Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(145)

Rose said nothing.

“You’re not thinking about Shakespeare at all,” the bitchgirl said. “You’re thinking about how much you’d like to kill me. I don’t have to read your mind to know that.”

“If I were you, I’d run,” Rose said thoughtfully. “As fast and as far as your baby legs can carry you. It wouldn’t do you any good, but you’d live a little longer.”

The bitchgirl was not to be turned. “There was another saying. I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something like ‘Hoisted on your own petard.’ Ms. Franklin said a petard was a bomb on a stick. I think that’s sort of what’s happening to your tribe of cowards. You sucked the wrong kind of steam, and got stuck on a petard, and now the bomb is going off.” She paused. “Are you still there, Rose? Or did you run away?”

“Come to me, dear,” Rose said. She had regained her calm. “If you want to meet me on the lookout, that’s where I’ll be. We’ll take in the view together, shall we? And see who’s the stronger.”

She hung up before the bitchgirl could say anything else. She’d lost the temper she had vowed to keep, but she had at least gotten the last word.

Or maybe not, because the one the bitchgirl kept using played over and over in her head, like a gramophone record stuck in a bad groove.

Coward. Coward. Coward.


4

Abra replaced the telephone receiver carefully in its cradle. She looked at it; she even stroked its plastic surface, which was hot from her hand and wet with her sweat. Then, before she realized it was going to happen, she burst into loud, braying sobs. They stormed through her, cramping her stomach and shaking her body. She rushed to the bathroom, still crying, knelt in front of the toilet, and threw up.

When she came out, Mr. Freeman was standing in the connecting doorway with his shirttail hanging down and his gray hair in corkscrews. “What’s wrong? Are you sick from the dope he gave you?”

“It wasn’t that.”

He went to the window and peered out into the pressing fog. “Is it them? Are they coming for us?”

Temporarily incapable of speech, she could only shake her head so vehemently her pigtails flew. It was she who was coming for them, and that was what terrified her.

And not just for herself.


5

Rose sat still, taking long steadying breaths. When she had herself under control again, she called for Long Paul. After a moment or two, he poked his head cautiously through the swing door that gave on the kitchen. The look on his face brought a ghost of a smile to her lips. “It’s safe. You can come in. I won’t bite you.”

He stepped in and saw the spilled coffee. “I’ll clean that up.”

“Leave it. Who’s the best locator we’ve got left?”

“You, Rose.” No hesitation.

Rose had no intention of approaching the bitchgirl mentally, not even in a touch-and-go. “Aside from me.”

“Well . . . with Grampa Flick gone . . . and Barry . . .” He considered. “Sue’s got a touch of locator, and so does Greedy G. But I think Token Charlie’s got a bit more.”

“Is he sick?”

“He wasn’t yesterday.”

“Send him to me. I’ll wipe up the coffee while I’m waiting. Because—this is important, Paulie—the person who makes the mess is the one who should have to clean it up.”

After he left, Rose sat where she was for awhile, fingers steepled under her chin. Clear thinking had returned, and with it the ability to plan. They wouldn’t be taking steam today after all, it seemed. That could wait until Monday morning.

At last she went into the galley for a wad of paper towels. And cleaned up her mess.


6

“Dan!” This time it was John. “Gotta go!”

“Right there,” he said. “I just want to splash some cold water on my face.”

He went down the hall listening to Abra, nodding his head slightly as if she were there.

(Mr. Freeman wants to know why I was crying why I threw up what should I tell him)

(for now just that when we get there I’ll want to borrow his truck)

(because we’re going on going west)

(. . . well . . .)

It was complicated, but she understood. The understanding wasn’t in words and didn’t need to be.

Beside the bathroom washbasin was a rack holding several wrapped toothbrushes. The smallest—not wrapped—had ABRA printed on the handle in rainbow letters. On one wall was a small plaque reading A LIFE WITHOUT LOVE IS LIKE A TREE WITHOUT FRUIT. He looked at it for a few seconds, wondering if there was anything in the AA program to that effect. The only thing he could think of was If you can’t love anybody today, at least try not to hurt anybody. Didn’t really compare.

He turned on the cold water and splashed his face several times, hard. Then he grabbed a towel and raised his head. No Lucy in the portrait with him this time; just Dan Torrance, son of Jack and Wendy, who had always believed himself to be an only child.

His face was covered with flies.





PART FOUR


ROOF O’ THE WORLD





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GOING WEST


1

What Dan remembered best about that Saturday wasn’t the ride from Boston to the Crown Motel, because the four people in John Dalton’s SUV said very little. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable or hostile but exhausted—the quiet of people who have a great deal to think about but not a hell of a lot to say. What he remembered best was what happened when they reached their destination.