here, and even that was thin and jumbled with static) had been talking about a fast-moving Alberta Clipper, six or eight inches, and maybe a nor’easter to follow, if the temperatures stayed down and the low didn’t go out to sea. Jonesy didn’t know where McCarthy had gotten his weather forecasts, but it sure hadn’t been WCAS. The guy was just mixed up, that was most likely it, and had every right to be.
    â€œYou know, I could put on some soup. How would that be, Mr. McCarthy?”
    McCarthy smiled gratefully. “I think that would be pretty fine,” he said. “My stomach hurt last night and something fierce this morning, but I feel better now.”
    â€œStress,” Jonesy said. “I would have been puking my guts. Probably filling my pants, as well.”
    â€œI didn’t throw up,” McCarthy said. “I’m prettysure I didn’t. But . . .” Another shake of the head, it was like a nervous tic with him. “I don’t know. The way things are jumbled, it’s like a nightmare I had.”
    â€œThe nightmare’s over,” Jonesy said. He felt a little foolish saying such a thing—a little auntie-ish—but it was clear the guy needed reassurance.
    â€œGood,” McCarthy said. “Thank you. And I would like some soup.”
    â€œThere’s tomato, chicken, and I think maybe a can of Chunky Sirloin. What do you fancy?”
    â€œChicken,” McCarthy said. “My mother always said chicken soup was the thing when you’re not feeling your best.”
    He grinned as he said it, and Jonesy tried to keep the shock off his face. McCarthy’s teeth were white and even, really too even to be anything but capped, given the man’s age, which had to be forty-five or thereabouts. But at least four of them were missing—the canines on top (what Jonesy’s father had called “the vampire teeth”) and two right in front on the bottom—Jonesy didn’t know what those were called. He knew one thing, though: McCarthy wasn’t aware they were gone. No one who knew about such gaps in the line of his teeth could expose them so unselfconsciously, even under circumstances like these. Or so Jonesy believed. He felt a sick little chill rush through his gut, a telephone call from nowhere. He turned toward the kitchen before McCarthy could see his face change and wonder what was wrong. Maybe ask what was wrong.
    â€œOne order chicken soup coming right up. How about a grilled cheese to go with it?”
    â€œIf it’s no trouble. And call me Richard, will you? Or Rick, that’s even better. When people save my life, I like to get on a first-name basis with them as soon as possible.”
    â€œRick it is, for sure.” Better get those teeth fixed before you step in front of another jury, Rick.
    The feeling that something was wrong here was very strong. It was that click, just as almost guessing McCarthy’s