Dreamcatcher Read Free Page A

before five; no way. You drank during the day, maybe you had to look at how much you were drinking, because that’s what alcoholics did. But if you could wait . . . just twirl your keychain and wait . . .
    As well as that first beer of the day, Pete is waiting for November. Going to Washington in April had been good, and the moon rocks had been stunning (they still stun him, every time he thinks about them), but he had been alone. Being alone wasn’t so good. In November, when he takes his other week, he’ll be with Henry and Jonesy and the Beav. Then he’ll allow himself to drink during the day. When you’re off in the woods, hunting with your friends, it’s all right to drink during the day. It’s practically a tradition. It—
    The door opens and a good-looking brunettecomes in. About five-ten (and Pete likes them tall), maybe thirty. She glances around at the showroom models (the new Thunderbird, in dark burgundy, is the pick of the litter, although the Explorer isn’t bad), but not as if she has any interest in buying. Then she spots Pete and walks toward him.
    Pete gets up, dropping his NASA keychain on his desk-blotter, and meets her at the door of his office. He’s wearing his best professional smile by now—two hundred watts, baby, you better believe it—and has his hand outstretched. Her grip is cool and firm, but she’s distracted, upset.
    â€œThis probably isn’t going to work,” she says.
    â€œNow, you never want to start that way with a car salesman,” Pete says. “We love a challenge. I’m Pete Moore.”
    â€œHello,” 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. It’s with a client who wants to buy a house, and I think I have the right one, there’s a sizeable commission involved, and . . .” Her eyes are now brimming with tears and she has to swallow to get rid of the thickness creeping into her voice. “. . . and I’ve lost my goddam keys ! My goddam car keys!”
    She opens her purse and rummages in it.
    â€œBut I have my registration . . . plus some other papers . . . there are all sorts of numbers, and I thought maybe, just maybe, you could make me a new set and I could be on my way. This sale could makemy year, Mr.—” She has forgotten. He isn’t offended. Moore is almost as common as Smith or Jones. Besides, she’s upset. Losing your keys will do that. He’s seen it a hundred times.
    â€œMoore. But I answer just as well to Pete.”
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œWe can get you new car keys, but it’s liable to take at least twenty-four hours and maybe more like forty-eight,” he says.
    She looks at him from her brimming eyes, which are a velvety brown, and lets out a dismayed cry. “Damn it! Damn it!”
    An odd thought comes to Pete then: she looks like a girl he knew a long time ago. Not well, they hadn’t known her well, but well enough to save her life. Josie Rinkenhauer, her name had been.
    â€œI knew it!” Trish says, no longer trying to keep that husky thickness out of her voice. “Oh boy, I just knew it!” She turns away from him, now beginning to cry in earnest.
    Pete walks after her and takes her gently by the shoulder. “Wait, Trish. Wait just a minute.”
    That’s a slip, saying her name when she hasn’t given it to him, but she’s too upset to realize they haven’t been properly introduced, so it’s okay.
    â€œWhere did you come