Read Online Dreamcatcher by Stephen King - Free Book Online

later had reason to know McCarthy had been thinking about none of those things, but of course not then, not in the tree with his forefinger a frozen curl around the trigger of his rifle) and not knowing what Jonesy had not known as he stood on the curb in Cambridge with his briefcase in one hand and a copy of the Boston Phoenix under his arm, namely that death was in the neighborhood, or perhaps even Death, a hurrying figure like something escaped from an early Ingmar Bergman film, something carrying a concealed implement in the coarse folds of its robe. Scissors, perhaps. Or a scalpel.
    And the worst of it was that the man would not die, or at least not at once. He would fall down and lie there screaming, as Jonesy had lain screaming in the street. He couldn’t remember screaming, but of course he had; he had been told this and had no reason to disbelieve it.Screamed his fucking head off, most likely. And what if the man in the brown coat and orange accessories started screaming for Marcy? Surely he would not—not really —but Jonesy’s mind might report screams of Marcy. If there was eye-fever—if he could look at a man’s brown coat and see it as a deer’s head—then there was likely the auditory equivalent, as well. To hear a man screaming and know you were the reason—dear God, no. And still his finger would not loosen.
    What broke his paralysis was both simple and unexpected: about ten paces from the base of Jonesy’s tree, the man in the brown coat fell down. Jonesy heard the pained, surprised sound he made— mrof! was what it sounded like—and his finger released the trigger without his even thinking about it.
    The man was down on his hands and knees, his brown-gloved fingers (brown gloves, another mistake, this guy almost could have gone out with a sign reading SHOOT ME taped to his back, Jonesy thought) spread on the ground, which had already begun to whiten. As the man got up again, he began to speak aloud in a fretful, wondering voice. Jonesy didn’t realize at first that he was also weeping.
    â€œOh dear, oh dear,” the man said as he worked his way back to a standing position. He swayed on his feet as if drunk. Jonesy knew that men in the woods, men away from their families for a week or a weekend, got up to all sorts of small wickedness—drinking at ten in the morning was one of the most common. But Jonesy didn’t think this guy was drunk. No reason; just a vibe.
    â€œOh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” And then, as he beganto walk again: “Snow. Now it’s snow. Please God, oh God, now it’s snow, oh dear.”
    His first couple of steps were lurching and unsure. Jonesy had about decided that his vibe was incorrect, the guy was loaded, and then the fellow’s gait smoothed out and he began to walk a little more evenly. He was scratching at his right cheek.
    He passed directly beneath the stand, for a moment he wasn’t a man at all but only a round circle of orange cap with brown shoulders to either side of it. His voice drifted up, liquid and full of tears, mostly Oh dear with the occasional Oh God or Now it’s snow thrown in for salt.
    Jonesy stood where he was, watching as the guy first disappeared directly beneath the stand, then came out on the other side. He pivoted without being aware of it to keep the plodding man in view—nor was he aware that he had lowered his rifle to his side, even pausing long enough to put the safety back on.
    Jonesy didn’t call out, and he supposed he knew why: simple guilt. He was afraid that the man down there would take one look at him and see the truth in Jonesy’s eyes—even through his tears and the thickening snow, the man would see that Jonesy had been up there with his gun pointed, that Jonesy had almost shot him.
    Twenty paces beyond the tree, the man stopped and only stood there, his gloved right hand raised to his brow, shielding his eyes from the snow. Jonesy