He pushed TALK on the intercom and said, Im here. Whos there? Claudette. I think youve got one, doc. Mrs. Winnick? He was pretty sure it was her, and that would mean putting on his parka, because Vera Winnick was in Rivington Two, and the walkway between here and there would be colder than a witchs belt buckle. Or a welldiggers tit. Or whatever the saying was. Vera had been hanging by a thread for a week now, comatose, in and out of CheyneStokes respiration, and this was exactly the sort of night the frail ones picked to go out on. Usually at 4 a.m. He checked his watch. Only 320, but that was close enough for government work. Claudette Albertson surprised him. No, its Mr. Hayes, right down here on the first floor with us. Are you sure? Dan had played a game of checkers with Charlie Hayes just that afternoon, and for a man with acute myelogenous leukemia, hed seemed as lively as a cricket. Nope, but Azzies in there. And you know what you say. What he said was Azzie was never wrong, and he had almost six years worth of experience on which to base that conclusion. Azreel wandered freely around the three buildings that made up the Rivington complex, spending most of his afternoons curled up on a sofa in the rec room, although it wasnt unusual to see him draped across one of the card tableswith or without a halfcompleted jigsaw puzzle on itlike a carelessly thrown stole. All the residents seemed to like him (if there had been complaints about the House housecat, they hadnt reached Dans ears), and Azzie liked them all right back. Sometimes he would jump up in some halfdead oldsters lap . . . but lightly, never seeming to hurt. Which was remarkable, given his size. Azzie was a twelvepounder. Other than during his afternoon naps, Az rarely stayed in one location for long; he always had places to go, people to see, things to do. (That cats a playa, Claudette had once told Danny.) You might see him visiting the spa, licking a paw and taking a little heat. Relaxing on a stopped treadmill in the Health Suite. Sitting atop an abandoned gurney and staring into thin air at those things only cats can see. Sometimes he stalked the back lawn with his ears flattened against his skull, the very picture of feline predation, but if he caught birds and chipmunks, he took them into one of the neighboring yards or across to the town common and dismembered them there. The rec room was open roundtheclock, but Azzie rarely visited there once the TV was off and the residents were gone. When evening gave way to night and the pulse of Rivington House slowed, Azzie became restless, patrolling the corridors like a sentry on the edge of enemy territory. Once the lights dimmed, you might not even see him unless you were looking right at him; his unremarkable mousecolored fur blended in with the shadows. He never went into the guest rooms unless one of the guests was dying. Then he would either slip in (if the door was unlatched) or sit outside with his tail curled around his haunches, waowing in a low, polite voice to be admitted. When he was, he would jump up on the guests bed (they were always guests at Rivington House, never patients) and settle there, purring. If the person so chosen happened to be awake, he or she might stroke the cat. To Dans knowledge, no one had ever demanded that Azzie be evicted. They seemed to know he was there as a friend. Whos the doctor on call? Dan asked. You, Claudette promptly came back. You know what I mean. The real doctor. Emerson, but when I phoned his service, the woman told me not to be silly. Everythings socked in from Berlin to Manchester. She said that except for the ones on the turnpikes, even the plows are waiting for daylight. All right, Dan said. Im on my way. 3 After working at the hospice for awhile, Dan had come to realize there was a class system even for the dying. The guest accommodations in the main house were bigger and more expensive than those in Rivington One and Two. In the Victorian manse where Helen Rivington had once hung her hat and written her romances, the rooms were called suites and named after famous New Hampshire residents. Charlie Hayes was in Alan Shepard. To get there, Dan had to pass the snack alcove at the foot of the stairs, where there were vending machines and a few hard plastic chairs. Fred Carling was plopped down in one of these, munching peanut butter crackers and reading an old issue of Popular Mechanics. Carling was one of three orderlies on the midnighttoeight shift. The other two rotated to days twice a month; Carling never did. A selfproclaimed night owl, he was a beefy timeserver whose arms, sleeved out in a tangle of tats, suggested a biker past. Well lookit here, he said. Its Dannyboy. Or are you in your secret identity tonight? Dan was still only half awake and in no mood for joshing. What do you know about Mr. Hayes? Nothing except the cats in there, and that usually means theyre going to go titsup. No bleeding? The big man shrugged. Well yeah, he had a little noser. I put the bloody towels in a plaguebag, just like Im sposed to. Theyre in Laundry A, if you want to check. Dan thought of asking how a nosebleed that took more than one towel to clean up could be characterized as little, and decided to let it go. Carling was an unfeeling dolt, and how hed gotten a job hereeven on the night shift, when most of the guests were either asleep or trying to be quiet so they wouldnt disturb anyone elsewas beyond Dan. He suspected somebody might have pulled a wire or two. It was how the world worked. Hadnt his own father pulled a wire to get his final job, as caretaker at the Overlook Hotel? Maybe that wasnt proof positive that who you knew was a lousy way to get a job, but it certainly seemed suggestive. Enjoy your evening, Doctor Sleeeep, Carling called after him, making no effort to keep his voice down. At the nurses station, Claudette was charting meds while Janice Barker watched a small TV with the sound turned down low. The current program was one of those endless ads for colon cleanser, but Jan was watching with her eyes wide and her mouth hung ajar. She started when Dan tapped his fingernails on the counter and he realized she hadnt been fascinated but half asleep. Can either of you tell me anything substantive about Charlie? Carling knows from nothing. Claudette glanced down the hall to make sure Fred Carling wasnt in view, then lowered her voice, anyway. That mans as useless as boobs on a bull. I keep hoping hell get fired. Dan kept his similar opinion to himself. Constant sobriety, he had discovered, did wonders for ones powers of discretion. I checked him fifteen minutes ago, Jan said. We check them a lot when Mr. Pussycat comes to visit. How longs Azzie been in there? He was meowing outside the door when we came on duty at midnight, Claudette said, so I opened it for him. He jumped right up on the bed. You know how he does. I almost called you then, but Charlie was awake and responsive. When I said hi, he hid me right back and started petting Azzie. So I decided to wait. About an hour later, he had a nosebleed. Fred cleaned him up. I had to tell him to put the towels in a plaguebag. Plaguebags were what the staff called the dissolvable plastic sacks in which clothing, linen, and towels contaminated with bodily fluids or tissue were stored. It was a state regulation that was supposed to minimize the spread of bloodborne pathogens. When I checked him forty or fifty minutes ago, Jan said, he was asleep. I gave him a shake. He opened his eyes, and they were all bloodshot. Thats when I called Emerson, Claudette said. And after I got the big nowayJose from the girl on service, I called you. Are you going down now? Yes. Good luck, Jan said. Ring if you need something. I will. Why are you watching an infomercial for colon cleanser, Jannie? Or is that too personal? She yawned. At this hour, the only other thing on is an infomercial for the Ahh Bra. I already have one of those. 4 The door of the Alan Shepard Suite was standing half open, but Dan knocked anyway. When there was no response, he pushed it all the way open. Someone (probably one of the nurses; it almost certainly hadnt been Fred Carling) had cranked up the bed a little. The sheet was pulled to Charlie Hayess chest. He was ninetyone, painfully thin, and so pale he hardly seemed to be there at all. Dan had to stand still for thirty seconds before he could be absolutely sure the old mans pajama top was going up and down. Azzie was curled beside the scant bulge of one hip. When Dan came in, the cat surveyed him with those inscrutable eyes. Mr. Hayes? Charlie? Charlies eyes didnt open. The lids were bluish. The skin beneath them was darker, a purpleblack. When Dan got to the side of the bed, he saw more color a little crust of blood beneath each nostril and in one corner of the folded mouth. Dan went into the bathroom, took a facecloth, wetted it in warm water, wrung it out. When he returned to Charlies bedside, Azzie got to his feet and delicately stepped to the other side of the sleeping man, leaving Dan a place to sit down. The sheet was still warm from Azzies body. Gently, Dan wiped the blood from beneath Charlies nose. As he was doing the mouth, Charlie opened his eyes. Dan. Its you, isnt it? My eyes are a little blurry. Bloody was what they were. How are you feeling, Charlie? Any pain? If youre in pain, I can get Claudette to bring you a pill. No pain, Charlie said. His eyes shifted to Azzie, then went back to Dan. I know why hes here. And I know why youre here. Im here because the wind woke me up. Azzie was probably just looking for some company. Cats are nocturnal, you know. Dan pushed up the sleeve of Charlies pajama top to take a pulse, and saw four purple bruises lined up on the old mans stick of a forearm. Latestage leukemia patients bruised if you even breathed on them, but these were fingerbruises, and Dan knew perfectly well where they had come from. He had more control over his temper now that he was sober, but it was still there, just like the occasional strong urge to take a drink. Carling, you bastard. Wouldnt he move quick enough for you? Or were you just mad to have to be cleaning up a nosebleed when all you wanted to do was read magazines and eat those fucking yellow crackers? He tried not to show what he was feeling, but Azzie seemed to sense it; he gave a small, troubled meow. Under other circumstances, Dan might have asked questions, but now he had more pressing matters to deal with. Azzie was right again. He only had to touch the old man to know. Im pretty scared, Charlie said. His voice was little more than a whisper. The low, steady moan of the wind outside was louder. I didnt think I would be, but I am. Theres nothing to be scared of. Instead of taking Charlies pulsethere was really no pointhe took one of the old mans hands in his. He saw Charlies twin sons at four, on swings. He saw Charlies wife pulling down a shade in the bedroom, wearing nothing but the slip of Belgian lace hed bought her for their first anniversary; saw how her ponytail swung over one shoulder when she turned to look at him, her face lit in a smile that was all yes. He saw a Farmall tractor with a striped umbrella raised over the seat. He smelled bacon and heard Frank Sinatra singing Come Fly with Me from a cracked Motorola radio sitting on a worktable littered with tools. He saw a hubcap full of rain reflecting a red barn. He tasted blueberries and gutted a deer and fished in some distant lake whose surface was dappled by steady autumn rain. He was sixty, dancing with his wife in the American Legion hall. He was thirty, splitting wood. He was five, wearing shorts and pulling a red wagon. Then the pictures blurred together, the way cards do when theyre shuffled in the hands of an expert, and the wind was blowing big snow down from the mountains, and in here was the silence and Azzies solemn watching eyes. At times like this, Dan knew what he was for. At times like this he regretted none of the pain and sorrow and anger and horror, because they had brought him here to this room while the wind whooped outside. Charlie Hayes had come to the border. Im not scared of hell. I lived a decent life, and I dont think there is such a place, anyway. Im scared theres nothing. He struggled for breath. A pearl of blood was swelling in the corner of his right eye. There was nothing before, we all know that, so doesnt it stand to reason that theres nothing after? But there is. Dan wiped Charlies face with the damp cloth. We never really end, Charlie. I dont know how that can be, or what it means, I only know that it is. Can you help me get over? They say you can help people. Yes. I can help. He took Charlies other hand, as well. Its just going to sleep. And when you wake upyou will wake upeverything is going to be better. Heaven? Do you mean heaven? I dont know, Charlie. The power was very strong tonight. He could feel it flowing through their clasped hands like an electric current and cautioned himself to be gentle. Part of him was inhabiting the faltering body that was shutting down and the failing senses (hurry up please) that were turning off. He was inhabiting a mind (hurry up please its time) that was still as sharp as ever, and aware it was thinking its last thoughts . . . at least as Charlie Hayes. The bloodshot eyes closed, then opened again. Very slowly. Everythings all right, Dan said. You only need sleep. Sleep will make you better. Is that what you call it? Yes. I call it sleep, and its safe to sleep. Dont go. I wont. Im with you. So he was. It was his terrible privilege. Charlies eyes closed again. Dan closed his own and saw a slow blue pulse in the darkness. Once . . . twice . . . stop. Once . . . twice . . . stop. Outside the wind was blowing. Sleep, Charlie. Youre doing fine, but youre tired and you need to sleep. I see my wife. The faintest of whispers. Do you? She says . . . There was no more, just a final blue pulse behind Dans eyes and a final exhalation from the man on the bed. Dan opened his eyes, listened to the wind, and waited for the last thing. It came a few seconds later a dull red mist that rose from Charlies nose, mouth, and eyes. This was what an old nurse in Tampaone who had about the same twinkle as Billy Freemancalled the gasp. She said she had seen it many times. Dan saw it every time. It rose and hung above the old mans body. Then it faded. Dan slid up the right sleeve of Charlies pajamas, and felt for a pulse. It was just a formality. 5 Azzie usually left before it was over, but not tonight. He was standing on the counterpane beside Charlies hip, staring at the door. Dan turned, expecting to see Claudette or Jan, but no one was there. Except there was. Hello? Nothing. Are you the little girl who writes on my blackboard sometimes? No response. But someone was there, all right. Is your name Abra? Faint, almost inaudible because of the wind, there came a ripple of piano notes. Dan might have believed it was his imagination (he could not always tell the difference between that and the shining) if not for Azzie, whose ears twitched and whose eyes never left the empty doorway. Someone was there, watching. Are you Abra? There was another ripple of notes, then silence again. Except this time it was absence. Whatever her name was, she was gone. Azzie stretched, leaped down from the bed, and left without a look back. Dan sat where he was a little longer, listening to the wind. Then he lowered the bed, pulled the sheet up over Charlies face, and went back to the nurses station to tell them there had been a death on the floor. 6 When his part of the paperwork was complete, Dan walked down to the snack alcove. There was a time he would have gone there on the run, fists already clenched, but those days were gone. Now he walked, taking long slow breaths to calm his heart and mind. There was a saying in AA, Think before you drink, but what Casey K. told him during their onceaweek ttettes was to think before he did anything. You didnt get sober to be stupid, Danny. Keep it in mind the next time you start listening to that ittybitty shitty committee inside your head. But those goddam fingermarks. Carling was rocked back in his chair, now eating Junior Mints. He had swapped Popular Mechanics for a photo mag with the latest badboy sitcom star on the cover. Mr. Hayes has passed on, Dan said mildly. Sorry to hear it. Not looking up from the magazine. But that is what theyre here for, isnt i Dan lifted one foot, hooked it behind one of the tilted front legs of Carlings chair, and yanked. The chair spun away and Carling landed on the floor. The box of Junior Mints flew out of his hand. He stared up at Dan unbelievingly. Have I got your attention? You sonofa Carling started to get up. Dan put his foot on the mans chest and pushed him back against the wall. I see I have. Good. It would be better right now if you didnt get up. Just sit there and listen to me. Dan bent forward and clasped his knees with his hands. Tight, because all those hands wanted to do right now was hit. And hit. And hit. His temples were throbbing. Slow, he told himself. Dont let it get the better of you. But it was hard. The next time I see your fingermarks on a patient, Ill photograph them and go to Mrs. Clausen and youll be out on the street no matter who you know. And once youre no longer a part of this institution, Ill find you and beat the living shit out of you. Carling got to his feet, using the wall to support his back and keeping a close eye on Dan as he did it. He was taller, and outweighed Dan by a hundred pounds at least. He balled his fists. Id like to see you try. How about now? Sure, but not here, Dan said. Too many people trying to sleep, and weve got a dead man down the hall. One with your marks on him. I didnt do nothing but go to take his pulse. You know how easy they bruise when they got the leukemia. I do, Dan agreed, but you hurt him on purpose. I dont know why, but I know you did. There was a flicker in Carlings muddy eyes. Not shame; Dan didnt think the man was capable of feeling that. Just unease at being seen through. And fear of being caught. Big man. Doctor Sleeeep. Think your shit dont stink? Come on, Fred, lets go outside. More than happy to. And this was true. There was a second Dan inside. He wasnt as close to the surface anymore, but he was still there and still the same ugly, irrational sonofabitch hed always been. Out of the corner of his eye Dan could see Claudette and Jan standing halfway down the hall, their eyes wide and their arms around each other. Carling thought it over. Yes, he was bigger, and yes, he had more reach. But he was also out of shapetoo many overstuffed burritos, too many beers, much shorter wind than hed had in his twentiesand there was something worrisome in the skinny guys face. Hed seen it before, back in his Road Saints days. Some guys had lousy circuit breakers in their heads. They tripped easy, and once they did, those guys would burn on until they burned out. He had taken Torrance for some mousy little geek who wouldnt say shit if he had a mouthful, but he saw that hed been wrong about that. His secret identity wasnt Doctor Sleep, it was Doctor Crazy. After considering this carefully, Fred said, I wouldnt waste my time. Dan nodded. Good. Save us both getting frostbite. Just remember what I said. If you dont want to go to the hospital, keep your hands to yourself from now on. Who died and left you in charge? I dont know, Dan said. I really dont. 7 Dan went back to his room and back to bed, but he couldnt sleep. He had made roughly four dozen deathbed visits during his time at Rivington House, and usually they left him calm. Not tonight. He was still trembling with rage. His conscious mind hated that red storm, but some lower part of him loved it. Probably it went back to plain old genetics; nature triumphing over nurture. The longer he stayed sober, the more old memories surfaced. Some of the clearest were of his fathers rages. He had been hoping that Carling would take him up on it. Would go outside into the snow and wind, where Dan Torrance, son of Jack, would give that worthless puppy his medicine. God knew he didnt want to be his father, whose bouts of sobriety had been the whiteknuckle kind. AA was supposed to help with anger, and mostly it did, but there were times like tonight when Dan realized what a flimsy barrier it was. Times when he felt worthless, and the booze seemed like all he deserved. At times like that he felt very close to his father. He thought Mama. He thought Canny. He thought Worthless pups need to take their medicine. And you know where they sell it, dont you? Damn near everywhere. The wind rose in a furious gust, making the turret groan. When it died, the blackboard girl was there. He could almost hear her breathing. He lifted one hand out from beneath the comforters. For a moment it only hung there in the cold air, and then he felt herssmall, warmslip into it. Abra, he said. Your name is Abra, but sometimes people call you Abby. Isnt that right? No answer came, but he didnt really need one. All he needed was the sensation of that warm hand in his. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough to soothe him. He closed his eyes and slept. 8 Twenty miles away, in the little town of Anniston, Abra Stone lay awake. The hand that had enfolded hers held on for a moment or two. Then it turned to mist and was gone. But it had been there. He had been there. She had found him in a dream, but when she woke, she had discovered the dream was real. She was standing in the doorway of a room. What she had seen there was terrible and wonderful at the same time. There was death, and death was scary, but there had also been helping. The man who was helping hadnt been able to see her, but the cat had. The cat had a name like hers, but not exactly. He didnt see me but he felt me. And we were together just now. I think I helped him, like he helped the man who died. That was a good thought. Holding onto it (as she had held the phantom hand), Abra rolled over on her side, hugged her stuffed rabbit to her chest, and went to sleep. CHAPTER FIVE THE TRUE KNOT 1 The True Knot wasnt incorporated, but if it had been, certain side o the road communities in Maine, Florida, Colorado, and New Mexico would have been referred to as company towns. These were places where all the major businesses and large plots of land could be traced back, through a tangle of holding companies, to them. The Trues towns, with colorful names like Dry Bend, Jerusalems Lot, Oree, and Sidewinder, were safe havens, but they never stayed in those places for long; mostly they were migratory. If you drive the turnpikes and maintraveled highways of America, you may have seen them. Maybe it was on I95 in South Carolina, somewhere south of Dillon and north of Santee. Maybe it was on I80 in Nevada, in the mountain country west of Draper. Or in Georgia, while negotiatingslowly, if you know whats good for youthat notorious Highway 41 speedtrap outside Tifton. How many times have you found yourself behind a lumbering RV, eating exhaust and waiting impatiently for your chance to pass? Creeping along at forty when you could be doing a perfectly legal sixtyfive or even seventy? And when theres finally a hole in the fast lane and you pull out, holy God, you see a long line of those damn things, gas hogs driven at exactly ten miles an hour below the legal speed limit by bespectacled golden oldies who hunch over their steering wheels, gripping them like they think theyre going to fly away. Or maybe youve encountered them in the turnpike rest areas, when you stop to stretch your legs and maybe drop a few quarters into one of the vending machines. The entrance ramps to those rest stops always divide in two, dont they? Cars in one parking lot, longhaul trucks and RVs in another. Usually the lot for the big rigs and RVs is a little farther away. You might have seen the Trues rolling motorhomes parked in that lot, all in a cluster. You might have seen their owners walking up to the main buildingslow, because many of them look old and some of them are pretty darn fatalways in a group, always keeping to themselves. Sometimes they pull off at one of the exits loaded with gas stations, motels, and fastfood joints. And if you see those RVs parked at McDonalds or Burger King, you keep on going because you know theyll all be lined up at the counter, the men wearing floppy golf hats or longbilled fishing caps, the women in stretch pants (usually powderblue) and shirts that say things like ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDCHILDREN! or JESUS IS KING or HAPPY WANDERER. Youd rather go half a mile farther down the road, to the Waffle House or Shoneys, wouldnt you? Because you know theyll take forever to order, mooning over the menu, always wanting their Quarter Pounders without the pickles or their Whoppers without the sauce. Asking if there are any interesting tourist attractions in the area, even though anyone can see this is just another nothing threestoplight burg where the kids leave as soon as they graduate from the nearest high school. You hardly see them, right? Why would you? Theyre just the RV People, elderly retirees and a few younger compatriots living their rootless lives on the turnpikes and blue highways, staying at campgrounds where they sit around in their Walmart lawnchairs and cook on their hibachis while they talk about investments and fishing tournaments and hotpot recipes and God knows what. Theyre the ones who always stop at fleamarkets and yardsales, parking their damn dinosaurs nosetotail half on the shoulder and half on the road, so you have to slow to a crawl in order to creep by. They are the opposite of the motorcycle clubs you sometimes see on those same turnpikes and blue highways; the Mild Angels instead of the wild ones. Theyre annoying as hell when they descend en masse on a rest area and fill up all the toilets, but once their balky, roadstunned bowels finally work and youre able to take a pew yourself, you put them out of your mind, dont you? Theyre no more remarkable than a flock of birds on a telephone wire or a herd of cows grazing in a field beside the road. Oh, you might wonder how they can afford to fill those fuelguzzling monstrosities (because they must be on comfy fixed incomes, how else could they spend all their time driving around like they do), and you might puzzle over why anyone would want to spend their golden years cruising all those endless American miles between Hoot and Holler, but beyond that, you probably never spare them a thought. And if you happen to be one of those unfortunate people whos ever lost a kidnothing left but a bike in the vacant lot down the street, or a little cap lying in the bushes at the edge of a nearby streamyou probably never thought of them. Why would you? No, it was probably some hobo. Or (worse to consider, but horribly plausible) some sick fuck from your very own town, maybe your very own neighborhood, maybe even your very own street, some sick killer pervo whos very good at looking normal and will go on looking normal until someone finds a clatter of bones in the guys basement or buried in his backyard. Youd never think of the RV People, those midlife pensioners and cheery older folks in their golf hats and sun visors with appliqud flowers on them. And mostly youd be right. There are thousands of RV People, but by 2011 there was only one Knot left in America the True Knot. They liked moving around, and that was good, because they had to. If they stayed in one place, theyd eventually attract attention, because they dont age like other people. Apron Annie or Dirty Phil (rube names Anne Lamont and Phil Caputo) might appear to grow twenty years older overnight. The Little twins (Pea and Pod) might snap back from twentytwo to twelve (or almost), the age at which they Turned, but their Turning was long ago. The only member of the True whos actually young is Andrea Steiner, now known as Snakebite Andi . . . and even shes not as young as she looks. A tottery, grumpy old lady of eighty suddenly becomes sixty again. A leathery old gent of seventy is able to put away his cane; the skintumors on his arms and face disappear. BlackEyed Susie loses her hitching limp. Diesel Doug goes from half blind with cataracts to sharpeyed, his bald spot magically gone. All at once, hey presto, hes fortyfive again. Steamhead Steves crooked back straightens. His wife, Baba the Red, ditches those uncomfortable continence pants, puts on her rhinestonestudded Ariat boots, and says she wants to go out line dancing. Given time to observe such changes, people would wonder and people would talk. Eventually some reporter would turn up, and the True Knot shied away from publicity the way vampires supposedly shy away from sunlight. But since they dont live in one place (and when they stop for an extended period in one of their company towns, they keep to themselves), they fit right in. Why not? They wear the same clothes as the other RV People, they wear the same el cheapo sunglasses, they buy the same souvenir tshirts and consult the same AAA roadmaps. They put the same decals on their Bounders and Bagos, touting all the peculiar places theyve visited (I HELPED TRIM THE WORLDS BIGGEST TREE IN CHRISTMASLAND!), and you find yourself looking at the same bumper stickers while youre stuck behind them (OLD BUT NOT DEAD, SAVE MEDICARE, IM A CONSERVATIVE AND I VOTE!!), waiting for a chance to pass. They eat fried chicken from the Colonel and buy the occasional scratch ticket in those EZon, EZoff convenience stores where they sell beer, bait, ammo, Motor Trend magazine, and ten thousand kinds of candybars. If theres a bingo hall in the town where they stop, a bunch of them are apt to go on over, take a table, and play until the last coverall game is finished. At one of those games, Greedy G (rube name Greta Moore) won five hundred dollars. She gloated over that for months, and although the members of the True have all the money they need, it pissed off some of the other ladies to no end. Token Charlie wasnt too pleased, either. He said hed been waiting on B7 for five pulls from the hopper when the G finally bingoed. Greedy, youre one lucky bitch, he said. And youre one unlucky bastard, she replied. One unlucky black bastard. And went off chortling. If one of them happens to get speedtrapped or stopped for some minor traffic offenseits rare, but it does happenthe cop finds nothing but valid licenses, uptodate insurance cards, and paperwork in applepie order. No voices are raised while the cops standing there with his citation book, even if its an obvious scam. The charges are never disputed, and all fines are paid promptly. America is a living body, the highways are its arteries, and the True Knot slips along them like a silent virus. But there are no dogs. Ordinary RV People travel with lots of canine company, usually those little shitmachines with white fur, gaudy collars, and nasty tempers. You know the kind; they have irritating barks that hurt your ears and ratty little eyes full of disturbing intelligence. You see them sniffing their way through the grass in the designated petwalking areas of the turnpike rest stops, their owners trailing behind, pooperscoopers at the ready. In addition to the usual decals and bumper stickers on the motorhomes of these ordinary RV People, youre apt to see yellow diamondshaped signs reading POMERANIAN ON BOARD or I MY POODLE. Not the True Knot. They dont like dogs, and dogs dont like them. You might say dogs see through them. To the sharp and watchful eyes behind the cutrate sunglasses. To the strong and longmuscled hunters legs beneath the polyester slacks from Walmart. To the sharp teeth beneath the dentures, waiting to come out. They dont like dogs, but they like certain children. Oh yes, they like certain children very much.


2 In May of 2011, not long after Abra Stone celebrated her tenth birthday and Dan Torrance his tenth year of AA sobriety, Crow Daddy knocked on the door of Rosie the Hats EarthCruiser. The True was currently staying at the Kozy Kampground outside Lexington, Kentucky. They were on their way to Colorado, where they would spend most of the summer in one of their bespoke towns, this one a place Dan sometimes revisited in his dreams. Usually they were in no hurry to get anywhere, but there was some urgency this summer. All of them knew it but none of them talked about it. Rose would take care of it. She always had. Come, she said, and Crow Daddy stepped in. When on a business errand, he always stepped out in good suits and expensive shoes polished to a mirror gloss. If he was feeling particularly oldschool, he might even carry a walking stick. This morning he was wearing baggy pants held up by suspenders, a strappy tshirt with a fish on it (KISS MY BASS printed beneath), and a flat workmans cap, which he swept off as he closed the door behind him. He was her sometime lover as well as her secondincommand, but he never failed to show respect. It was one of many things Rose liked about him. She had no doubt that the True could carry on under his leadership if she died. For awhile, at least. But for another hundred years? Perhaps not. Probably not. He had a silver tongue and cleaned up well when he had to deal with the rubes, but Crow had only rudimentary planning skills, and no real vision. This morning he looked troubled. Rose was sitting on the sofa in capri pants and a plain white bra, smoking a cigarette and watching the third hour of Today on her big wallmounted TV. That was the soft hour, when they featured celebrity chefs and actors doing PR for their new movies. Her tophat was cocked back on her head. Crow Daddy had known her for more years than the rubes lived, and he still didnt know what magic held it at that gravitydefying angle. She picked up the remote and muted the sound. Why, its Henry Rothman, as I live and breathe. Looking remarkably tasty, too, although I doubt you came to be tasted. Not at quarter of ten in the morning, and not with that look on your face. Who died? She meant it as a joke, but the wincing frown that tightened his forehead told her it wasnt one. She turned the TV off and made a business of butting her cigarette, not wanting him to see the dismay she felt. Once the True had been over two hundred strong. As of yesterday, they numbered fortyone. If she was right about the meaning of that wince, they were one less today. Tommy the Truck, he said. Went in his sleep. Cycled once, and then boom. Didnt suffer at all. Which is fucking rare, as you know. Did Nut see him? While he was still there to be seen, she thought but did not add. Walnut, whose rube drivers license and various rube credit cards identified him as Peter Wallis of Little Rock, Arkansas, was the Trues sawbones. No, it was too quick. Heavy Mary was with him. Tommy woke her up, thrashing. She thought it was a bad dream and gave him an elbow . . . only by then there was nothing left to poke but his pajamas. It was probably a heart attack. Tommy had a bad cold. Nut thinks that might have been a contributing factor. And you know the sonofabitch always smoked like a chimney. We dont get heart attacks. Then, reluctantly Of course, we usually dont get colds, either. He was really wheezing the last few days, wasnt he? Poor old TT. Yeah, poor old TT. Nut says itd be impossible to tell anything for sure without an autopsy. Which couldnt happen. By now there would be no body left to cut up. Hows Mary taking it? How do you think? Shes brokenfuckinghearted. They go back to when Tommy the Truck was Tommy the Wagon. Almost ninety years. She was the one who took care of him after he Turned. Gave him his first steam when he woke up the next day. Now she says she wants to kill herself. Rose was rarely shocked, but this did the job. No one in the True had ever killed themselves. Life wasto coin a phrasetheir only reason for living. Probably just talk, Crow Daddy said. Only . . . Only what? Youre right about us not usually getting colds, but there have been quite a few just lately. Mostly just sniffles that come and go. Nut says it may be malnutrition. Of course hes just guessing. Rose sat in thought, tapping her fingers against her bare midriff and staring at the blank rectangle of the TV. At last she said, Okay, I agree that nourishments been a bit thin lately, but we took steam in Delaware just a month ago, and Tommy was fine then. Plumped right up. Yeah, but Rosiethe kid from Delaware wasnt much. More hunchhead than steamhead. Shed never thought of it just that way, but it was true. Also, hed been nineteen, according to his drivers license. Well past whatever stunted prime he might have had around puberty. In another ten years hed have been just another rube. Maybe even five. He hadnt been much of a meal, point taken. But you couldnt always have steak. Sometimes you had to settle for bean sprouts and tofu. At least they kept body and soul together until you could butcher the next cow. Except psychic tofu and bean sprouts hadnt kept Tommy the Trucks body and soul together, had they? There used to be more steam, Crow said. Dont be daft. Thats like the rubes saying that fifty years ago people were more neighborly. Its a myth, and I dont want you spreading it around. People are nervous enough already. You know me better than that. And I dont think it is a myth, darlin. If you think about it, it stands to reason. Fifty years ago there was more of everythingoil, wildlife, arable land, clean air. There were even a few honest politicians. Yes! Rose cried. Richard Nixon, remember him? Prince of the Rubes? But he wouldnt go chasing up this false trail. Crow might be a bit lacking in the vision department, but he was rarely distracted. That was why he was her second. He might even have a point. Who was to say that humans capable of providing the nourishment the True needed werent dwindling, just like schools of tuna in the Pacific? You better bust open one of the canisters, Rosie. He saw her eyes widen and raised a hand to stop her from speaking. Nobodys saying that out loud, but the whole familys thinking about it. Rose had no doubt they were, and the idea that Tommy had died of complications resulting from malnutrition had a certain horrid plausibility. When steam was in short supply, life grew hard and lost its savor. They werent vampires from one of those old Hammer horror pictures, but they still needed to eat. And how long since weve had a seventh wave? Crow asked. He knew the answer to that, and so did she. The True Knot had limited precognitive skills, but when a truly big rube disaster was approachinga seventh wavethey all felt it. Although the details of the attack on the World Trade Center had only begun to clarify for them in the late summer of 2001, they had known something was going to happen in New York City for months in advance. She could still remember the joy and anticipation. She supposed hungry rubes felt the same way when they smelled a particularly savory meal cooking in the kitchen. There had been plenty for everybody that day, and in the days following. There might only have been a couple of true steamheads among those who died when the Towers fell, but when the disaster was big enough, agony and violent death had an enriching quality. Which was why the True was drawn to such sites, like insects to a bright light. Locating single rube steamheads was far more difficult, and there were only three of them now with that specialized sonar in their heads Grampa Flick, Barry the Chink, and Rose herself. She got up, grabbed a neatly folded boatneck top from the counter, and pulled it over her head. As always, she looked gorgeous in a way that was a bit unearthly (those high cheekbones and slightly tipped eyes) but extremely sexy. She put her hat back on and gave it a tap for good luck. How many full canisters do you think are left, Crow? He shrugged. A dozen? Fifteen? In that neighborhood, she agreed. Better that none of them knew the truth, not even her second. The last thing she needed was for the current unease to become outright panic. When people panicked, they ran in all directions. If that happened, the True might disintegrate. Meanwhile, Crow was looking at her, and closely. Before he could see too much, she said, Can you fourwall this place tonight? You kidding? With the price of gas and diesel what it is, the guy who owns it cant fill half his spots, even on weekends. Hell jump at the chance. Then do it. Were going to take canister steam. Spread the word. Youve got it. He kissed her, caressing one of her breasts as he did so. This is my favorite top. She laughed and pushed him away. Any top with tits in it is your favorite top. Go on. But he lingered, a grin tipping one corner of his mouth. Is Rattlesnake Girl still sniffin around your door, beautiful? She reached down and briefly squeezed him below the belt. Oh my gosh. Is that your jealous bone Im feeling? Say it is. She doubted it, but was flattered, anyway. Shes with Sarey now, and the two of them are perfectly happy. But since were on the subject of Andi, she can help us. You know how. Spread the word but speak to her first. After he left, she locked the EarthCruiser, went to the cockpit, and dropped to her knees. She worked her fingers into the carpet between the drivers seat and the control pedals. A strip of it came up. Beneath was a square of metal with an embedded keypad. Rose ran the numbers, and the safe popped open an inch or two. She lifted the door the rest of the way and looked inside. Fifteen or a dozen full canisters left. That had been Crows guess, and although she couldnt read members of the True the way she could read the rubes, Rose was sure he had been purposely lowballing to cheer her up. If he only knew, she thought. The safe was lined with Styrofoam to protect the canisters in case of a road accident, and there were forty builtin cradles. On this fine May morning in Kentucky, thirtyseven of the canisters in those cradles were empty. Rose took one of the remaining full ones and held it up. It was light; if you hefted it, you would have guessed it too was empty. She took the cap off, inspected the valve beneath to make sure the seal was still intact, then reclosed the safe and put the canister carefullyalmost reverentlyon the counter where her top had been folded. After tonight there would only be two. They had to find some big steam and refill at least a few of those empty canisters, and they had to do it soon. The Trues back wasnt to the wall, not quite yet, but it was only inches away. 3 The Kozy Kampground owner and his wife had their own trailer, a permanent job set up on painted concrete blocks. April showers had brought lots of May flowers, and Mr. and Mrs. Kozys front yard was full of them. Andrea Steiner paused a moment to admire the tulips and pansies before mounting the three steps to the door of the big Redman trailer, where she knocked. Mr. Kozy opened up eventually. He was a small man with a big belly currently encased in a bright red strappy undershirt. In one hand he held a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. In the other was a mustardsmeared brat wrapped in a slice of spongy white bread. Because his wife was currently in the other room, he paused for a moment to do a visual inventory of the young woman before him, ponytail to sneakers. Yeah? Several in the True had a bit of sleeper talent, but Andi was by far the best, and her Turning had proved of enormous benefit to the True. She still used the ability on occasion to lift cash from the wallets of certain older rube gentlemen who were attracted to her. Rose found this risky and childish, but knew from experience that in time, what Andi called her issues would fade away. For the True Knot, the only issue was survival. I just had a quick question, Andi said. If its about the toilets, darlin, the caca sucker dont come until Thursday. Its not about that. What, then? Arent you tired? Dont you want to go to sleep? Mr. Kozy immediately closed his eyes. The beer and the brat tumbled out of his hands, leaving a mess on the rug. Oh well, Andi thought, Crow fronted the guy twelve hundred. Mr. Kozy can afford a bottle of carpet cleaner. Maybe even two. Andi took him by the arm and led him into the living room. Here was a pair of chintzcovered Kozy armchairs with TV trays set up in front of them. Sit, she said. Mr. Kozy sat, eyes shut. You like to mess with young girls? Andi asked him. You would if you could, wouldnt you? If you could run fast enough to catch them, anyway. She surveyed him, hands on hips. Youre disgusting. Can you say that? Im disgusting, Mr. Kozy agreed. Then he began to snore. Mrs. Kozy came in from the kitchen. She was gnawing on an ice cream sandwich. Here, now, who are you? What are you telling him? What do you want? For you to sleep, Andi told her. Mrs. Kozy dropped her ice cream. Then her knees unhinged and she sat on it. Ah, fuck, Andi said. I didnt mean there. Get up. Mrs. Kozy got up with the squashed ice cream sandwich sticking to the back of her dress. Snakebite Andi put her arm around the womans mostly nonexistent waist and led her to the other Kozy chair, pausing long enough to pull the melting ice cream sandwich off her butt. Soon the two of them sat side by side, eyes shut. Youll sleep all night, Andi instructed them. Mister can dream about chasing young girls. Missus, you can dream he died of a heart attack and left you a milliondollar insurance policy. Hows that sound? Sound good? She snapped on the TV and turned it up loud. Pat Sajak was being embraced by a woman with enormous jahoobies who had just finished solving the puzzle, which was NEVER REST ON YOUR LAURELS. Andi took a moment to admire the mammoth mammaries, then turned back to the Kozys. When the eleven oclock news is over, you can turn off the TV and go to bed. When you wake up tomorrow, you wont remember I was here. Any questions? They had none. Andi left them and hurried back to the cluster of RVs. She was hungry, had been for weeks, and tonight there would be plenty for everybody. As for tomorrow . . . it was Roses job to worry about that, and as far as Snakebite Andi was concerned, she was welcome to it. 4 It was full dark by eight oclock. At nine, the True gathered in the Kozy Kampgrounds picnic area. Rose the Hat came last, carrying the canister. A small, greedy murmur went up at the sight of it. Rose knew how they felt. She was plenty hungry herself. She mounted one of the initialscarred picnic tables and looked at them one by one. We are the True Knot. We are the True Knot, they responded. Their faces were solemn, their eyes avid and hungry. What is tied may never be untied. We are the True Knot, and we endure. We endure. We are the chosen ones. We are the fortunate ones. We are chosen and fortunate. They are the makers; we are the takers. We take what they make. Take this and use it well. We will use it well. Once, early in the last decade of the twentieth century, there had been a boy from Enid, Oklahoma, named Richard Gaylesworthy. I swear that child can read my mind, his mother sometimes said. People smiled at this, but she wasnt kidding. And maybe not just her mind. Richard got As on tests he hadnt even studied for. He knew when his father was going to come home in a good mood and when he was going to come home fuming about something at the plumbing supply company he owned. Once the boy begged his mother to play the Pick Six lottery because he swore he knew the winning numbers. Mrs. Gaylesworthy refusedthey were good Baptistsbut later she was sorry. Not all six of the numbers Richard wrote down on the kitchen noteminder board came up, but five did. Her religious convictions had cost them seventy thousand dollars. She had begged the boy not to tell his father, and Richard had promised he wouldnt. He was a good boy, a lovely boy. Two months or so after the lottery win that wasnt, Mrs. Gaylesworthy was shot to death in her kitchen and the good and lovely boy disappeared. His body had long since rotted away beneath the gonetoseed back field of an abandoned farm, but when Rose the Hat opened the valve on the silver canister, his essencehis steamescaped in a cloud of sparkling silver mist. It rose to a height of about three feet above the canister, and spread out in a plane. The True stood looking up at it with expectant faces. Most were trembling. Several were actually weeping. Take nourishment and endure, Rose said, and raised her hands until her spread fingers were just below the flat plane of mist. She beckoned. The mist immediately began to sink, taking on an umbrella shape as it descended toward those waiting below. When it enveloped their heads, they began to breathe deeply. This went on for five minutes, during which several of them hyperventilated and swooned to the ground. Rose felt herself swelling physically and sharpening mentally. Every fragrant odor of this spring night declared itself. She knew that the faint lines around her eyes and mouth were disappearing. The white strands in her hair were turning dark again. Later tonight, Crow would come to her camper, and in her bed they would burn like torches. They inhaled Richard Gaylesworthy until he was gonereally and truly gone. The white mist thinned and then disappeared. Those who had fainted sat up and looked around, smiling. Grampa Flick grabbed Petty the Chink, Barrys wife, and did a nimble little jig with her. Let go of me, you old donkey! she snapped, but she was laughing. Snakebite Andi and Silent Sarey were kissing deeply, Andis hands plunged into Sareys mousecolored hair. Rose leaped down from the picnic table and turned to Crow. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, grinning back at her. Everythings cool, that grin said, and so it was. For now. But in spite of her euphoria, Rose thought of the canisters in her safe. Now there were thirtyeight empties instead of thirtyseven. Their backs were a step closer to the wall. 5 The True rolled out the next morning just after first light. They took Route 12 to I64, the fourteen RVs in a nosetotail caravan. When they reached the interstate they would spread out so they werent quite so obviously together, staying in touch by radio in case trouble arose. Or if opportunity knocked. Ernie and Maureen Salkowicz, fresh from a wonderful nights sleep, agreed those RV folks were just about the best theyd ever had. Not only did they pay cash and bus up their sites neat as a pin, someone left an apple bread pudding on the top step of their trailer, with a sweet thankyou note on top. With any luck, the Salkowiczes told each other as they ate their gift dessert for breakfast, theyd come back next year. Do you know what? Maureen said. I dreamed that lady on the insurance commercialsFlosold you a big insurance policy. Wasnt that a crazy dream? Ernie grunted and splooshed more whipped cream onto his bread pudding. Did you dream, honey? Nope. But his eyes slid away from hers as he said it. 6 The True Knots luck turned for the better on a hot July day in Iowa. Rose was leading the caravan, as she always did, and just west of Adair, the sonar in her head gave a ping. Not a headblaster by any means, but moderately loud. She hopped on the CB at once to Barry the Chink, who was about as Asian as Tom Cruise. Barry, did you feel that? Come back. Yuh. Barry was not the garrulous type. Whos Grampa Flick riding with today? Before Barry could answer, there was a double break on the CB and Apron Annie said, Hes with me and Long Paul, sweetie. Is it . . . is it a good one? Annie sounded anxious, and Rose could understand that. Richard Gaylesworthy had been a very good one, but six weeks was a long time between meals, and he was beginning to wear off. Is the old feller compos, Annie? Before she could answer, a raspy voice came back, Im fine, woman. And for a guy who sometimes couldnt remember his own name, Grampa Flick did sound pretty much okay. Testy, sure, but testy was a lot better than befuddled. A second ping hit her, this one not as strong. As if to underline a point that needed no underlining, Grampa said, Were going the wrong fuckin way. Rose didnt bother answering, just clicked another double break on her mike. Crow? Come back, honeybunch. Im here. Prompt as always. Just waiting to be called. Pull em in at the next rest area. Except for me, Barry, and Flick. Well take the next exit and double back. Will you need a crew? I wont know until we get closer, but . . . I dont think so. Okay. A pause, then he added Shit. Rose racked the mike and looked out at the unending acres of corn on both sides of the fourlane. Crow was disappointed, of course. They all would be. Big steamheads presented problems because they were all but immune to suggestion. That meant taking them by force. Friends or family members often tried to interfere. They could sometimes be put to sleep, but not always; a kid with big steam could block even Snakebite Andis best efforts in that regard. So sometimes people had to be killed. Not good, but the prize was always worth it life and strength stored away in a steel canister. Stored for a rainy day. In many cases there was even a residual benefit. Steam was hereditary, and often everyone in the targets family had at least a little. 7 While most of the True Knot waited in a pleasantly shady rest area forty miles east of Council Bluffs, the RVs containing the three finders turned around, left the turnpike at Adair, and headed north. Once away from I80 and out in the toolies, they spread apart and begin working the grid of graveled, wellmaintained farm roads that parceled this part of Iowa into big squares. Moving in on the ping from different directions. Triangulating. It got stronger . . . a little stronger still . . . then leveled off. Good steam but not great steam. Ah, well. Beggars couldnt be choosers. 8 Bradley Trevor had been given the day off from his usual farm chores to practice with the local Little League AllStar team. If his pa had refused him this, the coach probably would have led the rest of the boys in a lynch party, because Brad was the teams best hitter. You wouldnt think it to look at himhe was skinny as a rake handle, and only elevenbut he was able to tag even the Districts best pitchers for singles and doubles. The meatballers he almost always took deep. Some of it was plain farmboy strength, but by no means all of it. Brad just seemed to know what pitch was coming next. It wasnt a case of stealing signs (a possibility upon which some of the other District coaches had speculated darkly). He just knew. The way he knew the best location for a new stock well, or where the occasional lost cow had gotten off to, or where Mas engagement ring was the time shed lost it. Look under the floormat of the Suburban, hed said, and there it was. That days practice was an especially good one, but Brad seemed lost in the ozone during the debriefing afterward, and declined to take a soda from the tub filled with ice when it was offered. He said he thought he better get home and help his ma take in the clothes. Is it gonna rain? Micah Johnson, the coach, asked. Theyd all come to trust him on such things. Dunno, Brad said listlessly. You feel okay, son? You look a little peaked. In fact, Brad didnt feel well, had gotten up that morning headachey and a bit feverish. That wasnt why he wanted to go home now, though; he just had a strong sense that he no longer wanted to be at the baseball field. His mind didnt seem . . . quite his own. He wasnt sure if he was here or only dreaming he washow crazy was that? He scratched absently at a red spot on his forearm. Same time tomorrow, right? Coach Johnson said that was the plan, and Brad walked off with his glove trailing from one hand. Usually he joggedthey all didbut today he didnt feel like it. His head still ached, and now his legs did, too. He disappeared into the corn behind the bleachers, meaning to take a shortcut back to the farm, two miles away. When he emerged onto Town Road D, brushing silk from his hair with a slow and dreamy hand, a midsize WanderKing was idling on the gravel. Standing beside it, smiling, was Barry the Chink. Well, there you are, Barry said. Who are you? A friend. Hop in. Ill take you home. Sure, Brad said. Feeling the way he did, a ride would be fine. He scratched at the red spot on his arm. Youre Barry Smith. Youre a friend. Ill hop in and youll take me home. He stepped into the RV. The door closed. The WanderKing drove away. By the next day the whole county would be mobilized in a hunt for the Adair AllStars centerfielder and best hitter. A State Police spokesman asked residents to report any strange cars or vans. There were many such reports, but they all came to nothing. And although the three RVs carrying the finders were much bigger than vans (and Rose the Hats was truly huge), nobody reported them. They were the RV People, after all, and traveling together. Brad was just . . . gone. Like thousands of other unfortunate children, he had been swallowed up, seemingly in a single bite. 9 They took him north to an abandoned ethanolprocessing plant that was miles from the nearest farmhouse. Crow carried the boy out of Roses EarthCruiser and laid him gently on the ground. Brad was bound with duct tape and weeping. As the True Knot gathered around him (like mourners over an open grave), he said, Please take me home. Ill never tell. Rose dropped to one knee beside him and sighed. I would if I could, son, but I cant. His eyes found Barry. You said you were one of the good guys! I heard you! You said so! Sorry, pal. Barry didnt look sorry. What he looked was hungry. Its not personal. Brad shifted his eyes back to Rose. Are you going to hurt me? Please dont hurt me. Of course they were going to hurt him. It was regrettable, but pain purified steam, and the True had to eat. Lobsters also felt pain when they were dropped into pots of boiling water, but that didnt stop the rubes from doing it. Food was food, and survival was survival. Rose put her hands behind her back. Into one of these, Greedy G placed a knife. It was short but very sharp. Rose smiled down at the boy and said, As little as possible. The boy lasted a long time. He screamed until his vocal cords ruptured and his cries became husky barks. At one point, Rose paused and looked around. Her hands, long and strong, wore bloody red gloves. Something? Crow asked. Well talk later, Rose said, and went back to work. The light of a dozen flashlights had turned a piece of ground behind the ethanol plant into a makeshift operating theater. Brad Trevor whispered, Please kill me. Rose the Hat gave him a comforting smile. Soon. But it wasnt. Those husky barks recommenced, and eventually they turned to steam. At dawn, they buried the boys body. Then they moved on. CHAPTER SIX WEIRD RADIO 1 It hadnt happened in at least three years, but some things you dont forget. Like when your child begins screaming in the middle of the night. Lucy was on her own because David was attending a twoday conference in Boston, but she knew if hed been there, he would have raced her down the hall to Abras room. He hadnt forgotten, either. Their daughter was sitting up in bed, her face pale, her hair standing out in a sleepscruff all around her head, her eyes wide and staring blankly into space. The sheetall she needed to sleep under during warm weatherhad been pulled free and was balled up around her like a crazy cocoon. Lucy sat beside her and put an arm around Abras shoulders. It was like hugging stone. This was the worst part, before she came all the way out of it. Being ripped from sleep by your daughters screams was terrifying, but the nonresponsiveness was worse. Between the ages of five and seven, these night terrors had been fairly common, and Lucy was always afraid that sooner or later the childs mind would break under the strain. She would continue to breathe, but her eyes would never unlock from whatever world it was that she saw and they couldnt. It wont happen, David had assured her, and John Dalton had doubled down on that. Kids are resilient. If shes not showing any lingering aftereffectswithdrawal, isolation, obsessional behavior, bedwettingyoure probably okay. But it wasnt okay for children to wake themselves, shrieking, from nightmares. It wasnt okay that sometimes wild piano chords sounded from downstairs in the aftermath, or that the faucets in the bathroom at the end of the hall might turn themselves on, or that the light over Abras bed sometimes blew out when she or David flipped the switch. Then her invisible friend had come, and intervals between nightmares had grown longer. Eventually they stopped. Until tonight. Not that it was night anymore, exactly; Lucy could see the first faint glow on the eastern horizon, and thank God for that. Abs? Its Mommy. Talk to me. There was still nothing for five or ten seconds. Then, at last, the statue Lucy had her arm around relaxed and became a little girl again. Abra took a long, shuddering breath. I had one of my bad dreams. Like in the old days. I kind of figured that, honey. Abra could hardly ever remember more than a little, it seemed. Sometimes it was people yelling at each other or hitting with their fists. He knocked the table over chasing after her, she might say. Another time the dream had been of a oneeyed Raggedy Ann doll lying on a highway. Once, when Abra was only four, she told them she had seen ghostie people riding The Helen Rivington, which was a popular tourist attraction in Frazier. It ran a loop from Teenytown out to Cloud Gap, and then back again. I could see them because of the moonlight, Abra told her parents that time. Lucy and David were sitting on either side of her, their arms around her. Lucy still remembered the dank feel of Abras pajama top, which was soaked with sweat. I knew they were ghostie people because they had faces like old apples and the moon shone right through. By the following afternoon Abra had been running and playing and laughing with her friends again, but Lucy had never forgotten the image dead people riding that little train through the woods, their faces like transparent apples in the moonlight. She had asked Concetta if she had ever taken Abra on the train during one of their girl days. Chetta said no. They had been to Teenytown, but the train had been under repairs that day so they rode the carousel instead. Now Abra looked up at her mother and said, When will Daddy be back? Day after tomorrow. He said hed be in time for lunch. Thats not soon enough, Abra said. A tear spilled from her eye, rolled down her cheek, and plopped onto her pajama top. Soon enough for what? What do you remember, AbbaDoo? They were hurting the boy. Lucy didnt want to pursue this, but felt she had to. There had been too many correlations between Abras earlier dreams and things that had actually happened. It was David who had spotted the picture of the oneeyed Raggedy Ann in the North Conway Sun, under the heading THREE KILLED IN OSSIPEE CRASH. It was Lucy who had hunted out police blotter items about domestic violence arrests in the days following two of Abras people were yelling and hitting dreams. Even John Dalton agreed that Abra might be picking up transmissions on what he called the weird radio in her head. So now she said, What boy? Does he live around here? Do you know? Abra shook her head. Far away. I cant remember. Then she brightened. The speed at which she came out of these fugues was to Lucy almost as eerie as the fugues themselves. But I think I told Tony. He might tell his daddy. Tony, her invisible friend. She hadnt mentioned him in a couple of years, and Lucy hoped this wasnt some sort of regression. Ten was a little old for invisible friends.


Tonys daddy might be able to stop it. Then Abras face clouded. I think its too late, though. Tony hasnt been around in awhile, has he? Lucy got up and fluffed out the displaced sheet. Abra giggled when it floated against her face. The best sound in the world, as far as Lucy was concerned. A sane sound. And the room was brightening all the time. Soon the first birds would begin to sing. Mommy, that tickles! Mommies like to tickle. Its part of their charm. Now, what about Tony? He said hed come any time I needed him, Abra said, settling back under the sheet. She patted the bed beside her, and Lucy lay down, sharing the pillow. That was a bad dream and I needed him. I think he came, but I cant really remember. His daddy works in a hot spice. This was new. Is that like a chili factory? No, silly, its for people who are going to die. Abra sounded indulgent, almost teacherly, but a shiver went up Lucys back. Tony says that when people get so sick they cant get well, they go to the hot spice and his daddy tries to make them feel better. Tonys daddy has a cat with a name like mine. Im Abra and the cat is Azzie. Isnt that weird, but in a funny way? Yes. Weird but funny. John and David would both probably say, based on the similarity of the names, that the stuff about the cat was the confabulation of a very bright little tenyearold girl. But they would only half believe it, and Lucy hardly believed it at all. How many tenyearolds knew what a hospice was, even if they mispronounced it? Tell me about the boy in your dream. Now that Abra was calmed down, this conversation seemed safer. Tell me who was hurting him, AbbaDoo. I dont remember, except he thought Barney was supposed to be his friend. Or maybe it was Barry. Momma, can I have Hoppy? Her stuffed rabbit, now sitting in lopeared exile on the highest shelf in her room. Abra hadnt slept with him in at least two years. Lucy got the Hopster and put him in her daughters arms. Abra hugged the rabbit to her pink pajama top and was asleep almost at once. With luck, shed be out for another hour, maybe even two. Lucy sat beside her, looking down. Let this stop for good in another few years, just like John said it would. Better yet, let it stop today, this very morning. No more, please. No more hunting through the local papers to see if some little boy was killed by his stepfather or beaten to death by bullies who were high on glue, or something. Let it end. God, she said in a very low voice, if youre there, would you do something for me? Would you break the radio in my little girls head? 2 When the True headed west again along I80, rolling toward the town in the Colorado high country where they would spend the summer (always assuming the opportunity to collect some nearby big steam did not come up), Crow Daddy was riding in the shotgun seat of Roses EarthCruiser. Jimmy Numbers, the Trues whizbang accountant, was piloting Crows Affinity Country Coach for the time being. Roses satellite radio was tuned to Outlaw Country and currently playing Hank Jr.s Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound. It was a good tune, and Crow let it run its course before pushing the OFF button. You said wed talk later. This is later. What happened back there? We had a looker, Rose said. Really? Crow raised his eyebrows. He had taken as much of the Trevor kids steam as any of them, but he looked no younger. He rarely did after eating. On the other hand, he rarely looked older between meals, unless the gap was very long. Rose thought it was a good tradeoff. Probably something in his genes. Assuming they still had genes. Nut said they almost certainly did. A steamhead, you mean. She nodded. Ahead of them, I80 unrolled under a faded blue denim sky dotted with drifting cumulus clouds. Big steam? Oh yeah. Huge. How far away? East Coast. I think. Youre saying someone looked in from what, almost fifteen hundred miles away? Could have been even further. Could have been way the hell and gone up in Canada. Boy or girl? Probably a girl, but it was only a flash. Three seconds at most. Does it matter? It didnt. How many canisters could you fill from a kid with that much steam in the boiler? Hard to say. Three, at least. This time it was Rose who was lowballing. She guessed the unknown looker might fill ten canisters, maybe even a dozen. The presence had been brief but muscular. The looker had seen what they were doing, and her horror (if it was a her) had been strong enough to freeze Roses hands and make her feel a momentary loathing. It wasnt her own feeling, of coursegutting a rube was no more loathsome than gutting a deerbut a kind of psychic ricochet. Maybe we ought to turn around, Crow said. Get her while the gettings good. No. I think this ones still getting stronger. Well let her ripen a bit. Is that something you know or just intuition? Rose waggled her hand in the air. An intuition strong enough to risk her getting killed by a hitandrun driver or grabbed by some childmolesting perv? Crow said this without irony. Or what about leukemia, or some other cancer? You know theyre susceptible to stuff like that. If you asked Jimmy Numbers, hed say the actuarial tables are on our side. Rose smiled and gave his thigh an affectionate pat. You worry too much, Daddy. Well go on to Sidewinder, as planned, then head down to Florida in a couple of months. Both Barry and Grampa Flick think this might be a big year for hurricanes. Crow made a face. Thats like scavenging out of Dumpsters. Maybe, but the scraps in some of those Dumpsters are pretty tasty. And nourishing. Im still kicking myself that we missed that tornado in Joplin. But of course we get less warning on sudden storms like that. This kid. She saw us. Yes. And what we were doing. Your point, Crow? Could she nail us? Honey, if shes more than eleven, Ill eat my hat. Rose tapped it for emphasis. Her parents probably dont know what she is or what she can do. Even if they do, theyre probably minimizing it like hell in their own minds so they dont have to think about it too much. Or theyll send her to a psychiatrist wholl give her pills, Crow said. Which will muffle her and make her harder to find. Rose smiled. If I got it right, and Im pretty sure I did, giving Paxil to this kid would be like throwing a piece of Saran Wrap over a searchlight. Well find her when its time. Dont worry. If you say so. Youre the boss. Thats right, honeybunch. This time instead of patting his thigh, she squeezed his basket. Omaha tonight? Its a La Quinta Inn. I reserved the entire back end of the first floor. Good. My intent is to ride you like a roller coaster. Well see who rides who, Crow said. He was feeling frisky from the Trevor kid. So was Rose. So were they all. He turned the radio on again. Got Cross Canadian Ragweed singing about the boys from Oklahoma who rolled their joints all wrong. The True rolled west. 3 There were easy AA sponsors, and hard AA sponsors, and then there were ones like Casey Kingsley, who took absolutely zero shit from their pigeons. At the beginning of their relationship, Casey ordered Dan to do ninetyinninety, and instructed him to telephone every morning at seven oclock. When Dan completed his ninety consecutive meetings, he was allowed to drop the morning calls. Then they met three times a week for coffee at the Sunspot Caf. Casey was sitting in a booth when Dan came in on a July afternoon in 2011, and although Casey hadnt made it to retirement just yet, to Dan his longtime AA sponsor (and first New Hampshire employer) looked very old. Most of his hair was gone, and he walked with a pronounced limp. He needed a hip replacement, but kept putting it off. Dan said hi, sat down, folded his hands, and waited for what Casey called The Catechism. You sober today, Danno? Yes. How did that miracle of restraint happen? He recited, Thanks to the program of Alcoholics Anonymous and the God of my understanding. My sponsor may also have played a small part. Lovely compliment, but dont blow smoke up my dress and I wont blow any up yours. Patty Noyes came over with the coffeepot and poured Dan a cup, unasked. How are you, handsome? Dan grinned at her. Im good. She ruffled his hair, then headed back to the counter, with a little extra swing in her stride. The men followed the sweet ticktock of her hips, as men do, then Casey returned his gaze to Dan. Made any progress with that Godofmyunderstanding stuff ? Not much, Dan said. Ive got an idea it may be a lifetime work. But you ask for help to stay away from a drink in the morning? Yes. On your knees? Yes. Say thank you at night? Yes, and on my knees. Why? Because I need to remember the drink put me there, Dan said. It was the absolute truth. Casey nodded. Thats the first three steps. Give me the short form.  I cant, God can, I think Ill let Him.  He added The God of my understanding. Which you dont understand. Right. Now tell me why you drank. Because Im a drunk. Not because Mommy didnt give you no love? No. Wendy had had failings, but her love for himand his for herhad never wavered. Because Daddy didnt give you no love? No. Although once he broke my arm, and at the end he almost killed me. Because its hereditary? No. Dan sipped his coffee. But it is. You know that, right? Sure. I also know it doesnt matter. We drank because were drunks. We never get better. We get a daily reprieve based on our spiritual condition, and thats it. Yes, boss. Are we through with this part? Almost. Did you think about taking a drink today? No. Did you? No. Casey grinned. It filled his face with light and made him young again. Its a miracle. Would you say its a miracle, Danny? Yes. I would. Patty came back with a big dish of vanilla puddingnot just one cherry on top but twoand stuck it in front of Dan. Eat that. On the house. Youre too thin. What about me, sweetheart? Casey asked. Patty sniffed. Youre a horse. Ill bring you a pine tree float, if you want. Thats a glass of water with a toothpick in it. Having gotten the last word, she sashayed off. You still hitting that? Casey asked as Dan began to eat his pudding. Charming, Dan said. Very sensitive and New Age. Thanks. Are you still hitting it? We had a thing that lasted maybe four months, and that was three years ago, Case. Pattys engaged to a very nice boy from Grafton. Grafton, Casey said dismissively. Pretty views, shit town. She doesnt act so engaged when youre in the house. Casey No, dont get me wrong. Id never advise a pidge of mine to stick his noseor his dickinto an ongoing relationship. Thats a terrific setup for a drink. But . . . are you seeing anybody? Is it your business? Happens it is. Not currently. There was a nurse from Rivington HouseI told you about her . . . Sarah something. Olson. We talked a little about moving in together, then she got a great job down at Mass General. We email sometimes. No relationships for the first year, thats the rule of thumb, Casey said. Very few recovering alkies take it seriously. You did. But Danno . . . its time you got regular with somebody. Oh gee, my sponsor just turned into Dr. Phil, Dan said. Is your life better? Better than it was when you showed up here fresh off the bus with your ass dragging and your eyes bleeding? You know it is. Better than I ever could have imagined. Then think about sharing it with somebody. All Im saying. Ill make a note of it. Now can we discuss other things? The Red Sox, maybe? I need to ask you something else as your sponsor first. Then we can just be friends again, having a coffee. Okay . . . Dan looked at him warily. Weve never talked much about what you do at the hospice. How you help people. No, Dan said, and Id just as soon keep it that way. You know what they say at the end of every meeting, right? What you saw here, what you heard here, when you leave here, let it stay here. Thats how I am about the other part of my life. How many parts of your life were affected by your drinking? Dan sighed. You know the answer to that. All of them. So? And when Dan said nothing The Rivington staff calls you Doctor Sleep. Word gets around, Danno. Dan was silent. Some of the pudding was left, and Patty would rag him about it if he didnt eat it, but his appetite had flown. He supposed hed known this conversation had been coming, and he also knew that, after ten years without a drink (and with a pigeon or two of his own to watch over these days), Casey would respect his boundaries, but he still didnt want to have it. You help people to die. Not by putting pillows over their faces, or anything, nobody thinks that, but just by . . . I dont know. Nobody seems to know. I sit with them, thats all. Talk to them a little. If its what they want. Do you work the Steps, Danno? If Dan had believed this was a new conversational tack he would have welcomed it, but he knew it was not. You know I do. Youre my sponsor. Yeah, you ask for help in the morning and say thanks at night. You do it on your knees. So thats the first three. Four is all that moral inventory shit. How about number five? There were twelve in all. After hearing them read aloud at the beginning of every meeting hed attended, Dan knew them by heart.  Admitted to God, ourselves, and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.  Yuh. Casey lifted his coffee cup, sipped, and looked at Dan over the rim. Have you done that one? Most of it. Dan found himself wishing he were somewhere else. Almost anywhere else. Alsofor the first time in quite awhilehe found himself wishing for a drink. Let me guess. Youve told yourself all of your wrongs, and youve told the God of your notunderstanding all of your wrongs, and youve told one other personthat would be memost of your wrongs. Would that be a bingo? Dan said nothing. Heres what I think, Casey said, and youre welcome to correct me if Im wrong. Steps eight and nine are about cleaning up the wreckage we left behind when we were drunk on our asses pretty much twentyfourseven. I think at least part of your work at the hospice, the important part, is about making those amends. And I think theres one wrong you cant quite get past because youre too fucking ashamed to talk about it. If thats the case, you wouldnt be the first, believe me. Dan thought Mama. Dan thought Canny. He saw the red wallet and the pathetic wad of food stamps. He also saw a little money. Seventy dollars, enough for a fourday drunk. Five if it was parceled out carefully and food was kept to a bare nutritional minimum. He saw the money first in his hand and then going into his pocket. He saw the kid in the Braves shirt and the sagging diaper. He thought The kids name was Tommy. He thought, not for the first time or the last I will never speak of this. Danno? Is there anything you want to tell me? I think there is. I dont know how long youve been dragging the motherfucker around, but you can leave it with me and walk out of here a hundred pounds lighter. Thats how it works. He thought of how the kid had trotted to his mother (Deenie her name was Deenie) and how, even deep in her drunken slumber, she had put an arm around him and hugged him close. They had been facetoface in the morning sun shafting through the bedrooms dirty window. Theres nothing, he said. Let it go, Dan. Im telling you that as your friend as well as your sponsor. Dan gazed at the other man steadily and said nothing. Casey sighed. How many meetings have you been at where someone said youre only as sick as your secrets? A hundred? Probably a thousand. Of all the old AA chestnuts, thats just about the oldest. Dan said nothing. We all have a bottom, Casey said. Someday youre going to have to tell somebody about yours. If you dont, somewhere down the line youre going to find yourself in a bar with a drink in your hand. Message received, Dan said. Now can we talk about the Red Sox? Casey looked at his watch. Another time. Ive got to get home. Right, Dan thought. To your dog and your goldfish. Okay. He grabbed the check before Casey could. Another time. 4 When Dan got back to his turret room, he looked at his blackboard for a long time before slowly erasing what was written there They are killing the baseball boy! When the board was blank again, he asked, What baseball boy would that be? No answer. Abra? Are you still here? No. But she had been; if hed come back from his uncomfortable coffee meeting with Casey ten minutes earlier, he might have seen her phantom shape. But had she come for him? Dan didnt think so. It was undeniably crazy, but he thought she might have come for Tony. Who had been his invisible friend, once upon a time. The one who sometimes brought visions. The one who sometimes warned. The one who had turned out to be a deeper and wiser version of himself. For the scared little boy trying to survive in the Overlook Hotel, Tony had been a protective older brother. The irony was that now, with the booze behind him, Daniel Anthony Torrance had become an authentic adult and Tony was still a kid. Maybe even the fabled inner child the New Age gurus were always going on about. Dan felt sure that innerchild stuff was brought into service to excuse a lot of selfish and destructive behavior (what Casey liked to call the GottaHaveItNow Syndrome), but he also had no doubt that grown men and women held every stage of their development somewhere in their brainsnot just the inner child, but the inner infant, the inner teenager, and the inner young adult. And if the mysterious Abra came to him, wasnt it natural that shed hunt past his adult mind, looking for someone her own age? A playmate? A protector, even? If so, it was a job Tony had done before. But did she need protection? Certainly there had been anguish (they are killing the baseball boy) in her message, but anguish went naturally with the shining, as Dan had found out long ago. Mere children were not meant to know and see so much. He could seek her out, maybe try to discover more, but what would he say to the parents? Hi, you dont know me, but I know your daughter, she visits my room sometimes and weve gotten to be pretty good pals? Dan didnt think theyd sic the county sheriff on him, but he wouldnt blame them if they did, and given his checkered past, he had no urge to find out. Better to let Tony be her longdistance friend, if that was what was really going on. Tony might be invisible, but at least he was more or less ageappropriate. Later, he could replace the names and room numbers that belonged on his blackboard. For now he picked the stub of chalk out of the ledge and wrote Tony and I wish you a happy summer day, Abra! Your OTHER friend, Dan. He studied this for a moment, nodded, and went to the window. A beautiful late summer afternoon, and still his day off. He decided to go for a walk and try to get the troubling conversation with Casey out of his mind. Yes, he supposed Deenies apartment in Wilmington had been his bottom, but if keeping to himself what had happened there hadnt stopped him from piling up ten years of sobriety, he didnt see why keeping it to himself should stop him from getting another ten. Or twenty. And why think about years anyway, when the AA motto was one day at a time? Wilmington was a long time ago. That part of his life was done. He locked his room when he left, as he always did, but a lock wouldnt keep the mysterious Abra out if she wanted to visit. When he came back, there might be another message from her on the blackboard. Maybe we can become pen pals. Sure, and maybe a cabal of Victorias Secret lingerie models would crack the secret of hydrogen fusion. Grinning, Dan went out. 5 The Anniston Public Library was having its annual summer book sale, and when Abra asked to go, Lucy was delighted to put aside her afternoon chores and walk down to Main Street with her daughter. Card tables loaded with various donated volumes had been set up on the lawn, and while Lucy browsed the paperback table (1 EACH, 6 FOR 5, YOU PICK EM), looking for Jodi Picoults she hadnt read, Abra checked out the selections on the tables marked YOUNG ADULTS. She was still a long way from adulthood of even the youngest sort, but she was a voracious (and precocious) reader with a particular love of fantasy and science fiction. Her favorite tshirt had a huge, complicated machine on the front above the declaration STEAMPUNK RULES. Just as Lucy was deciding shed have to settle for an old Dean Koontz and a slightly newer Lisa Gardner, Abra came running over to her. She was smiling. Mom! Mommy! His name is Dan! Whose name is Dan, sweetheart? Tonys father! He told me to have a happy summer day! Lucy looked around, almost expecting to see a strange man with a boy Abras age in tow. There were plenty of strangersit was summer, after allbut no pairs like that. Abra saw what she was doing and giggled. Oh, hes not here. Then where is he? I dont know, exactly. But close. Well . . . I guess thats good, hon. Lucy had just enough time to tousle her daughters hair before Abra ran back to renew her hunt for rocketeers, time travelers, and sorcerers. Lucy stood watching her, her own choices hanging forgotten in her hand. Tell David about this when he called from Boston, or not? She thought not. Weird radio, that was all. Better to let it pass. 6 Dan decided to pop into Java Express, buy a couple of coffees, and take one to Billy Freeman over in Teenytown. Although Dans employment by the Frazier Municipal Department had been extremely short, the two men had remained friendly over the last ten years. Part of that was having Casey in commonBillys boss, Dans sponsorbut mostly it was simple liking. Dan enjoyed Billys nobullshit attitude. He also enjoyed driving The Helen Rivington. Probably that innerchild thing again; he was sure a psychiatrist would say so. Billy was usually willing to turn over the controls, and during the summer season he often did so with relief. Between the Fourth of July and Labor Day, the Riv made the tenmile loop out to Cloud Gap and back ten times a day, and Billy wasnt getting any younger. As he crossed the lawn to Cranmore Avenue, Dan spied Fred Carling sitting on a shady bench in the walkway between Rivington House proper and Rivington Two. The orderly who had once left a set of fingermarks on poor old Charlie Hayes still worked the night shift, and was as lazy and illtempered as ever, but he had at least learned to stay clear of Doctor Sleep. That was fine with Dan. Carling, soon to go on shift, had a greasespotted McDonalds bag on his lap and was munching a Big Mac. The two men locked eyes for a moment. Neither said hello. Dan thought Fred Carling was a lazy bastard with a sadistic streak and Carling thought Dan was a holierthanthou meddler, so that balanced. As long as they stayed out of each others way, all would be well and all would be well and all manner of things would be well. Dan got the coffees (Billys with four sugars), then crossed to the common, which was busy in the golden earlyevening light. Frisbees soared. Mothers and dads pushed toddlers on swings or caught them as they flew off the slides. A game was in progress on the softball field, kids from the Frazier YMCA against a team with ANNISTON REC DEPARTMENT on their orange shirts. He spied Billy in the train station, standing on a stool and polishing the Rivs chrome. It all looked good. It looked like home. If it isnt, Dan thought, its as close as Im ever going to get. All I need now is a wife named Sally, a kid named Pete, and a dog named Rover. He strolled up the Teenytown version of Cranmore Avenue and into the shade of Teenytown Station. Hey Billy, I brought you some of that coffeeflavored sugar you like. At the sound of his voice, the first person to offer Dan a friendly word in the town of Frazier turned around. Why, aint you the neighborly one. I was just thinking I could useoh shitsky, there it goes. The cardboard tray had dropped from Dannys hands. He felt warmth as hot coffee splattered his tennis shoes, but it seemed faraway, unimportant. There were flies crawling on Billy Freemans face. 7 Billy didnt want to go see Casey Kingsley the following morning, didnt want to take the day off, and certainly didnt want to go see no doctor. He kept telling Dan he felt fine, in the pink, absolutely tiptop. Hed even missed the summer cold that usually hit him in June or July. Dan, however, had lain sleepless most of the previous night, and wouldnt take no for an answer. He might have if hed been convinced it was too late, but he didnt think it was. He had seen the flies before, and had learned to gauge their meaning. A swarm of themenough to obscure the persons features behind a veil of nasty, jostling bodiesand you knew there was no hope. A dozen or so meant something might be done. Only a few, and there was time. There had only been three or four on Billys face. He never saw any at all on the faces of the terminal patients in the hospice. Dan remembered visiting his mother nine months before her death, on a day when she had also claimed to feel fine, in the pink, absolutely ticketyboo. What are you looking at, Danny? Wendy Torrance had asked. Have I got a smudge? She had swiped comically at the tip of her nose, her fingers passing right through the hundreds of deathflies that were covering her from chin to hairline, like a caul. 8 Casey was used to mediating. Fond of irony, he liked to tell people it was why he made that enormous sixfigure annual salary. First he listened to Dan. Then he listened to Billys protests about how there was no way he could leave, not at the height of the season with people already lining up to ride the Riv on its 8 a.m. run. Besides, no doctor would see him on such short notice. It was the height of the season for them, too. Whens the last time you had a checkup? Casey asked once Billy finally ran down. Dan and Billy were standing in front of his desk. Casey was rocked back in his office chair, head resting in its accustomed place just below the cross on the wall, fingers laced together across his belly. Billy looked defensive. I guess back in ohsix. But I was fine then, Case. Doc said my blood pressure was ten points lowern his. Caseys eyes shifted to Dan. They held speculation and curiosity but no disbelief. AA members mostly kept their lips zipped during their various interactions with the wider world, but inside the groups, people talkedand sometimes gossipedquite freely. Casey therefore knew that Dan Torrances talent for helping terminal patients die easily was not his only talent. According to the grapevine, Dan T. had certain helpful insights from time to time. The kind that cant exactly be explained. Youre tight with Johnny Dalton, arent you? he asked Dan now. The pediatrician? Yes. I see him most Thursday nights, in North Conway. Got his number? As a matter of fact, I do. Dan had a whole list of AA contact numbers in the back of the little notebook Casey had given him, which he still carried. Call him. Tell him its important this yobbo here sees someone right away. Dont suppose you know what kind of a doctor it is he needs, do you? Sure as hell isnt a pediatrician at his age. Casey Billy began. Hush, Casey said, and returned his attention to Dan. I think you do know, by God. Is it his lungs? That seems the most likely, the way he smokes. Dan decided he had come too far to turn back now. He sighed and said, No, I think its something in his guts. Except for a little indigestion, my guts are Hush I said. Then, turning back to Dan A gut doctor, then. Tell Johnny D. its important. He paused. Will he believe you? This was a question Dan was glad to hear. He had helped several AAs during his time in New Hampshire, and although he asked them all not to talk, he knew perfectly well that some had, and still did. He was happy to know John Dalton hadnt been one of them. I think so. Okay. Casey pointed at Billy. You got the day off, and with pay. Medical leave. The Riv Theres a dozen people in this town that can drive the Riv. Ill make some calls, then take the first two runs myself. Your bad hip Balls to my bad hip. Do me good to get out of this office. But Casey, I feel f I dont care if you feel good enough to run a footrace all the way to Lake Winnipesaukee. Youre going to see the doctor and thats the end of it. Billy looked resentfully at Dan. See the trouble you got me in? I didnt even get my morning coffee. The flies were gone this morningexcept they were still there. Dan knew that if he concentrated, he could see them again if he wanted to . . . but who in Christs name would want to? I know, Dan said. There is no gravity, life just sucks. Can I use your phone, Casey? Be my guest. Casey stood up. Guess Ill toddle on over to the train station and punch a few tickets. You got an engineers cap thatll fit me, Billy? No. Mine will, Dan said. 9 For an organization that didnt advertise its presence, sold no goods, and supported itself with crumpled dollar bills thrown into passed baskets or baseball caps, Alcoholics Anonymous exerted a quietly powerful influence that stretched far beyond the doors of the various rented halls and church basements where it did its business. It wasnt the old boys network, Dan thought, but the old drunks network. He called John Dalton, and John called an internal medicine specialist named Greg Fellerton. Fellerton wasnt in the Program, but he owed Johnny D. a favor. Dan didnt know why, and didnt care. All that mattered was that later that day, Billy Freeman was on the examining table in Fellertons Lewiston office. Said office was a seventymile drive from Frazier, and Billy bitched the whole way. Are you sure indigestions all thats been bothering you? Dan asked as they pulled into Fellertons little parking area on Pine Street. Yuh, Billy said. Then he reluctantly added, Its been a little worse lately, but nothin that keeps me up at night. Liar, Dan thought, but let it pass. Hed gotten the contrary old sonofabitch here, and that was the hard part. Dan was sitting in the waiting room, leafing through a copy of OK! with Prince William and his pretty but skinny new bride on the cover, when he heard a lusty cry of pain from down the hall. Ten minutes later, Fellerton came out and sat down beside Dan. He looked at the cover of OK! and said, That guy may be heir to the British throne, but hes still going to be as bald as a nine ball by the time hes forty. Youre probably right. Of course Im right. In human affairs, the only real king is genetics. Im sending your friend up to Central Maine General for a CT scan. Im pretty sure what itll show. If Im right, Ill schedule Mr. Freeman to see a vascular surgeon for a little cutandsplice early tomorrow morning. Whats wrong with him? Billy was walking up the hall, buckling his belt. His tanned face was now sallow and wet with sweat. He says theres a bulge in my aorta. Like a bubble on a car tire. Only car tires dont yell when you poke em. An aneurysm, Fellerton said. Oh, theres a chance its a tumor, but I dont think so. In any case, times of the essence. Damn things the size of a PingPong ball. Its good you got him in for a looksee. If it had burst without a hospital nearby . . . Fellerton shook his head. 10 The CT scan confirmed Fellertons aneurysm diagnosis, and by six that evening, Billy was in a hospital bed, where he looked considerably diminished. Dan sat beside him. Id kill for a cigarette, Billy said wistfully. Cant help you there. Billy sighed. High time I quit, anyway. Wont they be missin you at Rivington House? Day off. And aint this one hell of a way to spend it. Tell you what, if they dont murder me with their knives and forks tomorrow morning, I guess Im going to owe you my life. I dont know how you knew, but if theres anything I can ever do for youI mean anything at allyou just have to ask. Dan thought of how hed descended the steps of an interstate bus ten years ago, stepping into a snow flurry as fine as wedding lace. He thought of his delight when he had spotted the bright red locomotive that pulled The Helen Rivington.