Also of how this man had asked him if he liked the little train instead of telling him to get the fuck away from what he had no business touching. Just a small kindness, but it had opened the door to all he had now. Billyboy, Im the one who owes you, and more than I could ever repay. 11 He had noticed an odd fact during his years of sobriety. When things in his life werent going so wellthe morning in 2008 when he had discovered someone had smashed in the rear window of his car with a rock came to mindhe rarely thought of a drink. When they were going well, however, the old dry thirst had a way of coming back on him. That night after saying goodbye to Billy, on the way home from Lewiston with everything okeydoke, he spied a roadhouse bar called the Cowboy Boot and felt a nearly insurmountable urge to go in. To buy a pitcher of beer and get enough quarters to fill the jukebox for at least an hour. To sit there listening to Jennings and Jackson and Haggard, not talking to anyone, not causing any trouble, just getting high. Feeling the weight of sobrietysometimes it was like wearing lead shoesfall away. When he got down to his last five quarters, hed play Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound six times straight. He passed the roadhouse, turned in at the gigantic Walmart parking lot just beyond, and opened his phone. He let his finger hover over Caseys number, then remembered their difficult conversation in the caf. Casey might want to revisit that discussion, especially the subject of whatever Dan might be holding back. That was a nonstarter. Feeling like a man having an outofbody experience, he returned to the roadhouse and parked in the back of the dirt lot. He felt good about this. He also felt like a man who has just picked up a loaded gun and put it to his temple. His window was open and he could hear a live band playing an old Derailers tune Lovers Lie. They didnt sound too bad, and with a few drinks in him, they would sound great. There would be ladies in there who would want to dance. Ladies with curls, ladies with pearls, ladies in skirts, ladies in cowboy shirts. There always were. He wondered what kind of whiskey they had in the well, and God, God, great God, he was so thirsty. He opened the car door, put one foot out on the ground, then sat there with his head lowered. Ten years. Ten good years, and he could toss them away in the next ten minutes. It would be easy enough to do. Like honey to the bee. We all have a bottom. 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. And I can blame you, Casey, he thought coldly. I can say you put the idea in my head while we were having coffee in the Sunspot. There was a flashing red arrow over the door, and a sign reading PITCHERS 2 UNTIL 9 PM MILLER LITE COME ON IN. Dan closed the car door, opened his phone again, and called John Dalton. Is your buddy okay? John asked. Tucked up and ready to go tomorrow morning at seven a.m. John, I feel like drinking. Oh, nooo! John cried in a trembling falsetto. Not booooze! And just like that the urge was gone. Dan laughed. Okay, I needed that. But if you ever do the Michael Jackson voice again, I will drink. You should hear me on Billie Jean. Im a karaoke monster. Can I ask you something? Sure. Through the windshield, Dan could see the Cowboy Boot patrons come and go, probably not talking of Michelangelo. Whatever youve got, did drinking . . . I dont know . . . shut it up? Muffled it. Put a pillow over its face and made it struggle for air. And now? Like Superman, I use my powers to promote truth, justice, and the American Way. Meaning you dont want to talk about it. No, Dan said. I dont. But its better now. Better than I ever thought it could be. When I was a teenager . . . He trailed off. When hed been a teenager, every day had been a struggle for sanity. The voices in his head were bad; the pictures were frequently worse. He had promised both his mother and himself that he would never drink like his father, but when he finally began, as a freshman in high school, it had been such a huge relief that he hadat firstonly wished hed started sooner. Morning hangovers were a thousand times better than nightmares all night long. All of which sort of led to a question How much of his fathers son was he? In how many ways? When you were a teenager, what? John asked. Nothing. It doesnt matter. Listen, I better get moving. Im sitting in a bar parking lot. Really? John sounded interested. Which bar? Place called the Cowboy Boot. Its twobuck pitchers until nine oclock. Dan. Yes, John. I know that place from the old days. If youre going to flush your life down the toilet, dont start there. The ladies are skanks with methmouth and the mens room smells like moldy jockstraps. The Boot is strictly for when you hit your bottom. There it was, that phrase again. We all have a bottom, Dan said. Dont we? Get out of there, Dan. John sounded dead serious now. Right this second. No more fucking around. And stay on the phone with me until that big neon cowboy boot on the roof is out of your rearview mirror. Dan started his car, pulled out of the lot, and back onto Route 11. Its going, he said. Its going . . . annnd . . . its gone. He felt inexpressible relief. He also felt bitter regrethow many twobuck pitchers could he have gotten through before nine oclock? Not going to pick up a six or a bottle of wine before you get back to Frazier, are you? No. Im good. Then Ill see you Thursday night. Come early, Im making the coffee. Folgers, from my special stash. Ill be there, Dan said. 12 When he got back to his turret room and flipped on the light, there was a new message on the blackboard. I had a wonderful day! Your friend, ABRA Thats good, honey, Dan said. Im glad. Buzz. The intercom. He went over and hit TALK. Hey there, Doctor Sleep, Loretta Ames said. I thought I saw you come in. I guess its still technically your day off, but do you want to pay a house call? On who? Mr. Cameron or Mr. Murray? Cameron. Azzies been visiting with him since just after dinner. Ben Cameron was in Rivington One. Second floor. An eightythreeyearold retired accountant with congestive heart failure. Hell of a nice guy. Good Scrabble player and an absolute pest at Parcheesi, always setting up blockades that drove his opponents crazy. Ill be right over, Dan said. On his way out, he paused for a single backward glance at the blackboard. Goodnight, hon, he said. He didnt hear from Abra Stone for another two years. During those same two years, something slept in the True Knots bloodstream. A little parting gift from Bradley Trevor, aka the baseball boy. PART TWO EMPTY DEVILS CHAPTER SEVEN HAVE YOU SEEN ME? 1 On an August morning in 2013, Concetta Reynolds awoke early in her Boston condo apartment. As always, the first thing she was aware of was that there was no dog curled up in the corner, by the dresser. Betty had been gone for years now, but Chetta still missed her. She put on her robe and headed for the kitchen, where she intended to make her morning coffee. This was a trip she had made thousands of times before, and she had no reason to believe this one would be any different. Certainly it never crossed her mind to think it would prove to be the first link in a chain of malignant events. She didnt stumble, she would tell her granddaughter, Lucy, later that day, nor did she bump into anything. She just heard an unimportant snapping sound from about halfway down her body on the righthand side and then she was on the floor with warm agony rushing up and down her leg. She lay there for three minutes or so, staring at her faint reflection in the polished hardwood floor, willing the pain to subside. At the same time she talked to herself. Stupid old woman, not to have a companion. Davids been telling you for the last five years that youre too old to live alone and now hell never let you hear the end of it. But a livein companion would have needed the room shed set aside for Lucy and Abra, and Chetta lived for their visits. More than ever, now that Betty was gone and all the poetry seemed to be written out of her. And ninetyseven or not, shed been getting around well and feeling fine. Good genes on the female side. Hadnt her own momo buried four husbands and seven children and lived to be a hundred and two? Although, truth be told (if only to herself ), she hadnt felt quite so fine this summer. This summer things had been . . . difficult. When the pain finally did abatea bitshe began crawling down the short hall toward the kitchen, which was now filling up with dawn. She found it was harder to appreciate that lovely rose light from floor level. Each time the pain became too great, she stopped with her head laid on one bony arm, panting. During these rest stops she reflected on the seven ages of man, and how they described a perfect (and perfectly stupid) circle. This had been her mode of locomotion long ago, during the fourth year of World War I, also known ashow funnythe War to End All Wars. Then she had been Concetta Abruzzi, crawling across the dooryard of her parents farm in Davoli, intent on capturing chickens that easily outpaced her. From those dusty beginnings she had gone on to lead a fruitful and interesting life. She had published twenty books of poetry, taken tea with Graham Greene, dined with two presidents, andbest of allhad been gifted with a lovely, brilliant, and strangely talented greatgranddaughter. And what did all those wonderful things lead to? More crawling, that was what. Back to the beginning. Dio mi benedica. She reached the kitchen and eeled her way through an oblong of sun to the little table where she took most of her meals. Her cell phone was on it. Chetta grabbed one leg of the table and shook it until her phone slid to the edge and dropped off. And, meno male, landed unbroken. She punched in the number they told you to call when shit like this happened, then waited while a recorded voice summed up all the absurdity of the twentyfirst century by telling her that her call was being recorded. And finally, praise Mary, an actual human voice. This is 911, what is your emergency? The woman on the floor who had once crawled after the chickens in southern Italy spoke clearly and coherently in spite of the pain. My name is Concetta Reynolds, and I live on the third floor of a condominium at Two nineteen Marlborough Street. I seem to have broken my hip. Can you send an ambulance? Is there anyone with you, Mrs. Reynolds? For my sins, no. Youre speaking to a stupid old lady who insisted she was fine to live alone. And by the way, these days I prefer Ms. 2 Lucy got the call from her grandmother shortly before Concetta was wheeled into surgery. Ive broken my hip, but they can fix it, she told Lucy. I believe they put in pins and such. Momo, did you fall? Lucys first thought was for Abra, who was away at summer camp for another week. Oh yes, but the break that caused the fall was completely spontaneous. Apparently this is quite common in people my age, and since there are ever so many more people my age than there used to be, the doctors see a lot of it. Theres no need for you to come immediately, but I think youll want to come quite soon. It seems that well need to have a talk about various arrangements. Lucy felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach. What sort of arrangements? Now that she was loaded with Valium or morphine or whatever it was theyd given her, Concetta felt quite serene. It seems that a broken hip is the least of my problems. She explained. It didnt take long. She finished by saying, Dont tell Abra, cara. Ive had dozens of emails from her, even an actual letter, and it sounds like shes enjoying her summer camp a great deal. Time enough later for her to find her old momos circling the drain. Lucy thought, If you really believe Ill have to tell her I can guess what youre thinking without being psychic, amore, but maybe this time bad news will give her a miss. Maybe, Lucy said. She had barely hung up when the phone rang. Mom? Mommy? It was Abra, and she was crying. I want to come home. Momos got cancer and I want to come home. 3 Following her early return from Camp Tapawingo in Maine, Abra got an idea of what it would be like to shuttle between divorced parents. She and her mother spent the last two weeks of August and the first week of September in Chettas Marlborough Street condo. The old woman had come through her hip surgery quite nicely, and had decided against a longer hospital stay, or any sort of treatment for the pancreatic cancer the doctors had discovered. No pills, no chemotherapy. Ninetyseven years are enough. As for you, Lucia, I refuse to allow you to spend the next six months bringing me meals and pills and the bedpan. You have a family, and I can afford roundtheclock care. Youre not going to live the end of your life among strangers, Lucy said, speaking in her shewhomustbeobeyed voice. It was the one both Abra and her father knew not to argue with. Not even Concetta could do that. There was no discussion about Abra staying; on September ninth, she was scheduled to start the eighth grade at Anniston Middle School. It was David Stones sabbatical year, which he was using to write a book comparing the Roaring Twenties to the GoGo Sixties, and solike a good many of the girls with whom shed gone to Camp TapAbra shuttled from one parent to the other. During the week, she was with her father. On the weekends, she shipped down to Boston, to be with her mom and Momo. She thought that things could not get worse . . . but they always can, and often do. 4 Although he was working at home now, David Stone never bothered to walk down the driveway and get the mail. He claimed the U.S. Postal Service was a selfperpetuating bureaucracy that had ceased to have any relevance around the turn of the century. Every now and then a package turned up, sometimes books hed ordered to help with his work, more often something Lucy had ordered from a catalogue, but otherwise he claimed it was all junkola. When Lucy was home, she retrieved the post from the mailbox by the gate and looked the stuff over while she had her midmorning coffee. It was mostly crap, and it went directly into what Dave called the Circular File. But she wasnt home that early September, so it was Abranow the nominal woman of the housewho checked the box when she got off the school bus. She also washed the dishes, did a load of laundry for herself and her dad twice a week, and set the Roomba robovac going, if she remembered. She did these chores without complaint because she knew that her mother was helping Momo and that her fathers book was very important. He said this one was POPULAR instead of ACADEMIC. If it was successful, he might be able to stop teaching and write fulltime, at least for awhile. On this day, the seventeenth of September, the mailbox contained a Walmart circular, a postcard announcing the opening of a new dental office in town (WE GUARANTEE MILES OF SMILES!), and two glossy comeons from local Realtors selling time shares at the Mount Thunder ski resort. There was also a local bulkmail rag called The Anniston Shopper. This had a few wireservice stories on the front two pages and a few local stories (heavy on regional sports) in the middle. The rest was ads and coupons. If she had been home, Lucy would have saved a few of these latter and then tossed the rest of the Shopper into the recycling bin. Her daughter would never have seen it. On this day, with Lucy away in Boston, Abra did. She thumbed through it as she idled her way up the driveway, then turned it over. On the back page there were forty or fifty photographs not much bigger than postage stamps, most in color, a few in black and white. Above them was this heading HAVE YOU SEEN ME? A Weekly Service Of Your Anniston Shopper For a moment Abra thought it was some sort of contest, like a scavenger hunt. Then she realized these were missing children, and it was as if a hand had grasped the soft lining of her stomach and squeezed it like a washcloth. She had bought a threepack of Oreos in the caf at lunch, and had saved them for the bus ride home. Now she seemed to feel them being wadded up toward her throat by that clutching hand. Dont look at it if it bothers you, she told herself. It was the stern and lecturely voice she often employed when she was upset or confused (a Momovoice, although she had never consciously realized this). Just toss it in the garage trashcan with the rest of this gluck. Only she seemed unable not to look at it. Here was Cynthia Abelard, DOB June 9, 2005. After a moments thought, Abra realized DOB stood for date of birth. So Cynthia would be eight now. If she was still alive, that is. She had been missing since 2009. How does somebody lose track of a fouryearold? Abra wondered. She must have really crappy parents. But of course, the parents probably hadnt lost her. Probably some weirdo had been cruising around the neighborhood, seen his chance, and stolen her. Here was Merton Askew, DOB September 4, 1998. He had disappeared in 2010. Here, halfway down the page, was a beautiful little Hispanic girl named Angel Barbera, who had disappeared from her Kansas City home at the age of seven and had already been gone for nine years. Abra wondered if her parents really thought this tiny picture would help them get her back. And if they did, would they still even know her? For that matter, would she know them? Get rid of that thing, the Momovoice said. Youve got enough to worry about without looking at a lot of missing ki Her eyes found a picture in the very bottom row, and a little sound escaped her. Probably it was a moan. At first she didnt even know why, although she almost did; it was like how you sometimes knew the word you wanted to use in an English composition but you still couldnt quite get it, the damn thing just sat there on the tip of your tongue. This photo was of a white kid with short hair and a great big goofyass grin. It looked like he had freckles on his cheeks. The picture was too small to tell for sure, but (theyre freckles you know they are) Abra was somehow sure, anyway. Yes, they were freckles and his big brothers had teased him about them and his mother told him they would go away in time. She told him freckles are good luck, Abra whispered. Bradley Trevor, DOB March 2, 2000. Missing since July 12, 2011. Race Caucasian. Location Bankerton, Iowa. Current Age 13. And below thisbelow all these pictures of mostly smiling children If you think you have seen Bradley Trevor, contact The National Center for Missing  Exploited Children. Only no one was going to contact them about Bradley, because no one was going to see him. His current age wasnt thirteen, either. Bradley Trevor had stopped at eleven. He had stopped like a busted wristwatch that shows the same time twentyfour hours a day. Abra found herself wondering if freckles faded underground. The baseball boy, she whispered. There were flowers lining the driveway. Abra leaned over, hands on her knees, pack all at once far too heavy on her back, and threw up her Oreos and the undigested portion of her school lunch into her mothers asters. When she was sure she wasnt going to puke a second time, she went into the garage and tossed the mail into the trash. All the mail. Her father was right, it was junkola. 5 The door of the little room her dad used as his study was open, and when Abra stopped at the kitchen sink for a glass of water to rinse the sourchocolate taste of used Oreos out of her mouth, she heard the keyboard of his computer clicking steadily away. That was good. When it slowed down or stopped completely, he had a tendency to be grumpy. Also, he was more apt to notice her. Today she didnt want to be noticed. AbbaDoo, is that you? her father half sang. Ordinarily she would have asked him to please stop using that baby name, but not today. Yup, its me. School go okay? The steady clickclickclick had stopped. Please dont come out here, Abra prayed. Dont come out and look at me and ask me why Im so pale or something. Fine. Hows the book? Having a great day, he said. Writing about the Charleston and the Black Bottom. Vodoedeeohdoe. Whatever that meant. The important thing was the clickclickclick started up again. Thank God. Terrific, she said, rinsing her glass and putting it in the drainer. Im going upstairs to start my homework. Thats my girl. Think Harvard in 18. Okay, Dad. And maybe she would. Anything to keep herself from thinking about Bankerton, Iowa, in 11. 6 Only she couldnt stop. Because. Because what? Because why? Because . . . well . . . Because there are things I can do. She IMed with Jessica for awhile, but then Jessica went to the mall in North Conway to have dinner at Panda Garden with her parents, so Abra opened her social studies book. She meant to go to chapter four, a majorly boresome twenty pages titled How Our Government Works, but instead the book had fallen open to chapter five Your Responsibilities As a Citizen. Oh God, if there was a word she didnt want to see this afternoon, it was responsibilities. She went into the bathroom for another glass of water because her mouth still tasted blick and found herself staring at her own freckles in the mirror. There were exactly three, one on her left cheek and two on her schnozz. Not bad. She had lucked out in the freckles department. Nor did she have a birthmark, like Bethany Stevens, or a cocked eye like Norman McGinley, or a stutter like Ginny Whitlaw, or a horrible name like poor pickedon Pence Effersham. Abra was a little strange, of course, but Abra was fine, people thought it was interesting instead of just weird, like Pence, who was known among the boys (but girls always somehow found these things out) as Pence the Penis. And the biggie, I didnt get cut apart by crazy people who paid no attention when I screamed and begged them to stop. I didnt have to see some of the crazy people licking my blood off the palms of their hands before I died. AbbaDoo is one lucky ducky. But maybe not such a lucky ducky after all. Lucky duckies didnt know things they had no business knowing. She closed the lid of the toilet, sat on it, and cried quietly with her hands over her face. Being forced to think of Bradley Trevor again and how he died was bad enough, but it wasnt just him. There were all those other kids to think about, so many pictures that they were crammed together on the last page of the Shopper like the school assembly from hell. All those gaptoothed smiles and all those eyes that knew even less of the world than Abra did herself, and what did she know? Not even How Our Government Works. What did the parents of those missing children think? How did they go on with their lives? Was Cynthia or Merton or Angel the first thing they thought about in the morning and the last thing they thought about at night? Did they keep their rooms ready for them in case they came home, or did they give all their clothes and toys away to the Goodwill? Abra had heard that was what Lennie OMearas parents did after Lennie fell out of a tree and hit his head on a rock and died. Lennie OMeara, who got as far as the fifth grade and then just . . . stopped. But of course Lennies parents knew he was dead, there was a grave where they could go and put flowers, and maybe that made it different. Maybe not, but Abra thought it would. Because otherwise youd pretty much have to wonder, wouldnt you? Like when you were eating breakfast, youd wonder if your missing (Cynthia Merton Angel ) was also eating breakfast somewhere, or flying a kite, or picking oranges with a bunch of migrants, or whatever. In the back of your mind youd have to be pretty sure he or she was dead, thats what happened to most of them (you only had to watch Action News at Six to know), but you couldnt be sure. There was nothing she could do about that uncertainty for the parents of Cynthia Abelard or Merton Askew or Angel Barbera, she had no idea what had happened to them, but that wasnt true of Bradley Trevor. She had almost forgotten him, then that stupid newspaper . . . those stupid pictures . . . and the stuff that had come back to her, stuff she didnt even know she knew, as if the pictures had been startled out of her subconscious . . . And those things she could do. Things she had never told her parents about because it would worry them, the way she guessed it would worry them if they knew she had made out with Bobby Flannaganjust a little, no sucking face or anything gross like thatone day after school. That was something they wouldnt want to know. Abra guessed (and about this she wasnt entirely wrong, although there was no telepathy involved) that in her parents minds, she was sort of frozen at eight and would probably stay that way at least until she got boobs, which she sure hadnt yetnot that youd notice, anyway. So far they hadnt even had THE TALK with her. Julie Vandover said it was almost always your mom who gave you the lowdown, but the only lowdown Abra had gotten lately was on how important it was for her to get the trash out on Thursday mornings before the bus came. We dont ask you to do many chores, Lucy had said, and this fall its especially important for all of us to pitch in. Momo had at least approached THE TALK. In the spring, she had taken Abra aside one day and said, Do you know what boys want from girls, once boys and girls get to be about your age? Sex, I guess, Abra had said . . . although all that humble, scurrying Pence Effersham ever seemed to want was one of her cookies, or to borrow a quarter for the vending machines, or to tell her how many times hed seen The Avengers. Momo had nodded. You cant blame human nature, it is what it is, but dont give it to them. Period. End of discussion. You can rethink things when youre nineteen, if you want. That had been a little embarrassing, but at least it was straight and clear. There was nothing clear about the thing in her head. That was her birthmark, invisible but real. Her parents no longer talked about the crazy shit that had happened when she was little. Maybe they thought the thing that had caused that stuff was almost gone. Sure, shed known Momo was sick, but that wasnt the same as the crazy piano music, or turning on the water in the bathroom, or the birthday party (which she barely remembered) when she had hung spoons all over the kitchen ceiling. She had just learned to control it. Not completely, but mostly. And it had changed. Now she rarely saw things before they happened. Or take moving stuff around. When she was six or seven, she could have concentrated on her pile of schoolbooks and lifted them all the way to the ceiling. Nothing to it. Easy as knitting kittenbritches, as Momo liked to say. Now, even if it was only a single book, she could concentrate until it felt like her brains were going to come splooshing out her ears, and she might only be able to shove it a few inches across her desk. That was on a good day. On many, she couldnt even flutter the pages. But there were other things she could do, and in many cases far better than shed been able to as a little kid. Looking into peoples heads, for instance. She couldnt do it with everyonesome people were entirely enclosed, others only gave off intermittent flashesbut many people were like windows with the curtains pulled back. She could look in anytime she felt like it. Mostly she didnt want to, because the things she discovered were sometimes sad and often shocking. Finding out that Mrs. Moran, her beloved sixthgrade teacher, was having AN AFFAIR had been the biggest mindblower so far, and not in a good way. These days she mostly kept the seeing part of her mind shut down. Learning to do that had been difficult at first, like learning to skate backwards or print with her left hand, but she had learned. Practice didnt make perfect (not yet, at least), but it sure helped. She still sometimes looked, but always tentatively, ready to pull back at the first sign of something weird or disgusting. And she never peeked into her parents minds, or into Momos. It would have been wrong. Probably it was wrong with everyone, but it was like Momo herself had said You cant blame human nature, and there was nothing more human than curiosity. Sometimes she could make people do things. Not everyone, not even half of everyone, but a lot of people were very open to suggestions. (Probably they were the same ones who thought the stuff they sold on TV really would take away their wrinkles or make their hair grow back.) Abra knew this was a talent that could grow if she exercised it like a muscle, but she didnt. It scared her. There were other things, too, some for which she had no name, but the one she was thinking about now did have one. She called it farseeing. Like the other aspects of her special talent, it came and went, but if she really wanted itand if she had an object to fix uponshe could usually summon it. I could do that now. Shut up, AbbaDoo, she said in a low, strained voice. Shut up, AbbaDooDoo. She opened Early Algebra to tonights homework page, which she had bookmarked with a sheet on which she had written the names Boyd, Steve, Cam, and Pete at least twenty times each. Collectively they were Round Here, her favorite boy band. So hot, especially Cam. Her best friend, Emma Deane, thought so, too. Those blue eyes, that careless tumble of blond hair. Maybe I could help. His parents would be sad, but at least theyd know. Shut up, AbbaDoo. Shut up, AbbaDooDooForBrains. If 5x  4  26, what does x equal? Sixty zillion! she said. Who cares? Her eyes fell on the names of the cute boys in Round Here, written in the pudgy cursive she and Emma affected (Writing looks more romantic that way, Emma had decreed), and all at once they looked stupid and babyish and all wrong. They cut him up and licked his blood and then they did something even worse to him. In a world where something like that could happen, mooning over a boy band seemed worse than wrong. Abra slammed her book shut, went downstairs (the clickclickclick from her dads study continued unabated) and out to the garage. She retrieved the Shopper from the trash, brought it up to her room, and smoothed it flat on her desk. All those faces, but right now she cared about only one. 7 Her heart was thumping hardhardhard. She had been scared before when she consciously tried to farsee or thoughtread, but never scared like this. Never even close. What are you going to do if you find out? That was a question for later, because she might not be able to. A sneaking, cowardly part of her mind hoped for that. Abra put the first two fingers of her left hand on the picture of Bradley Trevor because her left hand was the one that saw better. She would have liked to get all her fingers on it (and if it had been an object, she would have held it), but the picture was too small. Once her fingers were on it she couldnt even see it anymore. Except she could. She saw it very well. Blue eyes, like Cam Knowless in Round Here. You couldnt tell from the picture, but they were that same deep shade. She knew. Righthanded, like me. But lefthanded like me, too. It was the left hand that knew what pitch was coming next, fastball or curveb Abra gave a little gasp. The baseball boy had known things. The baseball boy really had been like her. Yes, thats right. Thats why they took him. She closed her eyes and saw his face. Bradley Trevor. Brad, to his friends. The baseball boy. Sometimes he turned his cap around because that way it was a rally cap. His father was a farmer. His mother cooked pies and sold them at a local restaurant, also at the family farmstand. When his big brother went away to college, Brad took all his ACDC discs. He and his best friend, Al, especially liked the song Big Balls. Theyd sit on Brads bed and sing it together and laugh and laugh.


He walked through the corn and a man was waiting for him. Brad thought he was a nice man, one of the good guys, because the man Barry, Abra whispered in a low voice. Behind her closed lids, her eyes moved rapidly back and forth like those of a sleeper in the grip of a vivid dream. His name was Barry the Chunk. He fooled you, Brad. Didnt he? But not just Barry. If it had been just him, Brad might have known. It had to be all of the Flashlight People working together, sending the same thought that it would be okay to get into Barry the Chunks truck or campervan or whatever it was, because Barry was good. One of the good guys. A friend. And they took him . . . Abra went deeper. She didnt bother with what Brad had seen because he hadnt seen anything but a gray rug. He was tied up with tape and lying facedown on the floor of whatever Barry the Chunk was driving. That was okay, though. Now that she was tuned in, she could see wider than him. She could see His glove. A Wilson baseball glove. And Barry the Chunk Then that part flew away. It might swoop back or it might not. It was night. She could smell manure. There was a factory. Some kind of (its busted ) factory. There was a whole line of vehicles going there, some small, most big, a couple of them enormous. The headlights were off in case someone was looking, but there was a threequarters moon in the sky. Enough light to see by. They went down a potholed and bumpy tar road, they went past a water tower, they went past a shed with a broken roof, they went through a rusty gate that was standing open, they went past a sign. It went by so fast she couldnt read it. Then the factory. A busted factory with busted smokestacks and busted windows. There was another sign and thanks to the moonlight this one she could read NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF THE CANTON COUNTY SHERIFFS DEPT. They were going around the back, and when they got there they were going to hurt Brad the baseball boy and go on hurting him until he was dead. Abra didnt want to see that part so she made everything go backwards. That was a little hard, like opening a jar with a really tight cap, but she could do it. When she got back where she wanted, she let go. Barry the Chunk liked that glove because it reminded him of when he was a little boy. Thats why he tried it on. Tried it on and smelled the oil Brad used to keep it from getting stiff and bopped his fist in the pocket a few ti But now things were reeling forward and she forgot about Brads baseball glove again. Water tower. Shed with broken roof. Rusty gate. And then the first sign. What did it say? Nope. Still too quick, even with the moonlight. She rewound again (now beads of sweat were standing out on her forehead) and let go. Water tower. Shed with broken roof. Get ready, here it comes. Rusty gate. Then the sign. This time she could read it, although she wasnt sure she understood it. Abra grabbed the sheet of notepaper on which she had curlicued all those stupid boy names and turned it over. Quickly, before she forgot, she scrawled down everything she had seen on that sign ORGANIC INDUSTRIES and ETHANOL PLANT 4 and FREEMAN, IOWA and CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Okay, now she knew where they had killed him, and whereshe was surethey had buried him, baseball glove and all. What next? If she called the number for Missing and Exploited Children, they would hear a little kids voice and pay no attention . . . except maybe to give her telephone number to the police, who would probably have her arrested for trying to prank on people who were already sad and unhappy. She thought of her mother next, but with Momo sick and getting ready to die, it was out of the question. Mom had enough to worry about without this. Abra got up, went to the window, and stared out at her street, at the LicketySplit convenience store on the corner (which the older kids called the LicketySpliff, because of all the dope that got smoked behind it, where the Dumpsters were), and the White Mountains poking up at a clear blue late summer sky. She had begun to rub her mouth, an anxiety tic her parents were trying to break her of, but they werent here, so boo on that. Boo all over that. Dads right downstairs. She didnt want to tell him, either. Not because he had to finish his book, but because he wouldnt want to get involved in something like this even if he believed her. Abra didnt have to read his mind to know that. So who? Before she could think of the logical answer, the world beyond her window began to turn, as if it were mounted on a gigantic disc. A low cry escaped her and she clutched at the sides of the window, bunching the curtains in her fists. This had happened before, always without warning, and she was terrified each time it did, because it was like having a seizure. She was no longer in her own body, she was farbeing instead of farseeing, and what if she couldnt get back? The turntable slowed, then stopped. Now instead of being in her bedroom, she was in a supermarket. She knew because ahead of her was the meat counter. Over it (this sign easy to read, thanks to bright fluorescents) was a promise AT SAMS, EVERY CUT IS A BLUE RIBBON COWBOY CUT! For a moment or two the meat counter drew closer because the turntable had slid her into someone who was walking. Walking and shopping. Barry the Chunk? No, not him, although Barry was near; Barry was how she had gotten here. Only she had been drawn away from him by someone much more powerful. Abra could see a cart loaded with groceries at the bottom of her vision. Then the forward movement stopped and there was this sensation, this (rummaging prying) crazy feeling of someone INSIDE HER, and Abra suddenly understood that for once she wasnt alone on the turntable. She was looking toward a meat counter at the end of a supermarket aisle, and the other person was looking out her window at Richland Court and the White Mountains beyond. Panic exploded inside her; it was as if gasoline had been poured on a fire. Not a sound escaped her lips, which were pressed together so tightly that her mouth was only a stitch, but inside her head she produced a scream louder than anything of which she would ever have believed herself capable (NO! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!) 8 When David felt the house rumble and saw the overhead light fixture in his study swaying on its chain, his first thought was (Abra) that his daughter had had one of her psychic outbursts, though there hadnt been any of that telekinetic crap in years, and never anything like this. As things settled back to normal, his secondand, to his mind, far more reasonablethought was that he had just experienced his first New Hampshire earthquake. He knew they happened from time to time, but . . . wow! He got up from his desk (not neglecting to hit SAVE before he did), and ran into the hall. From the foot of the stairs he called, Abra! Did you feel that? She came out of her room, looking pale and a little scared. Yeah, sorta. I . . . I think I . . . It was an earthquake! David told her, beaming. Your first earthquake! Isnt that neat? Yes, Abra said, not sounding very thrilled. Neat. He looked out the living room window and saw people standing on their stoops and lawns. His good friend Matt Renfrew was among them. Im gonna go across the street and talk to Matt, hon. You want to come with? I guess I better finish my math. David started toward the front door, then turned to look up at her. Youre not scared, are you? You dont have to be. Its over. Abra only wished it was. 9 Rose the Hat was doing a double shop, because Grampa Flick was feeling poorly again. She saw a few other members of the True in Sams, and nodded to them. She stopped awhile in canned goods to talk to Barry the Chink, who had his wifes list in one hand. Barry was concerned about Flick. Hell bounce back, Rose said. You know Grampa. Barry grinned. Toughern a boiled owl. Rose nodded and got her cart rolling again. You bet he is. Just an ordinary weekday afternoon at the supermarket, and as she took her leave of Barry, she at first mistook what was happening to her for something mundane, maybe low sugar. She was prone to sugar crashes, and usually kept a candybar in her purse. Then she realized someone was inside her head. Someone was looking. Rose had not risen to her position as head of the True Knot by being indecisive. She halted with her cart pointed toward the meat counter (her planned next stop) and immediately leaped into the conduit some nosy and potentially dangerous person had established. Not a member of the True, she would have known any one of them immediately, but not an ordinary rube, either. No, this was far from ordinary. The market swung away and suddenly she was looking out at a mountain range. Not the Rockies, she would have recognized those. These were smaller. The Catskills? The Adirondacks? It could have been either, or some other. As for the looker . . . Rose thought it was a child. Almost certainly a girl, and one she had encountered before. I have to see what she looks like, then I can find her anytime I want to. I have to get her to look in a mir But then a thought as loud as a shotgun blast in a closed room (NO! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!) wiped her mind clean and sent her staggering against shelves of canned soups and vegetables. They went cascading to the floor, rolling everywhere. For a moment or two Rose thought she was going to follow them, swooning like the dewy heroine of a romance novel. Then she was back. The girl had broken the connection, and in rather spectacular fashion. Was her nose bleeding? She wiped it with her fingers and checked. No. Good. One of the stockboys came rushing up. Are you okay, maam? Fine. Just felt a little faint for a second or two. Probably from the tooth extraction I had yesterday. Its passed off now. Ive made a mess, havent I? Sorry. Good thing it was cans instead of bottles. No problem, no problem at all. Would you like to come up front and sit down on the taxi bench? That wont be necessary, Rose said. And it wasnt, but she was done shopping for the day. She rolled her cart two aisles over and left it there. 10 She had brought her Tacoma (old but reliable) down from the highcountry campground west of Sidewinder, and once she was in the cab, she pulled her phone out of her purse and hit speed dial. It rang at the other end just a single time. Whats up, Rosiegirl? Crow Daddy. Weve got a problem. Of course it was also an opportunity. A kid with enough in her boiler to set off a blast like thatto not only detect Rose but send her reelingwasnt just a steamhead but the find of the century. She felt like Captain Ahab, for the first time sighting his great white whale. Talk to me. All business now. A little over two years ago. The kid in Iowa. Remember him? Sure. You also remember me telling you we had a looker? Yeah. East Coast. You thought it was probably a girl. It was a girl, all right. She just found me again. I was in Sams, minding my own business, and then all at once there she was. Why, after all this time? I dont know and I dont care. But we have to have her, Crow. We have to have her. Does she know who you are? Where we are? Rose had thought about this while walking to the truck. The intruder hadnt seen her, of that much she was sure. The kid had been on the inside looking out. As to what she had seen? A supermarket aisle. How many of those were there in America? Probably a million. I dont think so, but thats not the important part. Then what is? Remember me telling you she was big steam? Huge steam? Well, shes even bigger than that. When I tried to turn it around on her, she blew me out of her head like I was a piece of milkweed fluff. Nothing like thats ever happened to me before. I would have said it was impossible. Is she potential True or potential food? I dont know. But she did. They needed steamstored steama lot more than they needed fresh recruits. Besides, Rose wanted no one in the True with that much power. Okay, how do we find her? Any ideas? Rose thought of what shed seen through the girls eyes before she had been so unceremoniously booted back to Sams Supermarket in Sidewinder. Not much, but there had been a store . . . She said, The kids call it the LicketySpliff. Huh? Nothing, never mind. I need to think about it. But were going to have her, Crow. Weve got to have her. There was a pause. When he spoke again, Crow sounded cautious. The way youre talking, there might be enough to fill a dozen canisters. If, that is, you really dont want to try Turning her. Rose gave a distracted, yapping laugh. If Im right, we dont have enough canisters to store the steam from this one. If she was a mountain, shed be Everest. He made no reply. Rose didnt need to see him or poke into his mind to know he was flabbergasted. Maybe we dont have to do either one. I dont follow. Of course he didnt. Longthink had never been Crows specialty. Maybe we dont have to Turn her or kill her. Think cows. Cows. You can butcher one and get a couple of months worth of steaks and hamburgers. But if you keep it alive and take care of it, it will give milk for six years. Maybe even eight. Silence. Long. She let it stretch. When he replied, he sounded more cautious than ever. Ive never heard of anything like that. We kill em once weve got the steam or if theyve got something we need and theyre strong enough to survive the Turn, we Turn em. The way we Turned Andi back in the eighties. Grampa Flick might say different, if you believe him he remembers all the way back to when Henry the Eighth was killing his wives, but I dont think the True has ever tried just holding onto a steamhead. If shes as strong as you say, it could be dangerous. Tell me something I dont know. If youd felt what I did, youd call me crazy to even think about it. And maybe I am. But . . . But she was tired of spending so much of her timethe whole familys timescrambling for nourishment. Of living like tenthcentury Gypsies when they should have been living like the kings and queens of creation. Which was what they were. Talk to Grampa, if hes feeling better. And Heavy Mary, shes been around almost as long as Flick. Snakebite Andi. Shes new, but shes got a good head on her shoulders. Anyone else you think might have valuable input. Jesus, Rosie. I dont know Neither do I, not yet. Im still reeling. All Im asking right now is for you to do some spadework. You are the advance man, after all. Okay . . . Oh, and make sure you talk to Walnut. Ask him what drugs might keep a rube child nice and docile for a long period of time. This girl doesnt sound like much of a rube to me. Oh, she is. A big old fat rube milkcow. Not exactly true. A great big white whale, thats what she is. Rose ended the call without waiting to see if Crow Daddy had anything else to say. She was the boss, and as far as she was concerned, the discussion was over. Shes a white whale, and I want her. But Ahab hadnt wanted his whale just because Moby would provide tons of blubber and almost endless barrels of oil, and Rose didnt want the girl because she mightgiven the right drug cocktails and a lot of powerful psychic soothingprovide a nearly endless supply of steam. It was more personal than that. Turn her? Make her part of the True Knot? Never. The kid had kicked Rose the Hat out of her head as if she were some annoying religious goofball going doortodoor and handing out endoftheworld tracts. No one had ever given her that kind of bums rush before. No matter how powerful she was, she had to be taught a lesson. And Im just the woman for the job. Rose the Hat started her truck, pulled out of the supermarket parking lot, and headed for the familyowned Bluebell Campground. It was a really beautiful location, and why not? One of the worlds great resort hotels had once stood there. But of course, the Overlook had burned to the ground long ago. 11 The Renfrews, Matt and Cassie, were the neighborhoods party people, and they decided on the spur of the moment to have an Earthquake Barbecue. They invited everyone on Richland Court, and almost everyone came. Matt got a case of soda, a few bottles of cheap wine, and a beerball from the LicketySplit up the street. It was a lot of fun, and David Stone enjoyed himself tremendously. As far as he could tell, Abra did, too. She hung with her friends Julie and Emma, and he made sure that she ate a hamburger and some salad. Lucy had told him they had to be vigilant about their daughters eating habits, because shed reached the age when girls started to be very conscious about their weight and looksthe age at which anorexia or bulimia were apt to show their skinny, starveling faces. What he didnt notice (although Lucy might have, had she been there) was that Abra wasnt joining in her friends apparently nonstop gigglefest. And, after eating a bowl of ice cream (a small bowl), she asked her father if she could go back across the street and finish her homework. Okay, David said, but thank Mr. and Mrs. Renfrew first. This Abra would have done without having to be reminded, but she agreed without saying so. Youre very welcome, Abby, Mrs. Renfrew said. Her eyes were almost preternaturally bright from three glasses of white wine. Isnt this cool? We should have earthquakes more often. Although I was talking to Vicky Fentonyou know the Fentons, on Pond Street? Thats just a block over and she said they didnt feel anything. Isnt that weird? Sure is, Abra agreed, thinking that when it came to weird, Mrs. Renfrew didnt know the half of it. 12 She finished her homework and was downstairs watching TV with her dad when Mom called. Abra talked to her awhile, then turned the phone over to her father. Lucy said something, and Abra knew what it had been even before Dave glanced at her and said, Yeah, shes fine, just blitzed from homework, I think. They give the kids so much now. Did she tell you we had a little earthquake? Going upstairs, Dad, Abra said, and he gave her an absent wave. She sat at her desk, turned on her computer, then turned it off again. She didnt want to play Fruit Ninja and she certainly didnt want to IM with anyone. She had to think about what to do, because she had to do something. She put her schoolbooks in her backpack, then looked up and the woman from the supermarket was staring in at her from the window. That was impossible because the window was on the second floor, but she was there. Her skin was unblemished and purest white, her cheekbones high, her dark eyes wideset and slightly tilted at the corners. Abra thought she might be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Also, she realized at once, and without a shadow of a doubt, she was insane. Masses of black hair framed her perfect, somehow arrogant face, and streamed down over her shoulders. Staying in place on this wealth of hair in spite of the crazy angle at which it was cocked, was a jaunty tophat of scuffed velvet. Shes not really there, and shes not in my head, either. I dont know how I can be seeing her but I am and I dont think she kn The madwoman in the darkening window grinned, and when her lips spread apart, Abra saw she only had one tooth on top, a monstrous discolored tusk. She understood it had been the last thing Bradley Trevor had ever seen, and she screamed, screamed as loudly as she could . . . but only inside, because her throat was locked and her vocal cords were frozen. Abra shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the grinning whitefaced woman was gone. Not there. But she could come. She knows about me and she could come. In that moment, she realized what she should have known as soon as she saw the abandoned factory. There was really only one person she could call on. Only one who could help her. She closed her eyes again, this time not to hide from a horrible vision looking in at her from the window, but to summon help. (TONY, I NEED YOUR DAD! PLEASE, TONY, PLEASE!) Still with her eyes shutbut now feeling the warmth of tears on her lashes and cheeksshe whispered, Help me, Tony. Im scared. CHAPTER EIGHT ABRAS THEORY OF RELATIVITY 1 The last run of the day on The Helen Rivington was called the Sunset Cruise, and many evenings when Dan wasnt on shift at the hospice, he took the controls. Billy Freeman, who had made the run roughly twentyfive thousand times during his years as a town employee, was delighted to turn them over. You never get tired of it, do you? he asked Dan once. Put it down to a deprived childhood. It hadnt been, not really, but he and his mother had moved around a lot after the settlement money ran out, and she had worked a lot of jobs. With no college degree, most of them had been lowpaying. Shed kept a roof over their heads and food on the table, but there had never been much extra. Oncehed been in high school, the two of them living in Bradenton, not far from Tampahed asked her why she never dated. By then he was old enough to know she was still a very goodlooking woman. Wendy Torrance had given him a crooked smile and said, One man was enough for me, Danny. Besides, now Ive got you. How much did she know about your drinking? Casey K. had asked him during one of their meetings at the Sunspot. You started pretty young, right? Dan had needed to give that one some thought. Probably more than I knew at the time, but we never talked about it. I think she was afraid to bring it up. Besides, I never got in trouble with the lawnot then, anywayand I graduated high school with honors. He had smiled grimly at Casey over his coffee cup. And of course I never beat her up. I suppose that made a difference. Never got that train set, either, but the basic tenet AAs lived by was dont drink and things will get better. They did, too. Now he had the biggest little choochoo a boy could wish for, and Billy was right, it never got old. He supposed it might in another ten or twenty years, but even then Dan thought hed probably still offer to drive the last circuit of the day, just to pilot the Riv at sunset, out to the turnaround at Cloud Gap. The view was spectacular, and when the Saco was calm (which it usually was once its spring convulsions had subsided), you could see all the colors twice, once above and once below. Everything was silence at the far end of the Rivs run; it was as if God was holding His breath. The trips between Labor Day and Columbus Day, when the Riv shut down for the winter, were the best of all. The tourists were gone, and the few riders were locals, many of whom Dan could now call by name. On weeknights like tonight, there were less than a dozen paying customers. Which was fine by him. It was fully dark when he eased the Riv back into its dock at Teenytown Station. He leaned against the side of the first passenger car with his cap (ENGINEER DAN stitched in red above the bill) tipped back on his head, wishing his handful of riders a very good night. Billy was sitting on a bench, the glowing tip of his cigarette intermittently lighting his face. He had to be nearly seventy, but he looked good, had made a complete recovery from his abdominal surgery two years before, and said he had no plans to retire. What would I do? hed asked on the single occasion Dan had brought the subject up. Retire to that deathfarm where you work? Wait for your pet cat to pay me a visit? Thanks but no thanks. When the last two or three riders had ambled on their way, probably in search of dinner, Billy butted his cigarette and joined him. Ill put er in the barn. Unless you want to do that, too. No, go right ahead. Youve been sitting on your ass long enough. When are you going to give up the smokes, Billy? You know the doctor said they contributed to your little gut problem. Ive cut down to almost nothing, Billy said, but with a telltale downward shift in his gaze. Dan could have found out just how much Billy had cut downhe probably wouldnt even need to touch the guy in order to get that much infobut he didnt. One day in the summer just past, hed seen a kid wearing a tshirt with an octagonal road sign printed on it. Instead of STOP, the sign said TMI. When Danny asked him what it meant, the kid had given him a sympathetic smile he probably reserved strictly for gentlemen of a fortyish persuasion. Too much information, hed said. Dan thanked him, thinking Story of my life, young fellow. Everyone had secrets. This he had known from earliest childhood. Decent people deserved to keep theirs, and Billy Freeman was decency personified. Want to go for a coffee, Danno? You got time? Wont take me ten minutes to put this bitch to bed. Dan touched the side of the engine lovingly. Sure, but watch your mouth. This is no bitch, this is a la That was when his head exploded. 2 When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on the bench where Billy had been smoking. Billy was sitting beside him, looking worried. Hell, looking scared half to death. He had his phone in one hand, with his finger poised over the buttons. Put it away, Dan said. The words came out in a dusty croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. Im okay. You sure? Jesus Christ, I thought you was havin a stroke. I thought it for sure. Thats what it felt like. For the first time in years Dan thought of Dick Hallorann, the Overlook Hotels chef extraordinaire back in the day. Dick had known almost at once that Jack Torrances little boy shared his own talent. Dan wondered now if Dick might still be alive. Almost certainly not; hed been pushing sixty back then. Whos Tony? Billy asked. Huh? You said Please, Tony, please. Whos Tony? A guy I used to know back in my drinking days. As an improvisation it wasnt much, but it was the first thing to come into his stilldazed mind. A good friend. Billy looked at the lighted rectangle of his cell a few seconds longer, then slowly folded the phone and put it away. You know, I dont believe that for a minute. I think you had one of your flashes. Like on the day you found out about my . . . He tapped his stomach. Well . . . Billy raised a hand. Say nummore. As long as youre okay, that is. And as long as it isnt somethin bad about me. Because Id want to know if it was. I dont spose thats true of everyone, but it is with me. Nothing about you. Dan stood up and was pleased to discover his legs held him just fine. But Im going to take a raincheck on that coffee, if you dont mind. Not a bit. You need to go back to your place and lie down. Youre still pale. Whatever it was, it hit you hard. Billy glanced at the Riv. Glad it didnt happen while you were up there in the peakseat, rolling along at forty. Tell me about it, Dan said. 3 He crossed Cranmore Avenue to the Rivington House side, meaning to take Billys advice and lie down, but instead of turning in at the gate giving on the big old Victorians flowerbordered walk, he decided to stroll a little while. He was getting his wind back nowgetting himself backand the night air was sweet. Besides, he needed to consider what had just happened, and very carefully. Whatever it was, it hit you hard. That made him think again of Dick Hallorann, and of all the things he had never told Casey Kingsley. Nor would he. The harm he had done to Deenieand to her son, he supposed, simply by doing nothingwas lodged deep inside, like an impacted wisdom tooth, and there it would stay. But at five, Danny Torrance had been the one harmedalong with his mother, of courseand his father had not been the only culprit. About that Dick had done something. If not, Dan and his mother would have died in the Overlook. Those old things were still painful to think about, still bright with the childish primary colors of fear and horror. He would have preferred never to think of them again, but now he had to. Because . . . well . . . Because everything that goes around comes around. Maybe its luck or maybe its fate, but either way, it comes back around. What was it Dick said that day he gave me the lockbox? When the pupil is ready, the teacher will appear. Not that Im equipped to teach anyone anything, except maybe that if you dont take a drink, you wont get drunk. Hed reached the end of the block; now he turned around and headed back. He had the sidewalk entirely to himself. It was eerie how fast Frazier emptied out once the summer was over, and that made him think of the way the Overlook had emptied out. How quickly the little Torrance family had had the place entirely to themselves. Except for the ghosts, of course. They never left. 4 Hallorann had told Danny he was headed to Denver, and from there hed fly south to Florida. He had asked if Danny would like to help him down to the Overlooks parking lot with his bags, and Danny had carried one to the cooks rental car. Just a little thing, hardly more than a briefcase, but hed needed to use both hands to tote it. When the bags were safely stowed in the trunk and they were sitting in the car, Hallorann had put a name to the thing in Danny Torrances head, the thing his parents only half believed in. You got a knack. Me, Ive always called it the shining. Thats what my grandmother called it, too. Get you kinda lonely, thinkin you were the only one? Yes, he had been lonely, and yes, he had believed he was the only one. Hallorann had disabused him of that notion. In the years since, Dan had run across a lot of people who had, in the cooks words, a little bit of shine to them. Billy, for one. But never anyone like the girl who had screamed into his head tonight. It had felt like that cry might tear him apart. Had he been that strong? He thought he had been, or almost. On closing day at the Overlook, Hallorann had told the troubled little boy sitting beside him to . . . what had he said? He said to give him a blast. Dan had arrived back at Rivington House and was standing outside the gate. The first leaves had begun to fall, and an evening breeze whisked them around his feet. And when I asked him what I should think about, he told me anything. Just think it hard, he said. So I did, but at the last second I softened it, at least a little. If I hadnt, I think I might have killed him. He jerked backno, he slammed backand bit his lip. I remember the blood. He called me a pistol. And later, he asked about Tony. My invisible friend. So I told him. Tony was back, it seemed, but he was no longer Dans friend. Now he was the friend of a little girl named Abra. She was in trouble just as Dan had been, but grown men who sought out little girls attracted attention and suspicion. He had a good life here in Frazier, and he felt it was one he deserved after all the lost years. But . . . But when he needed Dickat the Overlook, and later, in Florida, when Mrs. Massey had come backDick had come. In AA, people called that kind of thing a Twelfth Step call. Because when the pupil was ready, the teacher would appear. On several occasions, Dan had gone with Casey Kingsley and some other guys in the Program to pay Twelfth Step calls on men who were over their heads in drugs or booze. Sometimes it was friends or bosses who asked for this service; more often it was relatives who had exhausted every other resource and were at their wits end. Theyd had a few successes over the years, but most visits ended with slammed doors or an invitation for Casey and his friends to stick their sanctimonious, quasireligious bullshit up their asses. One fellow, a methaddled veteran of George Bushs splendid Iraq adventure, had actually waved a pistol at them. Heading back from the Chocorua holeinthewall shack where the vet was denned up with his terrified wife, Dan had said, That was a waste of time. It would be if we did it for them, Casey said, but we dont. We do it for us. You like the life youre living, Dannyboy? It wasnt the first time he had asked this question, and it wouldnt be the last. Yes. No hesitation on that score. Maybe he wasnt the president of General Motors or doing nude love scenes with Kate Winslet, but in Dans mind, he had it all. Think you earned it? No, Dan said, smiling. Not really. Cant earn this.


So what was it that got you back to a place where you like getting up in the morning? Was it luck or grace? Hed believed that Casey wanted him to say it was grace, but during the sober years he had learned the sometimes uncomfortable habit of honesty. I dont know. Thats okay, because when your backs against the wall, theres no difference. 5 Abra, Abra, Abra, he said as he walked up the path to Rivington House. What have you gotten yourself into, girl? And what are you getting me into? He was thinking hed have to try to get in touch with her by using the shining, which was never completely reliable, but when he stepped into his turret room, he saw that wouldnt be necessary. Written neatly on his blackboard was this cadabranhmlx.com He puzzled over her screen name for a few seconds, then got it and laughed. Good one, kid, good one. He powered up his laptop. A moment later, he was looking at a blank email form. He typed in her address and then sat watching the blinking cursor. How old was she? As far as he could calculate by their few previous communications, somewhere between a wise twelve and a slightly nave sixteen. Probably closer to the former. And here he was, a man old enough to have salt speckles in his stubble if he skipped shaving. Here he was, getting ready to start compuchatting with her. To Catch a Predator, anyone? Maybe its nothing. It could be; shes just a kid, after all. Yes, but one who was damn scared. Plus, he was curious about her. Had been for some time. The same way, he supposed, that Hallorann had been curious about him. I could use a little bit of grace right now. And a whole lot of luck. In the SUBJECT box at the top of the email form, Dan wrote Hello Abra. He dropped the cursor, took a deep breath, and typed four words Tell me whats wrong. 6 On the following Saturday afternoon, Dan was sitting in bright sunshine on one of the benches outside the ivycovered stone building that housed the Anniston Public Library. He had a copy of the Union Leader open in front of him, and there were words on the page, but he had no idea what they said. He was too nervous. Promptly at two oclock, a girl in jeans rode up on her bike and lodged it in the rack at the foot of the lawn. She gave him a wave and a big smile. So. Abra. As in Cadabra. She was tall for her age, most of that height in her legs. Masses of curly blond hair were held back in a thick ponytail that looked ready to rebel and spray everywhere. The day was a bit chilly, and she was wearing a light jacket with ANNISTON CYCLONES screenprinted on the back. She grabbed a couple of books that were bungeecorded to the rear bumper of her bike, then ran up to him, still with that open smile. Pretty but not beautiful. Except for her wideset blue eyes. They were beautiful. Uncle Dan! Gee, its good to see you! And she gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. That hadnt been in the script. Her confidence in his basic okayness was terrifying. Good to see you, too, Abra. Sit down. He had told her they would have to be careful, and Abraa child of her cultureunderstood at once. They had agreed that the best thing would be to meet in the open, and there were few places in Anniston more open than the front lawn of the library, which was situated near the middle of the small downtown district. She was looking at him with frank interest, perhaps even hunger. He could feel something like tiny fingers patting lightly at the inside of his head. (wheres Tony?) Dan touched a finger to his temple. Abra smiled, and that completed her beauty, turned her into a girl who would break hearts in another four or five years. (HI TONY!) That was loud enough to make him wince, and he thought again of how Dick Hallorann had recoiled behind the wheel of his rental car, his eyes going momentarily blank. (we need to talk out loud ) (okay yes) Im your fathers cousin, okay? Not really an uncle, but thats what you call me. Right, right, youre Uncle Dan. Well be fine as long as my mothers best friend doesnt come along. Her names Gretchen Silverlake. I think she knows our whole family tree, and there isnt very much of it. Oh, great, Dan thought. The nosy best friend. Its okay, Abra said. Her older sons on the football team, and she never misses a Cyclones game. Almost everyone goes to the game, so stop worrying that someone will think youre She finished the sentence with a mental picturea cartoon, really. It blossomed in an instant, crude but clear. A little girl in a dark alley was being menaced by a hulking man in a trenchcoat. The little girls knees were knocking together, and just before the picture faded, Dan saw a word balloon form over her head Eeek, a freak! Actually not that funny. He made his own picture and sent it back to her Dan Torrance in jailstripes, being led away by two big policemen. He had never tried anything like this, and it wasnt as good as hers, but he was delighted to find he could do it at all. Then, almost before he knew what was happening, she appropriated his picture and made it her own. Dan pulled a gun from his waistband, pointed it at one of the cops, and pulled the trigger. A handkerchief with the word POW! on it shot from the barrel of the gun. Dan stared at her, mouth open. Abra put fisted hands to her mouth and giggled. Sorry. Couldnt resist. We could do this all afternoon, couldnt we? And it would be fun. He guessed it would also be a relief. She had spent years with a splendid ball but no one to play catch with. And of course it was the same with him. For the first time since childhoodsince Hallorannhe was sending as well as receiving. Youre right, it would be, but nows not the time. You need to run through this whole thing again. The email you sent only hit the high spots. Where should I start? How about with your last name? Since Im your honorary uncle, I probably should know. That made her laugh. Dan tried to keep a straight face and couldnt. God help him, he liked her already. Im Abra Rafaella Stone, she said. Suddenly the laughter was gone. I just hope the lady in the hat never finds that out. 7 They sat together on the bench outside the library for fortyfive minutes, with the autumn sun warm on their faces. For the first time in her life Abra felt unconditional pleasurejoy, evenin the talent that had always puzzled and sometimes terrified her. Thanks to this man, she even had a name for it the shining. It was a good name, a comforting name, because she had always thought of it as a dark thing. There was plenty to talk aboutvolumes of notes to compareand they had hardly gotten started when a stout fiftyish woman in a tweed skirt came over to say hello. She looked at Dan with curiosity, but not untoward curiosity. Hi, Mrs. Gerard. This is my uncle Dan. I had Mrs. Gerard for Language Arts last year. Pleased to meet you, maam. Dan Torrance. Mrs. Gerard took his offered hand and gave it a single nononsense pump. Abra could feel DanUncle Danrelaxing. That was good. Are you in the area, Mr. Torrance? Just down the road, in Frazier. I work in the hospice there. Helen Rivington House? Ah. Thats good work you do. Abra, have you read The Fixer yet? The Malamud novel I recommended? Abra looked glum. Its on my NookI got a gift card for my birthdaybut I havent started it yet. It looks hard. Youre ready for hard things, Mrs. Gerard said. More than ready. High school will be here sooner than you think, and then college. I suggest you get started today. Nice to have met you, Mr. Torrance. You have an extremely smart niece. But Abrawith brains comes responsibility. She tapped Abras temple to emphasize this point, then mounted the library steps and went inside. She turned to Dan. That wasnt so bad, was it? So far, so good, Dan agreed. Of course, if she talks to your parents . . . She wont. Moms in Boston, helping with my momo. Shes got cancer. Im very sorry to hear it. Is Momo your ( grandmother) ( greatgrandmother) Besides, Abra said, were not really lying about you being my uncle. In science last year, Mr. Staley told us that all humans share the same genetic plan. He said that the things that make us different are very small things. Did you know that we share something like ninetynine percent of our genetic makeup with dogs? No, Dan said, but it explains why Alpo has always looked so good to me. She laughed. So you could be my uncle or cousin or whatever. All Im saying. Thats Abras theory of relativity, is it? I guess so. And do we need the same color eyes or hairline to be related? Weve got something else in common that hardly anyone has. That makes us a special kind of relatives. Do you think its a gene, like the one for blue eyes or red hair? And by the way, did you know that Scotland has the highest ratio of people with red hair? I didnt, Dan said. Youre a font of information. Her smile faded a little. Is that a putdown? Not at all. I guess the shining might be a gene, but I really dont think so. I think its unquantifiable. Does that mean you cant figure it out? Like God and heaven and stuff like that? Yes. He found himself thinking of Charlie Hayes, and all those before and after Charlie whom hed seen out of this world in his Doctor Sleep persona. Some people called the moment of death passing on. Dan liked that, because it seemed just about right. When you saw men and women pass on before your eyesleaving the Teenytown people called reality for some Cloud Gap of an afterlifeit changed your way of thinking. For those in mortal extremis, it was the world that was passing on. In those gateway moments, Dan had always felt in the presence of some notquiteseen enormity. They slept, they woke, they went somewhere. They went on. Hed had reason to believe that, even as a child. What are you thinking? Abra asked. I can see it, but I dont understand it. And I want to. I dont know how to explain it, he said. It was partly about the ghostie people, wasnt it? I saw them once, on the little train in Frazier. It was a dream but I think it was real. His eyes widened. Did you really? Yes. I dont think they wanted to hurt methey just looked at mebut they were kind of scary. I think maybe they were people who rode the train in olden days. Have you seen ghostie people? You have, havent you? Yes, but not for a very long time. And some that were a lot more than ghosts. Ghosts didnt leave residue on toilet seats and shower curtains. Abra, how much do your parents know about your shine? My dad thinks its gone except for a few thingslike me calling from camp because I knew Momo was sickand hes glad. My mom knows its still there, because sometimes shell ask me to help her find something shes lostlast month it was her car keys, she left them on Dads worktable in the garagebut she doesnt know how much is still there. They dont talk about it anymore. She paused. Momo knows. Shes not scared of it like Mom and Dad, but she told me I have to be careful. Because if people found out She made a comic face, rolling her eyes and poking her tongue out the corner of her mouth. Eeek, a freak. You know? (yes) She smiled gratefully. Sure you do. Nobody else? Well . . . Momo said I should talk to Dr. John, because he already knew about some of the stuff. He, um, saw something I did with spoons when I was just a little kid. I kind of hung them on the ceiling. This wouldnt by chance be John Dalton, would it? Her face lit up. You know him? As a matter of fact, I do. I found something once for him. Something he lost. (a watch!) (thats right) I dont tell him everything, Abra said. She looked uneasy. I sure didnt tell him about the baseball boy, and Id never tell him about the woman in the hat. Because hed tell my folks, and theyve got a lot on their minds already. Besides, what could they do? Lets just file that away for now. Whos the baseball boy? Bradley Trevor. Brad. Sometimes he used to turn his hat around and call it a rally cap. Do you know what that is? Dan nodded. Hes dead. They killed him. But they hurt him first. They hurt him so bad. Her lower lip began to tremble, and all at once she looked closer to nine than almost thirteen. (dont cry Abra we cant afford to attract) (I know, I know) She lowered her head, took several deep breaths, and looked up at him again. Her eyes were overbright, but her mouth had stopped trembling. Im okay, she said. Really. Im just glad not to be alone with this inside my head. 8 He listened carefully as she described what she remembered of her initial encounter with Bradley Trevor two years ago. It wasnt much. The clearest image she retained was of many crisscrossing flashlight beams illuminating him as he lay on the ground. And his screams. She remembered those. They had to light him up because they were doing some kind of operation, Abra said. Thats what they called it, anyway, but all they were really doing was torturing him. She told him about finding Bradley again on the back page of The Anniston Shopper, with all the other missing children. How she had touched his picture to see if she could find out about him. Can you do that? she asked. Touch things and get pictures in your head? Find things out? Sometimes. Not always. I used to be able to do it moreand more reliablywhen I was a kid. Do you think Ill grow out of it? I wouldnt mind that. She paused, thinking. Except I sort of would. Its hard to explain. I know what you mean. Its our thing, isnt it? What we can do. Abra smiled. Youre pretty sure you know where they killed this boy? Yes, and they buried him there. They even buried his baseball glove. Abra handed him a piece of notebook paper. It was a copy, not the original. She would have been embarrassed for anyone to see how she had written the names of the boys in Round Here, not just once but over and over again. Even the way they had been written now seemed all wrong, those big fat letters that were supposed to express not love but luv. Dont get bent out of shape about it, Dan said absently, studying what shed printed on the sheet. I had a thing for Stevie Nicks when I was your age. Also for Ann Wilson, of Heart. Youve probably never even heard of her, shes oldschool, but I used to daydream about inviting her to one of the Friday night dances at Glenwood Junior High. Hows that for stupid? She was staring at him, openmouthed. Stupid but normal. Most normal thing in the world, so cut yourself some slack. And I wasnt peeking, Abra. It was just there. Kind of jumped out in my face. Oh God. Abras cheeks had gone bright red. This is going to take some getting used to, isnt it? For both of us, kiddo. He looked back down at the sheet. NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF THE CANTON COUNTY SHERIFFS DEPARTMENT ORGANIC INDUSTRIES ETHANOL PLANT 4 FREEMAN, IOWA CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE You got this by . . . what? Watching it over and over? Rerunning it like a movie? The NO TRESPASSING sign was easy, but the stuff about Organic Industries and the ethanol plant, yeah. Cant you do that? I never tried. Maybe once, but probably not anymore. I found Freeman, Iowa, on the computer, she said. And when I ran Google Earth, I could see the factory. Those places are really there. Dans thoughts returned to John Dalton. Others in the Program had talked about Dans peculiar ability to find things; John never had. Not surprising, really. Doctors took a vow of confidentiality similar to the one in AA, didnt they? Which in Johns case made it a kind of double coverage. Abra was saying, You could call Bradley Trevors parents, couldnt you? Or the sheriffs office in Canton County? They wouldnt believe me, but theyd believe a grownup. I suppose I could. But of course a man who knew where the body was buried would automatically go to the head of the suspect list, so if he did it, he would have to be very, very careful about the way he did it. Abra, the trouble youre getting me into. Sorry, she whispered. He put his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Dont be. Thats one you werent supposed to hear. She straightened. Oh God, here comes Yvonne Stroud. Shes in my class. Dan pulled his hand back in a hurry. He saw a plump, brownhaired girl about Abras age coming up the sidewalk. She was wearing a backpack and carrying a looseleaf notebook curled against her chest. Her eyes were bright and inquisitive. Shell want to know everything about you, Abra said. I mean everything. And she talks. Uhoh. Dan looked at the oncoming girl. (were not interesting) Help me, Abra, he said, and felt her join in. Once they were together, the thought instantly gained depth and strength. (WERE NOT A BIT INTERESTING) Thats good, Abra said. A little more. Do it with me. Like singing. (YOU HARDLY SEE US WERE NOT INTERESTING AND BESIDES YOU HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO) Yvonne Stroud hurried along the walk, flipping one hand to Abra in a vague hello gesture but not slowing down. She ran up the library steps and disappeared inside. Ill be a monkeys uncle, Dan said. She looked at him seriously. According to Abras theory of relativity, you really could be. Very similar She sent a picture of pants flapping on a clothesline. ( jeans) Then they were both laughing. 9 Dan made her go over the turntable thing three times, wanting to make sure he was getting it right. You never did that, either? Abra asked. The farseeing thing? Astral projection? No. Does it happen to you a lot? Only once or twice. She considered. Maybe three times. Once I went into a girl who was swimming in the river. I was looking at her from the bottom of our backyard. I was nine or ten. I dont know why it happened, she wasnt in trouble or anything, just swimming with her friends. That one lasted the longest. It went on for at least three minutes. Is astral projection what you call it? Like outer space? Its an old term, from sances back a hundred years ago, and probably not a very good one. All it means is an outofbody experience. If you could label anything like that at all. ButI want to make sure Ive got this straightthe swimming girl didnt go into you? Abra shook her head emphatically, making her ponytail fly. She didnt even know I was there. The only time it worked both ways was with that woman. The one who wears the hat. Only I didnt see the hat then, because I was inside her. Dan used one finger to describe a circle. You went into her, she went into you. Yes. Abra shivered. She was the one who cut Bradley Trevor until he was dead. When she smiles she has one big long tooth on top. Something about the hat struck a chord, something that made him think of Deenie from Wilmington. Because Deenie had worn a hat? Nope, at least not that he remembered; hed been pretty blitzed. It probably meant nothingsometimes the brain made phantom associations, that was all, especially when it was under stress, and the truth (little as he liked to admit it) was that Deenie was never far from his thoughts. Something as random as a display of corksoled sandals in a store window could bring her to mind. Whos Deenie? Abra asked. Then she blinked rapidly and drew back a little, as if Dan had suddenly flapped a hand in front of her eyes. Oops. Not supposed to go there, I guess. Sorry. Its okay, he said. Lets go back to your hat woman. When you saw her laterin your windowthat wasnt the same? No. Im not even sure that was a shining. I think it was a remembering, from when I saw her hurting the boy. So she didnt see you then, either. Shes never seen you. If the woman was as dangerous as Abra believed, this was important. No. Im sure she hasnt. But she wants to. She looked at him, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling again. When the turntable thing happened, she was thinking mirror. She wanted me to look at myself. She wanted to use my eyes to see me. What did she see through your eyes? Could she find you that way? Abra thought it over carefully. At last she said, I was looking out my window when it happened. All I can see from there is the street. And the mountains, of course, but there are lots of mountains in America, right? Right. Could the woman in the hat match the mountains shed seen through Abras eyes to a photo, if she did an exhaustive computer search? Like so much else in this business, there was just no way to be sure. Why did they kill him, Dan? Why did they kill the baseball boy? He thought he knew, and he would have hidden it from her if he could, but even this short meeting was enough to tell him he would never have that sort of relationship with Abra Rafaella Stone. Recovering alcoholics strove for complete honesty in all our affairs, but rarely achieved it; he and Abra could not avoid it. (food) She stared at him, aghast. They ate his shining? (I think so) (theyre VAMPIRES?) Then, aloud Like in Twilight? Not like them, Dan said. And for Gods sake, Abra, Im only guessing. The library door opened. Dan looked around, afraid it might be the overly curious Yvonne Stroud, but it was a boygirl couple that only had eyes for each other. He turned back to Abra. We have to wrap this up. I know. She raised a hand, rubbed at her lips, realized what she was doing, and put it back in her lap. But I have so many questions. Theres so much I want to know. It would take hours. Which we dont have. Youre sure it was a Sams? Huh? She was in a Sams Supermarket? Oh. Yes. I know the chain. Ive even shopped in one or two, but not around here. She grinned. Course not, Uncle Dan, there arent any. Theyre all out west. I went on Google for that, too. The grin faded. There are hundreds of them, all the way from Nebraska to California. I need to think about this some more, and so do you. You can stay in touch with me by email if its important, but it would be better if we justhe tapped his foreheadzipzip. You know? Yes, she said, and smiled. The only good part of this is having a friend who knows how to zipzip. And what its like. Can you use the blackboard? Sure. Its pretty easy. You need to keep one thing in mind, one above all others. The hat woman probably doesnt know how to find you, but she knows youre out there someplace. She had grown very still. He reached for her thoughts, but Abra was guarding them. Can you set a burglar alarm in your mind? So that if shes someplace near, either mentally or in person, youll know? You think shes going to come for me, dont you? She might try. Two reasons. First, just because you know she exists. And her friends, Abra whispered. She has lots of friends. (with flashlights) Whats the other reason? And before he could reply Because Id be good to eat. Like the baseball boy was good to eat. Right? There was no point denying it; to Abra his forehead was a window. Can you set an alarm? A proximity alarm? Thats I know what proximity means. I dont know, but Ill try. He knew what she was going to say next before she said it, and there was no mindreading involved. She was only a child, after all. This time when she took his hand, he didnt pull away. Promise you wont let her get me, Dan. Promise. He did, because she was a kid and needed comforting. But of course there was only one way to keep such a promise, and that was to make the threat go away. He thought it again Abra, the trouble youre getting me into. And she said it again, but this time not out loud (sorry) Not your fault, kid. You didnt (ask for this) any more than I did. Go on in with your books. I have to get back to Frazier. Im on shift tonight. Okay. But were friends, right? Totally friends. Im glad. And I bet youll like The Fixer. I think youll get it. Because youve fixed a few things in your time, havent you? Pretty dimples deepened the corners of her mouth. Youd know. Oh, believe me, Dan said. He watched her start up the steps, then pause and come back. I dont know who the woman in the hat is, but I know one of her friends. His name is Barry the Chunk, or something like that. I bet wherever she is, Barry the Chunk is someplace close. And I could find him, if I had the baseball boys glove. She looked at him, a steady level glance from those beautiful blue eyes. Id know, because for a little while, Barry the Chunk was wearing it. 10 Halfway back to Frazier, mulling over Abras hat woman, Dan remembered something that sent a jolt straight through him. He almost swerved over the double yellow line, and an oncoming truck westbound on Route 16 honked at him irritably. Twelve years ago it had been, when Frazier was still new to him and his sobriety had been extremely shaky. Hed been walking back to Mrs. Robertsons, where he had just that day secured a room. A storm was coming, so Billy Freeman had sent him off with a pair of boots. They dont look like much, but at least they match. And as he turned the corner from Morehead onto Eliot, hed seen Just ahead was a rest area. Dan pulled in and walked toward the sound of running water. It was the Saco, of course; it ran through two dozen little New Hampshire towns between North Conway and Crawford Notch, connecting them like beads on a string. I saw a hat blowing up the gutter. A battered old tophat like a magician might wear. Or an actor in an old musical comedy. Only it wasnt really there, because when I closed my eyes and counted to five, it was gone. Okay, it was a shining, he told the running water. But that doesnt necessarily make it the hat Abra saw. Only he couldnt believe that, because later that night hed dreamed of Deenie. She had been dead, her face hanging off her skull like dough on a stick. Dead and wearing the blanket Dan had stolen from a bums shopping cart. Stay away from the woman in the hat, Honeybear. That was what shed said. And something else . . . what? Shes the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell. You dont remember that, he told the running water. Nobody remembers dreams twelve years later. But he did. And now he remembered the rest of what the dead woman from Wilmington had said If you mess with her, shell eat you alive. 11 He let himself into his turret room shortly after six, carrying a tray of food from the caf. He looked first at the blackboard, and smiled at what was printed there Thank you for believing me. As if I had any choice, hon. He erased Abras message, then sat down at his desk with his dinner. After leaving the rest area, his thoughts had turned back to Dick Hallorann. He supposed it was natural enough; when someone finally asked you to teach them, you went to your own teacher to find out how to do it. Dan had fallen out of touch with Dick during the drinking years (mostly out of shame), but he thought it might just be possible to find out what had happened to the old fellow. Possibly even to get in touch, if Dick was still alive. And hey, lots of people lived into their nineties, if they took care of themselves. Abras greatgramma, for instanceshe had to be really getting up there. I need some answers, Dick, and youre the only person I know who might have a few. So do me a favor, my friend, and still be alive. He fired up his computer and opened Firefox. He knew that Dick had spent his winters cooking at a series of Florida resort hotels, but he couldnt remember the names or even which coast they had been on. Probably bothNaples one year, Palm Beach the next, Sarasota or Key West the year after that. There was always work for a man who could tickle palates, especially rich palates, and Dick had been able to tickle them like nobodys business. Dan had an idea that his best shot might be the quirky spelling of Dicks last namenot Halloran but Hallorann. He typed Richard Hallorann and Florida into the search box, then punched ENTER. He got back thousands of hits, but he was pretty sure the one he wanted was third from the top, and a soft sigh of disappointment escaped him. He clicked the link, and an article from The Miami Herald appeared. No question. When the age as well as the name appeared in the headline, you knew exactly what you were looking at. Noted South Beach Chef Richard Dick Hallorann, 81. There was a photo. It was small, but Dan would have recognized that cheerful, knowing face anywhere. Had he died alone? Dan doubted it. The man had been too gregarious . . . and too fond of women. His deathbed had probably been well attended, but the two people hed saved that winter in Colorado hadnt been there. Wendy Torrance had a valid excuse shed predeceased him. Her son, however . . . Had he been in some dive, full of whiskey and playing truckdriving songs on the jukebox, when Dick passed on? Maybe in jail for the night on a drunkanddisorderly? Cause of death had been a heart attack. He scrolled back up and checked the date January 19, 1999. The man who had saved Dans life and the life of his mother had been dead almost fifteen years. There would be no help from that quarter. From behind him, he heard the soft squeak of chalk on slate. He sat where he was for a moment, with his cooling food and his laptop before him. Then, slowly, he turned around. The chalk was still on the ledge at the bottom of the blackboard, but a picture was appearing, anyway. It was crude but recognizable. It was a baseball glove. When it was done, her chalkinvisible, but still making that low squeaking sounddrew a question mark in the gloves pocket. I need to think about it, he said, but before he could do so, the intercom buzzed, paging Doctor Sleep. CHAPTER NINE THE VOICES OF OUR DEAD FRIENDS 1 At a hundred and two, Eleanor Ouellette was the oldest resident of Rivington House in that fall of 2013, old enough so her last name had never been Americanized. She answered not to WilLET but to a much more elegant French pronunciation OoohLAY. Dan sometimes called her Miss OoohLaLa, which always made her smile. Ron Stimson, one of four docs who made regular dayrounds at the hospice, once told Dan that Eleanor was proof that living was sometimes stronger than dying. Her liver function is nil, her lungs are shot from eighty years of smoking, she has colorectal cancermoving at a snails pace, but extremely malignantand the walls of her heart are as thin as a cats whisker. Yet she continues. If Azreel was right (and in Dans experience, he was never wrong), Eleanors longterm lease on life was about to expire, but she certainly didnt look like a woman on the threshold. She was sitting up in bed, stroking the cat, when Dan walked in. Her hair was beautifully permedthe hairdresser had been in just the day beforeand her pink nightie was as immaculate as always, the top half giving a bit of color to her bloodless cheeks, the bottom half spread away from the sticks of her legs like a ballgown. Dan raised his hands to the sides of his face, the fingers spread and wiggling. Oohlala! Une belle femme! Je suis amoureux! She rolled her eyes, then cocked her head and smiled at him. Maurice Chevalier you aint, but I like you, cher. Youre cheery, which is important, youre cheeky, which is more important, and youve got a lovely bottom, which is allimportant. The ass of a man is the piston that drives the world, and you have a good one. In my prime, I would have corked it with my thumb and then eaten you alive. Preferably by the pool of Le Meridien in Monte Carlo, with an admiring audience to applaud my frontside and backside efforts. Her voice, hoarse but cadenced, managed to render this image charming rather than vulgar. To Dan, Eleanors cigarette rasp was the voice of a cabaret singer who had seen and done it all even before the German army goosestepped down the Champslyses in the spring of 1940. Washed up, maybe, but far from washed out. And while it was true she looked like the death of God in spite of the faint color reflected onto her face by her craftily chosen nightgown, she had looked like the death of God since 2009, the year she had moved into Room 15 of Rivington One. Only Azzies attendance said that tonight was different. Im sure you would have been marvelous, he said. Are you seeing any ladies, cher? Not currently, no. With one exception, and she was years too young for amour. A shame. Because in later years, thisshe raised a bony forefinger, then let it dipbecomes this. Youll see. He smiled and sat on her bed. As he had sat on so many.