'Dreamcatcher,' said the dying man in the back seat, and he pronounced the word perfectly. The skin of his lower belly had stretched to the point of splitting, and the veins there pulsed with clocklike rapidity. On his pale face, the stubble stood out with almost eerie clarity. He froze in place, most of his weight thrown forward on his good left leg, rifle raised, barrel angled down that interlacing tunnel of light at a cool thirty-five degrees.
She whirled around, bumping the table by the La-Z-Boy which had been Alfie's and was now hers, overturning her coffee cup. The tightwad French, Pete's Dad calls them. There was a lot of western America down 1-90. He ever knew them.
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