Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(46)

“The next time I see your fingermarks on a patient, I’ll photograph them and go to Mrs. Clausen and you’ll be out on the street no matter who you know. And once you’re no longer a part of this institution, I’ll find you and beat the living shit out of you.”

Carling got to his feet, using the wall to support his back and keeping a close eye on Dan as he did it. He was taller, and outweighed Dan by a hundred pounds at least. He balled his fists. “I’d like to see you try. How about now?”

“Sure, but not here,” Dan said. “Too many people trying to sleep, and we’ve got a dead man down the hall. One with your marks on him.”

“I didn’t do nothing but go to take his pulse. You know how easy they bruise when they got the leukemia.”

“I do,” Dan agreed, “but you hurt him on purpose. I don’t know why, but I know you did.”

There was a flicker in Carling’s muddy eyes. Not shame; Dan didn’t think the man was capable of feeling that. Just unease at being seen through. And fear of being caught. “Big man. Doctor Sleeeep. Think your shit don’t stink?”

“Come on, Fred, let’s go outside. More than happy to.” And this was true. There was a second Dan inside. He wasn’t as close to the surface anymore, but he was still there and still the same ugly, irrational sonofabitch he’d always been. Out of the corner of his eye Dan could see Claudette and Jan standing halfway down the hall, their eyes wide and their arms around each other.

Carling thought it over. Yes, he was bigger, and yes, he had more reach. But he was also out of shape—too many overstuffed burritos, too many beers, much shorter wind than he’d had in his twenties—and there was something worrisome in the skinny guy’s face. He’d seen it before, back in his Road Saints days. Some guys had lousy circuit breakers in their heads. They tripped easy, and once they did, those guys would burn on until they burned out. He had taken Torrance for some mousy little geek who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful, but he saw that he’d been wrong about that. His secret identity wasn’t Doctor Sleep, it was Doctor Crazy.

After considering this carefully, Fred said, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

Dan nodded. “Good. Save us both getting frostbite. Just remember what I said. If you don’t want to go to the hospital, keep your hands to yourself from now on.”

“Who died and left you in charge?”

“I don’t know,” Dan said. “I really don’t.”


7

Dan went back to his room and back to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He had made roughly four dozen deathbed visits during his time at Rivington House, and usually they left him calm. Not tonight. He was still trembling with rage. His conscious mind hated that red storm, but some lower part of him loved it. Probably it went back to plain old genetics; nature triumphing over nurture. The longer he stayed sober, the more old memories surfaced. Some of the clearest were of his father’s rages. He had been hoping that Carling would take him up on it. Would go outside into the snow and wind, where Dan Torrance, son of Jack, would give that worthless puppy his medicine.

God knew he didn’t want to be his father, whose bouts of sobriety had been the white-knuckle kind. AA was supposed to help with anger, and mostly it did, but there were times like tonight when Dan realized what a flimsy barrier it was. Times when he felt worthless, and the booze seemed like all he deserved. At times like that he felt very close to his father.

He thought: Mama.

He thought: Canny.

He thought: Worthless pups need to take their medicine. And you know where they sell it, don’t you? Damn near everywhere.

The wind rose in a furious gust, making the turret groan. When it died, the blackboard girl was there. He could almost hear her breathing.

He lifted one hand out from beneath the comforters. For a moment it only hung there in the cold air, and then he felt hers—small, warm—slip into it. “Abra,” he said. “Your name is Abra, but sometimes people call you Abby. Isn’t that right?”

No answer came, but he didn’t really need one. All he needed was the sensation of that warm hand in his. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough to soothe him. He closed his eyes and slept.


8

Twenty miles away, in the little town of Anniston, Abra Stone lay awake. The hand that had enfolded hers held on for a moment or two. Then it turned to mist and was gone. But it had been there. He had been there. She had found him in a dream, but when she woke, she had discovered the dream was real. She was standing in the doorway of a room. What she had seen there was terrible and wonderful at the same time. There was death, and death was scary, but there had also been helping. The man who was helping hadn’t been able to see her, but the cat had. The cat had a name like hers, but not exactly.

He didn’t see me but he felt me. And we were together just now. I think I helped him, like he helped the man who died.

That was a good thought. Holding onto it (as she had held the phantom hand), Abra rolled over on her side, hugged her stuffed rabbit to her chest, and went to sleep.





CHAPTER FIVE

THE TRUE KNOT


1

The True Knot wasn’t incorporated, but if it had been, certain side o’ the road communities in Maine, Florida, Colorado, and New Mexico would have been referred to as “company towns.” These were places where all the major businesses and large plots of land could be traced back, through a tangle of holding companies, to them. The True’s towns, with colorful names like Dry Bend, Jerusalem’s Lot, Oree, and Sidewinder, were safe havens, but they never stayed in those places for long; mostly they were migratory. If you drive the turnpikes and main-traveled highways of America, you may have seen them. Maybe it was on I-95 in South Carolina, somewhere south of Dillon and north of Santee. Maybe it was on I-80 in Nevada, in the mountain country west of Draper. Or in Georgia, while negotiating—slowly, if you know what’s good for you—that notorious Highway 41 speedtrap outside Tifton.