Dreamcatcher by Stephen King Page A

high. They looked at each other, a little shamefaced.
    â€œYeah, I’m jumpy,” Beaver said, perhaps reading Jonesy’s face, perhaps picking the thought out of Jonesy’s mind. “Man, you have to admit it’s a little creepy, him turning up right out of the woods like that.”
    â€œYeah, it is.”
    â€œThat fart sounded like he had something crammed up his butt that was dying of smoke inhalation.”
    The Beav looked a little surprised at that, as he always did when he said something funny. They began laughing simultaneously, holding onto each other and doing it through open mouths, expelling the sounds as a series of harsh sighs, trying to keep it down, not wanting the poor guy to hear them if he was still awake, hear and know they were laughing at him. Jonesy had a particularly hard time keeping it quiet because the release was so necessary—it had a hysterical severity to it and he doubled over, gasping and snorting, water running out of his eyes.
    At last Beaver grabbed him and yanked him out the door. There they stood coatless in the deepeningsnow, finally able to laugh out loud with the booming wind to cover the sounds they made.
    6
    When they went back in again, Jonesy’s hands were so numb he barely felt the hot water when he plunged his hands into it, but he was laughed out and that was good. He wondered again about Pete and Henry—how they were doing and if they’d make it back okay.
    â€œYou said it explained some stuff,” the Beav said. He had started another toothpick. “What stuff?”
    â€œHe didn’t know snow was coming,” Jonesy said. He spoke slowly, trying to recall McCarthy’s exact words. “ ‘So much for fair and seasonably cold,’ I think that’s what he said. But that would make sense if the last forecast he heard was for the eleventh or twelfth. Because until late yesterday, it was fair, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, and seasonably fuckin cold,” Beaver agreed. He pulled a dishtowel with a pattern of faded lady-bugs on it from the drawer by the sink and began to dry the dishes. He looked across at the closed bedroom door as he worked. “What else’d he say?”
    â€œThat their camp was in Kineo.”
    â€œ Kineo? That’s forty, fifty miles west of here. He—” Beaver took the toothpick out of his mouth, examined the bite-marks on it, and put the other end in his mouth. “Oh, I see.”
    â€œYeah. He couldn’t have done all that in a singlenight, but if he was out there for three days—”
    â€œâ€”and four nights, if he got lost on Saturday afternoon that makes four nights—”
    â€œYeah, and four nights. So, supposing he kept pretty much headed dead east that whole time . . .” Jonesy calculated fifteen miles a day. “I’d say it’s possible.”
    â€œBut how come he didn’t freeze?” Beaver had lowered his voice to a near-whisper, probably without being aware of it. “He’s got a nice heavy coat and he’s wearin longies, but nights have been in the twenties everywhere north of the county line since Halloween. So you tell me how he spends four nights out there and doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t even look like he’s got any frostbite, just that mess on his cheek.”
    â€œI don’t know. And there’s something else,” Jonesy said. “How come he doesn’t have the start of a beard?”
    â€œHuh?” Beaver’s mouth opened. The toothpick hung from his lower lip. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. All he’s got is stubble.”
    â€œI’d say less than a day’s growth.”
    â€œI guess he was shavin, huh?”
    â€œRight,” Jonesy said, picturing McCarthy lost in the woods, scared and cold and hungry (not that he looked like he’d missed many meals, that was another thing), but still kneeling by a stream every morning,