Dreamcatcher Read Online Free Page A

worry you, okay? It’s just a little trick, like putting your finger under your nose to stop a sneeze or thumping your forehead when you’re trying to remember someone’s name. Okay?”
    â€œSure, I guess,” she says, totally mystified.
    Pete closes his eyes, raises one loosely fisted hand in front of his face, then pops up his index finger. He begins to tick it back and forth in front of him.
    Trish looks at Cathy, the counter-girl. Cathy shrugs as if to say Who knows?
    â€œMr. Moore?” Trish sounds uneasy now. “Mr. Moore, maybe I just ought to—”
    Pete opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and drops his hand. He looks past her, to the door.
    â€œOkay,” he says. “So you came in . . .” His eyes move as if watching her come in. “And you went to the counter . . .” His eyes go there. “You asked, probably, ‘Which aisle’s the aspirin in?’ Something like that.”
    â€œYes, I—”
    â€œOnly you got something, too.” He can see it on the candy-rack, a bright yellow mark something like a handprint. “Snickers bar?”
    â€œMounds.” Her brown eyes are wide. “How did you know that?”
    â€œYou got the candy, then you went up to get the aspirin . . .” He’s looking up Aisle 2 now. “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. The yellow is on the sidewalk, but fading. The rain’s washing it away. Still, he can see it and it pleases him to see it. That feeling of click. Sweet. It’s the line. It has been a long time since he’s seen it so clearly.
    â€œBack to your car,” he says, talking to himself now. “Back to take a couple of your aspirin with your water . . .”
    He crosses the sidewalk, slowly, to the Taurus. The woman walks behind him, eyes more worried than ever now. Almost frightened.
    â€œYou opened the door. You’ve got your purse . . . your keys . . . your aspirin . . . your candy . . . all this stuff . . . juggling it around from hand to hand . . . and that’s when . . .”
    He bends, fishes in the water flowing along the gutter, hand in it all the way up to the wrist, and brings something up. He gives it a magician’s flourish. Keys flash silver in the dull day.
    â€œ. . . you dropped your keys.”
    She doesn’t take them at first. She only gapes at him, as if he has performed an act of witchcraft (war-lock-craft, in his case, maybe) before her eyes.
    â€œGo on,” he says, smile fading a little. “Take them. It wasn’t anything too spooky, you know. Mostly just deduction. I’m good at stuff like that. Hey, you should have me in the car sometime when you’re lost. I’m great at getting unlost.”
    She takes the keys, then. Quickly, being careful not to touch his fingers, and he knows right then that she isn’t going to meet him later. It doesn’t take anyspecial gift to figure that; he only has to look in her eyes, which are more frightened than grateful.
    â€œThank . . . thank you,” she says. All at once she’s measuring the space between them, not wanting him to use too much of it up.
    â€œNot a problem. Now don’t forget. The West Wharf, at five-thirty. Best fried clams in this part of the state.” Keeping up the fiction. You have to keep it up, sometimes, no matter how you feel. And although some of the joy has gone out of the afternoon, some is still there; he has seen the line, and that always makes him feel good. It’s a minor trick, but it’s nice to know it’s still there.
    â€œFive-thirty,” she echoes, but as she opens her car door, the