Dreamcatcher by Stephen King Page B

breaking the ice with a booted foot so he could get to the water beneath, then taking his trusty Gillette from . . . where? His coat pocket?
    â€œAnd then this morning he lost his razor, which iswhy he’s got the stubble,” the Beav said. He was smiling again, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of humor in it.
    â€œYeah. Same time he lost his gun. Did you see his teeth?”
    Beaver made a what-now grimace.
    â€œFour gone. Two on top, two on the bottom. He looks like the What-me-worry kid that’s always on the front of Mad magazine.”
    â€œNot a big deal, buddy. I’ve got a couple of AWOL choppers myself.” Beaver hooked back one corner of his mouth, baring his left gum in a one-sided grin Jonesy could have done without. “Eee? Ight ack ere.”
    Jonesy shook his head. It wasn’t the same. “The guy’s a lawyer, Beav—he’s out in public all the time, his looks are part of his living. And these babies are right out in front. He didn’t know they were gone. I’d swear to it.”
    â€œYou don’t suppose he got exposed to radiation or something, do you?” Beaver asked uneasily. “Your teeth fall out when you get fuckin radiation poisonin, I saw that in a movie one time. One of the ones you’re always watching, those monster shows. You don’t suppose it’s that, do you? Maybe he got that red mark the same time.”
    â€œYeah, he got a dose when the Mars Hill Nuclear Power Plant blew up,” Jonesy said, and Beaver’s puzzled expression made him immediately sorry for the crack. “Beav, when you get radiation poisoning, I think your hair falls out, too.”
    The Beaver’s face cleared. “Yeah, that’s right. Theguy in the movie ended up as bald as Telly what’s-his-fuck, used to play that cop on TV.” He paused. “Then the guy died. The one in the movie, I mean, not Telly, although now that I think of it—”
    â€œThis guy’s got plenty of hair,” Jonesy interrupted. Let Beaver get off on a tangent and they would likely never get back to the point. He noticed that, out of the stranger’s presence, neither of them called him Rick, or even McCarthy. Just “the guy,” as if they subconsciously wanted to turn him into something less important than a man—something generic, as if that would make it matter less if . . . well, if.
    â€œYeah,” Beaver said. “He does, doesn’t he? Plenty of hair.”
    â€œHe must have amnesia.”
    â€œMaybe, but he remembers who he is, who he was with, shit like that. Man, that was some trumpet-blast he blew, wasn’t it? And the stink ! Like ether!”
    â€œYeah,” Jonesy said. “I kept thinking of starter fluid. Diabetics get a smell when they’re tipping over. I read that in a mystery novel, I think.”
    â€œIs it like starter fluid?”
    â€œI can’t remember.”
    They stood there looking at each other, listening to the wind. It crossed Jonesy’s mind to tell Beaver about the lightning the guy claimed to have seen, but why bother? Enough was enough.
    â€œI thought he was going to blow his cookies when he leaned forward like that,” the Beav said. “Didn’t you?”
    Jonesy nodded.
    â€œAnd he don’t look well, not at all well.”
    â€œNo.”
    Beaver sighed, tossed his toothpick in the trash, and looked out the window, where the snow was coming down harder and heavier than ever. He flicked his fingers through his hair. “Man, I wish Henry and Pete were here. Henry especially.”
    â€œBeav, Henry’s a psychiatrist. ”
    â€œI know, but he’s the closest thing to a doctor we got—and I think that fellow needs doctoring.”
    Henry actually was a physician—had to be, in order to get his certificate of shrinkology—but he’d never practiced anything except psychiatry, as far as Jonesy knew.