Characters in Dreamcatcher

… Jesus, and for anyone listening in I am Abraham Peter Kurtz, USAF Retired, serial number 241771699, and I am leading this charge, I’m the Lieutenant Calley in charge of this particular Alice’s Restaurant Massacree.” He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the hovering helicopters. “But fellows, I’m here to …

Cambry winced, horrified, thinking this image had been served up by his own guilty conscience. “Gene?” Al Coleman asked. “Are you going to call, or—” “What’s that?” Howie asked, frowning. “What’s what?” Ted Trezewski said. “If you listen, you’ll hear it,” Howie replied.

… and scary about him, and this one time Alfie Cavell had started crying, saying Boys, if you only knew what this means, to me and to the missus, if you only knew what it means to Douglas— “Jonesy.” Beaver’s voice, oddly flat. Cold air came in through the open kitchen …

“Paul?” “Patrick, actually . . . but close. Anderson believes it’s a wave, and it’s expending its force now. A telepathic wave. Do you find that an awesome concept, Owen?” “Yes.”

If I only knew. 2 Andy Janas had lost the other three trucks in his little squadron—had gotten ahead of them because they weren’t used to driving in shit like this and he was. He had grown up in northern Minnesota, and you better believe he was used to it.

It was like Mr. Gray, only the weasel was living in a world made of bacon. The bacon was Archibald Perlmutter, once a captain in the United States Army. Henry didn’t like to go there. Too much pain. Too much hunger. “Fifteen miles,” he said. “Maybe only twelve.

Mostly what he feels for his patients is a kind of distanced sympathy. Sometimes pity. A very few of them make him impatient. Barry Newman is one of those. Patients who enter Henry’s office for the first time are presented with a choice they usually don’t register as a choice.

They knew it, but not why. They knew something was wrong with them—different, at least—but not what. They knew they were caught, but not exactly how. And all this long before the lights in the sky. Before McCarthy and Becky Shue. SSDD: Sometimes it’s just what you say.

Sleep later, too. For now, keep your eye on the ball. There was no ball. There were only Bernie, Dana, Tommy, and Smitty trooping through the snow, a line of silent somnambulists in coveralls and hooded parkas.

… turn his Mets cap around so that the bill pointed down the nape of his neck, heard Bryson and Bertinelli racking the .50s, and understood this was really happening. They were going hot. He could get in the car and ride or stand in the road and …

… : TO THOSE LOST IN THE STORM MAY 31, 1985 AND TO THE CHILDREN ALL THE CHILDREN LOVE FROM BILL, BEN, BEV, EDDIE, RICHIE, STAN, MIKE THE LOSERS’ CLUB Spray-painted across it in jagged red letters, also perfectly visible in the truck’s headlights …

… had to do something about the booze and all the prescriptions or he was going to leave her, telling Big Lou, his cabin counselor at Camp Agawam, that he had wet his bed—crossing the big central room at Hole in the Wall to that closed bathroom door …

Even in here, with a double-locked door between him and those billions of labeled cartons, he could recall wiping a booger on the end of Bonnie Deal’s braid in first grade (and then asking that same Bonnie to dance at the seventh-grade Harvest Hop six years later), watching carefully as …

Archie Perlmutter, Kurtz’s new aide-de-camp (his old one, Calvert, had died of a heart attack not two weeks before—goddam bad timing), had a clipboard with a dozen names on it.

But it would be a suicide mission. If he’s recruited Freddy Johnson, then he’s probably got Kate Gallagher and Marvell Richardson . . . Carl Friedman . . . Jocelyn McAvoy. Tough boys and tough girls, Henry.

Last fall had been his season to drag people through the snow, it seemed, and with mixed results. Near the little scrape of beach, Carla Jones was tending a barbecue. Noel, the baby, was toddling around the picnic table to her left, diaper sagging.

“After that you paid and went out . . . let’s go outside a minute. Seeya, Cathy.” Cathy only nods, looking at him with wide eyes. Pete walks outside, ignoring the tinkle of the bell, ignoring the rain, which now really is rain.

Marsha Chiles picked it up, then her brother-in-law, then Charles, the man with the overgrown solar sex-panel. “Now! Now! Now!”

There were a few little shreds after that—wishing Colleen, the Department secretary, a nice St. Paddy’s Day, grabbing a Boston Phoenix from the newspaper box outside the building, dropping a quarter into the saxophone case of a skinhead just over the bridge on the Cambridge side, feeling sorry for the …

“Kick a buck,” Howie Everett said. “Call,” said Danny O’Brian. Parsons called; so did Udall. Cambry barely heard. In his mind there rose an image of a woman with a child cradled in her arms. As she struggled across the drifted-in paddock, a soldier turned her into a napalm road-flare.

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?

“No!” Charles cried, but the others were already scrambling away from him, the one with the Cambodian cigar (his name was Darren Chiles and he was from Newton, Massachusetts) being careful to hold onto his smoke. “Yeah, you do,” Henry said. “Major league. So do you, Mona. Mona? No, Marsha.

The man currently addressing them is a guy Henry has seen before, a lawyer named Dave Bocklin. His son, Kendall, sometimes plays with Duddits. Ken Bocklin also has Down’s, and he’s a good enough guy, but he’s not like Duds. Get serious, though—who is?

“I don’t know,” Jonesy said, “but Davey Trask saw it and said it was her.” “I dunno about goin in there, man,” Beaver says.

“I was sick,” David Defuniak says eagerly. “I think I had the flu.” “Then maybe I ought to give you a take-home essay instead of the multiple-choice test to which your colleagues have been subjected. If you want it. To make up for the test you missed.

He flips a page on his desk calendar, and on Saturday he crosses out Drinks at Dean Jacobson’s house and writes Beg off—going to Derry with Henry to see D. But this is an appointment he will not keep.

On that early afternoon in November the store was empty save for the proprietor, a gentleman named Deke McCaskell. Like most other folks, he had spent the morning glued to the TV.

Dick Macdonald looks up from a clutter of invoices. “Tell this lady I’m safe to drive her up to Fryeburg, should it come to that.” “Oh, he’s safe enough, ma’am,” Dick says. “Not a sex maniac or a fast driver. He’ll just try to sell you a new car.”

She had called Dr. Briscoe to ask if she could give Duddits one of his yellow Valium tablets, but Dr. Briscoe was off in Nassau, if you please.

That led him to Duddits again, Douglas Cavell if you wanted to be formal about it. Why Duds had been on his mind so much lately Pete couldn’t say, but he had, and Pete made himself a promise: when this was over, he was going to stop in Derry and …

“Go on and eat it,” someone says. “Eat it and you can go. Duncan might even give you your pants back.” “Yeah, if you—” Another boy, probably Duncan, begins and then he stops, staring at Henry and his friends. “Hey you guys, quit it!” Beaver shouts. “Just fucking quit it!”

“The story of Edward Davis and Franklin Roberts is an instructive one, because it shows there’s really nothing new under the sun. This was in Kansas, back when Kansas really was Kansas . . .” Kurtz, a pretty decent storyteller, took them back to Kansas during the Korean conflict.

Not good public relations at all. 10 Her name is either Ilena or Elaina Timarova—no one seems sure which. She turns up in Ware in the early fall of 1995 in a Ford Escort with a discreet yellow Hertz sticker on the windshield.

… a weeping woman—Roberta Cavell has her arm around Ellen Rinkenhauer’s shoulders and is telling her it will be all right, she knows that God won’t let anything happen to dear little Josie. It’s strong, Owen thought dreamily. Man, what this guy’s got is so strong. How can that be? The …

For Kurtz, the boss, such an accident would solve all sorts of problems. And all that is by the way. Jonesy I’s job is Emil Brodsky of Menlo Park.

With him was Frank Bellson from Blakey’s Blue Boy Three, the other gun-ship that had made it back to base. One of them had turned on a powerful eight-cell flashlight and set it on its base like an electric candle. Its bright glow sprayed up into the gloom.

Whatever had happened to Henry’s mind was skitzy; he couldn’t pick out this guy’s name, but he knew that the man’s brother’s name was Frankie, and that in high school Frankie had been tried and acquitted on a rape charge.

“The story of Edward Davis and Franklin Roberts is an instructive one, because it shows there’s really nothing new under the sun. This was in Kansas, back when Kansas really was Kansas . . .” Kurtz, a pretty decent storyteller, took them back to Kansas during the Korean conflict.

Beside Kurtz, in the left seat, was Freddy Johnson. Johnson had been with Kurtz roughly since Noah’s ark grounded on Mount Ararat.

And at least some of this wetwork was the responsibility of Gary Ambrose Jones. Not just the body-disposal knowledge, but the bloodthirsty urges of the id under the thin candy frosting of “it’s just make-believe.”

Six of the card-players were sentries. The seventh was Dawg Brodsky’s colleague Gene Cambry. Cambry hadn’t been able to sleep. The reason was concealed by a stretchy cotton wristlet. He didn’t know how long the wristlet would serve, however, because the red stuff under it was spreading.

Conk, play the Anthem.” Gene Conklin flicked a switch and racked a CD in the Discman sitting on the floor of Blue Boy Two. Owen, no longer inside himself, leaned forward in Blue Boy Leader and cranked the volume. Mick Jagger, the voice of the Rolling Stones, filled his earphones.

And that was not acceptable, not after General Yellow-Balls Randall had hollered Blue Exit. His Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card had been revoked. He was strictly a vigilante now.

“First is drink,” said George Kilroy . . . and like Jonesy’s father, Kilroy knew a bit on that subject, as well. “First is always drink.”

The other guys are talking about Jackson Browne, who played the Civic Center last night and put on a kick-ass show, according to George Pelsen, who was there. “I’ll tell you something else that was kick-ass,” George says, looking at them impressively.

Maybe it was true. George Udall, the Dawg’s immediate superior in more normal times, was wearing a knitted cap over his bald head; damn thing made him look like some kind of elderly white rapper.

“Josie,” he says in a flat, uninflected voice utterly unlike his usual confident courthouse boom. “Yes,” says Hector Rinkenhauer, “that’s her name. What’s up, Dave? Are you all r—” “Josie,” Dave says again, and raises a trembling hand.

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.

“Kick a buck,” Howie Everett said. “Call,” said Danny O’Brian. Parsons called; so did Udall. Cambry barely heard. In his mind there rose an image of a woman with a child cradled in her arms. As she struggled across the drifted-in paddock, a soldier turned her into a napalm road-flare.

Lay in a little mouseturds first, she said—mouseturds being Janet Jones for mustard—and then butter the goddam bread, not the skillet. Butter the skillet and all’s you got’s fried bread with some cheese in it.

He telling Jeannie Morin, his therapist, that he couldn’t. She telling him that he could. Tears on his face, big smile on hers (that hateful undentable junior-miss smile), and in the end she had turned out to be right.

If he’s recruited Freddy Johnson, then he’s probably got Kate Gallagher and Marvell Richardson . . . Carl Friedman . . . Jocelyn McAvoy. Tough boys and tough girls, Henry.

“Ah, but sir . . . boss, I mean . . . I can see Friedman, he’s on fucking fire—” “Joe Blakey, listen up.” No mistaking Kurtz’s rasp, Kurtz who had gotten clear of the red crap in plenty of time.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Joe Clarendon. Who’re you?” “Rick McCarthy,” he said, and got to his feet. The comforter tumbled off him and Jonesy saw he had a pretty good potbelly pooching out the front of his sweater.

… the Reservoir (the Quabbin bright blue in the sunlight, sparkling with a million points of light, Joey fast asleep in the Papoose carrier on Jonesy’s back). Lorrington had been wrapping up his spiel, just about to wish them a nice day, when …

“Can you help me, Mr. Moore? Or is there someone in the service department who can?” Old Johnny Damon’s back there and he’d be happy to help her, but she wouldn’t make her appointment in Fryeburg, that’s for sure.

Not well, they hadn’t known her well, but well enough to save her life. Josie Rinkenhauer, her name had been. “I knew it!” Trish says, no longer trying to keep that husky thickness out of her voice. “Oh boy, I just knew it!”

I like to think I’m not bad myself. But it would be a suicide mission. If he’s recruited Freddy Johnson, then he’s probably got Kate Gallagher and Marvell Richardson . . . Carl Friedman . . . Jocelyn McAvoy. Tough boys and tough girls, Henry.

“To Katrina, too.”

“Kellogg,” Kurtz replied. “Jesus, Owen, what kind of name is that for a kid?” “My mother’s maiden name. Christ. Telepathy.”

… Henry has seen before, a lawyer named Dave Bocklin. His son, Kendall, sometimes plays with Duddits. Ken Bocklin also has Down’s, and he’s a good enough guy, but he’s not like Duds. Get serious, though—who is? The boys stand at the entrance to the living room, Josie among them. She …

“You know what that is?” “Hickey, ain’t it?” Kent Astor asks, a bit timidly. “You’re fuckin-A,” George says. “I was hangin around the stage door after the show, me and a bunch of other guys, hopin to get Jackson’s autograph. Or maybe, I don’t know, David Lindley. He’s cool.”

That was what Lamar, Beaver’s father, had always called it, as though it were the only game. For Lamar Clarendon, whose life revolved around his central Maine construction company, it probably was the only game, the one most at home in logging camps, railroad sheds, and, of course, construction trailers.

… for Larry!” one of the orange-clad women was screaming. “That’s for Larry, you bitches, that’s for Larry!” 12 When the shooting was over, the squat man with the Ripley goatee assembled his group near the facedown corpse of Kate Gallagher, who …

… him to a place where the nearest water was Lars Kilborn’s cow-wallow. Gerritsen and Henry had become close—if not quite friends, only because the situation didn’t quite allow it. Jonesy and Henry had been well-treated in Wyoming, but they hadn’t been guests. Still, Henry Devlin and Terry Gerritsen were professional …

Joe “Beaver” Clarendon and Laurie Sue Kenopensky make it through eight months and then kapow, there goes my baby, somebody help me pick up the fuckin pieces. The Beav is basically a happy guy, any of his hangout buddies would tell you that, but this is his dark time.

Lindsay Jones was one of life’s losers and had said few things worth committing to memory, but that was one, and here was the proof of it again: days after deciding he had finished with deer hunting, here came one, and a big one by the sound—a buck, almost surely, …

Nor did it smell like cow-farts. He had worked for Lionel Sylvester as a kid, he’d milked more than his share of cows, and sometimes they blew gas at you while you were on the stool, sure—a heavy green smell, a marshy smell. This wasn’t like that, not a bit.

… Lonesome Dave at WWVE: relocate south. Like, immediately. And here’s a little relocation music.” Lonesome Dave at WWVE spun The Doors, of course. Jim Morrison droning “The End.” Owen switched to the AM band. Eventually he found a newscast. The fellow …

That was what the guide said. Lorrington, his name had been. There had been maybe a dozen other people on the tour, and by then they had been about back to their starting place again.

Mac Cavanaugh, the fellow from Blue Boy Leader who had lost two of his fingers on the op, was sitting inside one of the semi trailer–boxes in the compound. With him was Frank Bellson from Blakey’s Blue Boy Three, the other gun-ship that had made it back to base.

“Old Man Castonguay was the barber on our side of Derry when I was a kid, and he scared me so fuckin bad with those clippers of his that I been stayin away …

Sometimes he still heard a voice—whose he didn’t know, but not his—calling out Please stop, I can’t stand it, give me a shot, where’s Marcy, I want Marcy.

For some, home had been cancelled. 8 The little parade moved south under dark skies, led by the rusty red Subaru that Marie Turgeon of Litchfield would never see again. Henry, Owen, and Duddits were fifty-five miles, or about fifty minutes, behind.

Marsha Chiles picked it up, then her brother-in-law, then Charles, the man with the overgrown solar sex-panel. “Now! Now! Now!”

But it would be a suicide mission. If he’s recruited Freddy Johnson, then he’s probably got Kate Gallagher and Marvell Richardson . . . Carl Friedman . . . Jocelyn McAvoy. Tough boys and tough girls, Henry.

… so strong it was like his first junior-high-school crush—Mary Jo Martineau in a sleeveless white blouse and straight knee-length denim skirt. He was now absolutely sure the man hadn’t been drinking—it was fear (and maybe exhaustion) rather than booze that had made him unsteady on his feet. Yet there was …

… twenty-one-year-old whose biggest concern had been getting into Mary Shratt’s pants? The water came, you drank it. You didn’t worry about where it came from as long as it didn’t give you the heaves or the squitters. A sense of frustration from Mr. Gray? Or was that just his imagination?

… their mouths; what they’re really interested in is Maureen Chessman’s skirt, which was short to begin with and has ridden a pretty good way up her thighs as she shifted around. They believe in their hearts that one day Maureen’s skirt will ride up high enough for them to see …

… He was still standing over the cap on the floor (the floor that was still faintly stained with Cook’s Third Melrose’s blood), still holding the deck of cards in his hand, but his eyes were bright and interested. “Let’s see who you found.”

Milt brings it, but says, “You ought to lay some food on top of that, Peter.”

(John and Misha, the older kids, had hoped to see an eagle or two, but they had been disappointed.) The Reservoir had been formed in the thirties by …

11 Old Mr. Beckwith’s final words on the subject before driving on down the road in his mail-truck had been these: Way I heard it, the folks in Boston’ll be …

… rainy late-September afternoon, the pharmacy is deserted except for the three of them down here and Mr. Diller up behind the prescription counter. “Hi, Pete,” the counter-girl says. “Yo, Cathy, how’s it going?” “Oh, you know—slow.” She looks at the …

Not death but worse than death. It was Mr. Gray. Get off the road! his mind screamed. Get off the road now! Hide! For a moment he couldn’t move—his feet seemed to grow heavy. The gash on his thigh, the one the turnsignal had made, burned like a brand.

If you needed a cup of sugar or a pint of milk (or a shoulder to cry on, for that matter), you could always go next door and get fixed up. They said it was a stroke! Mr. Rapeloew had called, only Owen had thought he was saying stork.

These mutant crows are laughing and talking as they sit in their folding chairs, but Mr. Trask, the principal, has no problem being heard; he’s at the podium on the makeshift stage, and he’s got the mike.

Owen looked down at his own hands, inspecting them as closely as Mrs. Jankowski had during Personal Hygiene, back in those long-ago days when the Rapeloews had been their neighbors.

Less than ten minutes later they were back out with Mrs. Rapeloew on the stretcher. Her eyes had been closed. Mr. Rapeloew came along behind her, not even bothering to close the door. Mr. Rapeloew, who was Owen’s Daddy’s age, looked suddenly as old as a grampy.

Or burp right in his face. “Okay,” he said. “Silence gives consent, that’s what Mrs. White always used to say back in the fourth grade.”

“It’s all mixed up in my mind, but yeah—there were four of us, I guess that’s one thing I’m sure of. Me and Steve and Nat Roper and Nat’s sister, Becky.” “They must be worried sick.” McCarthy looked first startled, then apprehensive. This was clearly a new idea for him.

It never occurs to them that they should go for an adult—perhaps for Officer Nell, who patrols this neighborhood. They are crazy to get her out; she has become their responsibility.

Near the little scrape of beach, Carla Jones was tending a barbecue. Noel, the baby, was toddling around the picnic table to her left, diaper sagging. He was waving a charred hot dog cheerily in one hand.

… year has to do with a seventh-grader named Norm Parmeleau, now known as Macaroni Parmeleau, a nickname that will pursue him for years, even into the new century of which these boys speak but do not in their hearts actually believe; to win a fifty-cent bet, Norm Parmeleau had one …

“That’s right, buck. Judas betrayed Jesus and Owen Philip Underhill betrayed us. Judas got thirty pieces of silver. Not much of a payday, do you think?” “No, boss.” He delivered this reply partially turned away from Kurtz because something in the commissary had exploded.

And here comes the tallest cowboy in the world, a nine-foot Pecos Bill under the burning sky, towering over the crowd, little kids with their ice cream–smeared mouths dropped open in wonder, their eyes wide; …

Certainly he didn’t like the way he felt about himself right now; leaving that woman alone back there said something about Peter Moore that wasn’t so nice. But Henry . . . there was something wrong with Henry, too, this November.

It used to be Phil and Tony Tracker’s office. There’s still a bulletin board on the wall.

There were screams from behind them, but while most of the crew was injured, they lost only Pinky Bryson, who had been leaning out the bay for a better look and fell when the shockwave hit.

… of her endless bake sales (unlike Kurtz, when Randi Underhill said praise Jesus, she meant it), and an ambulance had pulled up next door, at the Rapeloews’. No siren, but lots of flashing lights. Two men in jumpsuits very much like the coverall Owen now wore had gone running up …

Ray Parsons had a big wad of cotton in one ear. He said it was an earache, but who knew for sure? Ted Trezewski had a bandage on one meaty forearm and claimed he’d gouged himself stringing compound barbed wire much earlier in the day. Maybe it was true.

“Hey!” old Reenie Gosselin squawks from her place at the cash-register. “Come back here, kid! You can’t go in there!”

“The flashlights arrived early and were reported—one of the reports came from the store owner, Reginald Gosselin, himself. Then the grayboys arrive at the only time of year when there are actually people in these godforsaken woods, and two of them saw the ship go down.” “That was lucky.”

… in Maurice’s a month ago with his ex-wife, smelling the wine the sommelier had just poured, seeing Rhonda there across the table and thinking, We sniff the wine, dogs sniff each other’s assholes, and it all comes to about the same. Then, in a …

Killing Richard McCarthy couldn’t have hurt, and it might have helped. Killing McCarthy might have saved them all. 2 Pete and Henry had gone to Gosselin’s Market, the closest store, to stock up on bread, canned goods, and beer—the real essential.

Up on that float with Richie Grenadeau?” “Yes, but the fucking Tigers lost the Homecoming game and Grenadeau ended up with a broken nose,” Henry says. “First Derry High team ever to play a Class-A team from southern Maine and those fools—” “Fuck the Tigers,” Pete breaks in.

“It’s important to Rita,” the skinny man called over the contending roar of the engines. “To Katrina, too.”

“Let her rant and then I’ll explain.” But they have misjudged Roberta Cavell—have judged her by the standard of so many adults who seem to view boys their age as guilty until proven innocent. Roberta Cavell isn’t that way, and neither is her husband, Alfie. The Cavells are different.

Who are you going to tell?” Henry discovers an amazing thing: he is as close to coming unglued as Scotty, the galoot. Part of him wants to actually provoke a fight, to scream EVERYBODY! FUCKING EVERYBODY!

He’s cool.” Kent and Sean Robideau agree that Lindley is cool—not a guitar god, by any means (Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits is a guitar god; and Angus Young of AC/DC; and—of course—Clapton), but very cool just the same. Lindley has great licks; he has awesome dreads, as well.

Beyond it was the turnpike. Not to mention Bernie, Dana, Tommy, and Smitty, sitting in their Humvee at the top of the southbound ramp, eating cheese and crackers off their makeshift tray.

“Just like you guys. We were hunting in pairs. I was with a friend of mine, Steve Otis. He’s a lawyer like me, down in Skowhegan. We’re all from Skowhegan, you know, and this week for us . . . it’s a big deal.” Jonesy nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Same here.”

It’s on the left. Part of the roof’s fallen in. A man named Stevenson had a nosebleed there once.” “Yeah?” “Aw, man, I don’t know.” And Pete looked away, as if embarrassed.

Ray Parsons had a big wad of cotton in one ear. He said it was an earache, but who knew for sure? Ted Trezewski had a bandage on one meaty forearm and claimed he’d gouged himself stringing compound barbed wire much earlier in the day. Maybe it was true.

Gerritsen . . . do you remember Gerritsen?” Jonesy nodded. Of course he remembered Terry Gerritsen. Navy psychologist, in charge of the Wyoming debriefing team, always joking about how typical it was that Uncle Sammy would post him to a place where the nearest water was Lars Kilborn’s cow-wallow.

I remember once—” “Hey you guys,” Jonesy breaks in, suddenly excited. “You want to see Tina Jean Schlossinger’s pussy?” “Who’s Tina Jean Sloppinger?” Pete asks, but he is already intrigued.

For now, keep your eye on the ball. There was no ball. There were only Bernie, Dana, Tommy, and Smitty trooping through the snow, a line of silent somnambulists in coveralls and hooded parkas.

The Serbs had made a very big deal of Captain Tommy Callahan’s plane, and would have made an even bigger one of Callahan himself, if they caught him; the brass, haunted by images of the North Vietnamese gleefully parading brainwashed pilots before the international press, made recovering Tommy Callahan a …

“Blue Boy Leader?” Conk asked. “You there, boy?” “I’m here, shut up a minute.” Owen leaned forward, reached under the pilot’s elbow (Tony Edwards, a good man), and flicked the radio switch to the common channel.

“We love a challenge. I’m Pete Moore.” “Hello,” she says, but doesn’t give her name, which is Trish. “I have an appointment in Fryeburg in just”—she glances at the clock which Pete watches so closely during the slow afternoon hours—“in just forty-five minutes.

“Burger King. We drove through. I didn’t think the bus would fit, but Yoder said it would, and he was right. Want a Whopper?