7
Steamhead Steve, Baba the Red, Bent Dick, and Greedy G were playing a desultory game of canasta in the Bounder that Greedy and Dirty Phil shared when the shrieks began. All four of them had been on edge—the whole True was on edge—and they dropped their cards immediately and ran for the door.
Everyone was emerging from their campers and RVs to see what the matter was, but they stopped when they saw Rose the Hat standing in the brilliant yellow-white glare of the security lights surrounding the Overlook Lodge. Her eyes were wild. She was pulling at her hair like an Old Testament prophet in the throes of a violent vision.
“That fucking little bitch killed my Crow!” she shrieked. “I’ll kill her! I’LL KILL HER AND EAT HER HEART!”
At last she sank to her knees, sobbing into her hands.
The True Knot stood, stunned. No one knew what to say or do. At last Silent Sarey went to her. Rose shoved her violently away. Sarey landed on her back, got up, and returned to Rose without hesitation. This time Rose looked up and saw her would-be comforter, a woman who had also lost someone dear on this unbelievable night. She embraced Sarey, hugging so hard that the watching True heard bones crack. But Sarey didn’t struggle, and after a few moments, the two women helped each other to their feet. Rose looked from Silent Sarey to Big Mo, then to Heavy Mary and Token Charlie. It was as if she had never seen any of them.
“Come on, Rosie,” Mo said. “You’ve had a shock. You need to lie d—”
“NO!”
She stepped away from Silent Sarey and clapped her hands to the sides of her face in a huge double slap that knocked off her hat. She bent down to pick it up, and when she looked around at the gathered True again, some sanity had come back into her eyes. She was thinking of Diesel Doug and the crew she had sent to meet Daddy and the girl.
“I need to get hold of Deez. Tell him and Phil and Annie to turn around. We need to be together. We need to take steam. A lot of it. Once we’re loaded, we’re going to get that bitch.”
They only looked at her, their faces worried and unsure. The sight of those frightened eyes and stupid gaping mouths infuriated her.
“Do you doubt me?” Silent Sarey had crept back to her side. Rose pushed her away from her so hard Sarey almost fell down again. “Whoever doubts me, let him step forward.”
“No one doubts you, Rose,” Steamhead Steve said, “but maybe we ought to let her alone.” He spoke carefully, and couldn’t quite meet Rose’s eyes. “If Crow’s really gone, that’s five dead. We’ve never lost five in one day. We’ve never even lost t—”
Rose stepped forward and Steve immediately stepped back, hunching his shoulders up around his ears like a child expecting a blow. “You want to run away from one little steamhead girl? After all these years, you want to turn tail and run from a rube?”
No one answered her, least of all Steve, but Rose saw the truth in their eyes. They did. They actually did. They’d had a lot of good years. Fat years. Easy-hunting years. Now they had run across someone who not only had extraordinary steam but knew them for who they were and what they did. Instead of avenging Crow Daddy—who had, along with Rose, seen them through good times and bad—they wanted to put their tails between their legs and go yipping away. In that moment she wanted to kill them all. They felt it and shuffled further back, giving her room.
All but Silent Sarey, who was staring at Rose as if hypnotized, her mouth hung on a hinge. Rose seized her by her scrawny shoulders.
“No, Rosie!” Mo squealed. “Don’t hurt her!”
“What about you, Sarey? That little girl was responsible for murdering the woman you loved. Do you want to run away?”
“Nup,” Sarey said. Her eyes looked up into Rose’s. Even now, with everyone looking at her, Sarey seemed little more than a shadow.
“Do you want payback?”
“Lup,” Sarey said. Then: “Levenge.”
She had a low voice (almost a no-voice) and a speech impediment, but they all heard her, and they all knew what she was saying.
Rose looked around at the others. “For those of you who don’t want what Sarey wants, who just want to get down on your bellies and squirm away . . .”
She turned to Big Mo and seized the woman’s flabby arm. Mo screeched in fear and surprise and tried to draw away. Rose held her in place and lifted her arm so the others could see it. It was covered with red spots. “Can you squirm away from this?”
They muttered and took another step or two back.
Rose said, “It’s in us.”
“Most of us are fine!” Sweet Terri Pickford shouted. “I’m fine! Not a mark on me!” She held her smooth arms out for inspection.
Rose turned her burning, tear-filled eyes on Terri. “Now. But for how long?” Sweet Terri made no reply, but turned her face away.
Rose put her arm around Silent Sarey and surveyed the others. “Nut said that girl may be our only chance of getting rid of the sickness before it infects us all. Does anyone here know better? If you do, speak up.”
No one did.
“We’re going to wait until Deez, Annie, and Dirty Phil get back, then we’ll take steam. Biggest steam ever. We’re going to empty the canisters.”
Looks of surprise and more uneasy mutters greeted this. Did they think she was crazy? Let them. It wasn’t just measles eating into the True Knot; it was terror, and that was far worse.
“When we’re all together, we’re going to circle. We’re going to grow strong. Lodsam hanti, we are the chosen ones—have you forgotten that? Sabbatha hanti, we are the True Knot, and we endure. Say it with me.” Her eyes raked them. “Say it.”
They said it, joining hands, making a ring. We are the True Knot, and we endure. A little resolution came into their eyes. A little belief. Only half a dozen of them were showing the spots, after all; there was still time.
Rose and Silent Sarey stepped to the circle. Terri and Baba let go of each other to make a place for them, but Rose escorted Sarey to the center. Under the security lights, the bodies of the two women radiated multiple shadows, like the spokes of a wheel. “When we’re strong—when we’re one again—we’re going to find her and take her. I tell you that as your leader. And even if her steam doesn’t cure the sickness that’s eating us, it’ll be the end of the rotten—”
That was when the girl spoke inside her head. Rose could not see Abra Stone’s angry smile, but she could feel it.
(don’t bother coming to me, Rose)
8
In the back of John Dalton’s Suburban, Dan Torrance spoke four clear words in Abra’s voice.
“I’ll come to you.”
9
“Billy? Billy!”
Billy Freeman looked at the girl who didn’t exactly sound like a girl. She doubled, came together, and doubled again. He passed a hand over his face. His eyelids felt heavy and his thoughts seemed somehow glued together. He couldn’t make sense of this. It wasn’t daylight anymore, and they sure as hell weren’t on Abra’s street anymore. “Who’s shooting? And who took a shit in my mouth? Christ.”
“Billy, you have to wake up. You have to . . .”
You have to drive was what Dan meant to say, but Billy Freeman wasn’t going to be driving anywhere. Not for awhile. His eyes were drifting shut again, the lids out of sync. Dan threw one of Abra’s elbows into the old guy’s side and got his attention again. For the time being, at least.
Headlights flooded the cab of the truck as another car approached. Dan held Abra’s breath, but this one also went by without slowing. Maybe a woman on her own, maybe a salesman in a hurry to get home. A bad Samaritan, whoever it was, and bad was good for them, but they might not be lucky a third time. Rural people tended to be neighborly. Not to mention nosy.
“Stay awake,” he said.
“Who are you?” Billy tried to focus on the kid, but it was impossible. “Because you sure don’t sound like Abra.”
“It’s complicated. For now, just concentrate on staying awake.”
Dan got out and walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, stumbling several times. Her legs, which had seemed so long on the day he met her, were too damned short. He only hoped he wouldn’t have enough time to get used to them.
Crow’s clothes were lying on the seat. His canvas shoes were on the dirty floormat with the socks trailing out of them. The blood and brains that had splattered his shirt and jacket had cycled out of existence, but they had left damp spots. Dan gathered everything up and, after a moment’s consideration, added the gun. He didn’t want to give it up, but if they were stopped . . .
He took the bundle to the front of the truck and buried it beneath a drift of old leaves. Then he grabbed a piece of the downed birch the F-150 had struck and dragged it over the burial site. It was hard work with Abra’s arms, but he managed.
He found he couldn’t just step into the cab; he had to pull himself up by the steering wheel. And once he was finally behind the wheel, her feet barely reached the pedals. Fuck.
Billy gave a galumphing snore, and Dan threw another elbow. Billy opened his eyes and looked around. “Where are we? Did that guy drug me?” Then: “I think I have to go back to sleep.”
At some point during the final life-or-death struggle for the gun, Crow’s unopened bottle of Fanta had fallen to the floor. Dan bent over, grabbed it, then paused with Abra’s hand on the cap, remembering what happens to soda when it takes a hard thump. From somewhere, Abra spoke to him
(oh dear)
and she was smiling, but it wasn’t the angry smile. Dan thought that was good.
10
You can’t let me go to sleep, the voice coming from Dan’s mouth said, so John took the Fox Run exit and parked in the lot farthest from Kohl’s. There he and Dave walked Dan’s body up and down, one on each side. He was like a drunk at the end of a hard night—every now and then his head sagged to his chest before snapping back up again. Both men took a turn at asking what had happened, what was happening now, and where it was happening, but Abra only shook Dan’s head. “The Crow shot me in my hand before he let me go in the bathroom. The rest is all fuzzy. Now shh, I have to concentrate.”
On the third wide circle of John’s Suburban, Dan’s mouth broke into a grin, and a very Abra-like giggle issued from him. Dave looked a question at John across the body of their shambling, stumbling charge. John shrugged and shook his head.
“Oh, dear,” Abra said. “Soda.”
11
Dan tilted the soda and removed the cap. A high-pressure spray of orange pop hit Billy full in the face. He coughed and spluttered, for the time being wide awake.
“Jesus, kid! Why’d you do that?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Dan handed him the still-fizzing soda. “Put the rest inside you. I’m sorry, but you can’t go back to sleep, no matter how much you want to.”
While Billy tilted the bottle and chugged soda, Dan leaned over and found the seat adjustment lever. He pulled it with one hand and yanked on the steering wheel with the other. The seat jolted forward. It caused Billy to spill Fanta down his chin (and to utter a phrase not generally used by adults around young girls from New Hampshire), but now Abra’s feet could reach the pedals. Barely. Dan put the truck in reverse and backed up slowly, angling toward the road as he went. When they were on the pavement, he breathed a sigh of relief. Getting stuck in a ditch beside a little-used Vermont highway would not have advanced their cause much.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Billy asked.
“Yes. Been doing it for years . . . although there was a little lag time when the state of Florida took away my license. I was in another state at the time, but there’s a little thing called reciprocity. The bane of traveling drunks all across this great country of ours.”
“You’re Dan.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said, peering over the top of the steering wheel. He wished he had a book to sit on, but since he didn’t, he would just have to do the best he could. He dropped the transmission into drive and got rolling.
“How’d you get inside her?”
“Don’t ask.”
The Crow had said something (or only thought it, Dan didn’t know which) about camp roads, and about four miles up Route 108, they came to a lane with a rustic wooden sign nailed to a pine tree: BOB AND DOT’S HAPPY PLACE. If that wasn’t a camp road, nothing was. Dan turned in, Abra’s arms glad for the power steering, and flicked on the high beams. A quarter of a mile up, the lane was barred by a heavy chain with another sign hanging from it, this one less rustic: NO TRESPASSING. The chain was good. It meant Bob and Dot hadn’t decided on a getaway weekend at their happy place, and a quarter of a mile from the highway was enough to assure them of some privacy. There was another bonus: a culvert with water trickling out of it.
He killed the lights and engine, then turned to Billy. “See that culvert? Go wash the soda off your face. Splash up good. You need to be as wide awake as you can get.”
“I’m awake,” Billy said.
“Not enough. Try to keep your shirt dry. And when you’re done, comb your hair. You’re going to have to meet the public.”
“Where are we?”
“Vermont.”
“Where’s the guy who hijacked me?”
“Dead.”
“Good goddam riddance!” Billy exclaimed. Then, after a moment’s thought: “How about the body? Where’s that?”
An excellent question, but not one Dan wanted to answer. What he wanted was for this to be over. It was exhausting, and disorienting in a thousand ways. “Gone. That’s really all you need to know.”
“But—”
“Not now. Wash your face, then walk up and down this road a few times. Swing your arms, take deep breaths, and get as clear as you can.”
“I’ve got one bitch of a headache.”
Dan wasn’t surprised. “When you come back, the girl is probably going to be the girl again, which means you’ll have to drive. If you feel sober enough to be plausible, go to the next town that has a motel and check in. You’re traveling with your granddaughter, got it?”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “My granddaughter. Abby Freeman.”
“Once you’re in, call me on my cell.”
“Because you’ll be wherever . . . wherever the rest of you is.”
“Right.”
“This is fucked to the sky, buddy.”
“Yes,” Dan said. “It certainly is. Our job now is to unfuck it.”
“Okay. What is the next town?”
“No idea. I don’t want you having an accident, Billy. If you can’t get clear enough to drive twenty or thirty miles and then check into a motel without having the guy on the counter call the cops, you and Abra will have to spend the night in the cab of this truck. It won’t be comfortable, but it should be safe.”
Billy opened the passenger-side door. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be able to pass for sober. Done it before.” He gave the girl behind the steering wheel a wink. “I work for Casey Kingsley. Death on drinkin, remember?”
Dan watched him go to the culvert and kneel there, then closed Abra’s eyes.
In a parking lot outside the Fox Run Mall, Abra closed Dan’s.
(Abra)
(I’m here)
(are you awake)
(yes sort of)
(we need to turn the wheel again can you help me)
This time, she could.