Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(123)

“You’re . . .” Abra cleared her throat, wet her lips, tried again. “You’re not Henry anything. You’re the Crow.”

“So you do understand. That’s good. You feel woolly-headed just now, I imagine, and you’re going to stay that way, because that’s just how I like you. But there will be no need to knock you all the way out again as long as you mind your Ps and Qs. Have you got that?”

“Where are we going?”

“Hogwarts, to watch the International Quidditch Tourney. I’ll buy you a magic hotdog and a cone of magic cotton candy. Answer my question. Are you going to mind your Ps and Qs?”

“Yes.”

“Such instant agreement is pleasing to the ear, but you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t completely trust it. I need to give you some vital information before you try something foolish that you might regret. Do you see the needle I have?”

“Yes.” Abra’s head was still resting against the window, but she looked down at the hypo. Her eyes drifted shut then opened again, very slowly. “I’m thirsty.”

“From the drug, no doubt. I don’t have anything to drink with me, we left in a bit of a hurry—”

“I think there’s a juice box in my pack.” Husky. Low and slow. The eyes still opening with great effort after every blink.

“Afraid that’s back in your garage. You may get something to drink in the next town we come to—if you’re a good little Goldilocks. If you’re a bad little Goldilocks, you can spend the night swallowing your own spit. Clear?”

“Yes . . .”

“If I feel you fiddling around inside my head—yes, I know you can do it—or if you try attracting attention when we stop, I’ll inject this old gentleman. On top of what I already gave him, it will kill him as dead as Amy Winehouse. Are we clear on that, as well?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips again, then rubbed them with her hand. “Don’t hurt him.”

“That’s up to you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Goldilocks? Dear?”

“What?” She blinked at him dazedly.

“Just shut up and enjoy the ride.”

“Hogwarts,” she said. “Cotton . . . candy.” This time when her eyes closed, the lids stayed down. She began to snore lightly. It was a breezy sound, sort of pleasant. Crow didn’t think she was shamming, but he continued to hold the hypo next to the geezer’s leg just to be sure. As Gollum had once said about Frodo Baggins, it was tricksy, precious. It was very tricksy.


12

Abra didn’t go under completely; she still heard the truck’s motor, but it was far away. It seemed to be above her. It made her remember when she and her parents went to Lake Winnipesaukee on hot summer afternoons, and how you could hear the distant drone of the motorboats if you ducked your head underwater. She knew she was being kidnapped, and she knew this should concern her, but she felt serene, content to float between sleep and waking. The dryness in her mouth and throat was horrible, though. Her tongue felt like a strip of dusty carpet.

I have to do something. He’s taking me to the hat woman and I have to do something. If I don’t, they’ll kill me like they killed the baseball boy. Or something even worse.

She would do something. After she got something to drink. And after she slept a little more . . .

The engine sound had faded from a drone to a distant hum when light penetrated her closed eyelids. Then the sound stopped completely and the Crow was poking her in the leg. Easy at first, then harder. Hard enough to hurt.

“Wake up, Goldilocks. You can go back to sleep later.”

She struggled her eyes open, wincing at the brightness. They were parked beside some gas pumps. There were fluorescents over them. She shielded her eyes from the glare. Now she had a headache to go with her thirst. It was like . . .

“What’s funny, Goldilocks?”

“Huh?”

“You’re smiling.”

“I just figured out what’s wrong with me. I’m hungover.”

Crow considered this, and grinned. “I suppose you are at that, and you didn’t even get to prance around with a lampshade on your head. Are you awake enough to understand me?”

“Yes.” At least she thought she was. Oh, but the thudding in her head. Awful.

“Take this.”

He was holding something in front of her face, reaching across his body with his left hand to do it. His right one still held the hypodermic, the needle resting next to Mr. Freeman’s leg.

She squinted. It was a credit card. She reached up with a hand that felt too heavy and took it. Her eyes started to close and he slapped her face. Her eyes flew open, wide and shocked. She had never been hit in her life, not by an adult, anyway. Of course she had never been kidnapped, either.

“Ow! Ow!”

“Get out of the truck. Follow the instructions on the pump—you’re a bright kid, I’m sure you can do that—and fill the tank. Then replace the nozzle and get back in. If you do all that like a good little Goldilocks, we’ll drive over to yonder Coke machine.” He pointed to the far corner of the store. “You can get a nice big twenty-ounce soda. Or a water, if that’s what you want; I spy with my little eye that they have Dasani. If you’re a bad little Goldilocks, I’ll kill the old man, then go into the store and kill the kid at the register. No problem there. Your friend had a gun, which is now in my possession. I’ll take you with me and you can watch the kid’s head go splat. It’s up to you, okay? You get it?”