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 naïve 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 compu-chatting with her. To Catch a Predator, anyone?
Maybe it’s nothing. It could be; she’s 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 what’s wrong.
6
On the following Saturday afternoon, Dan was sitting in bright sunshine on one of the benches outside the ivy-covered 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 o’clock, 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 screen-printed on the back. She grabbed a couple of books that were bungee-corded to the rear bumper of her bike, then ran up to him, still with that open smile. Pretty but not beautiful. Except for her wide-set blue eyes. They were beautiful.
“Uncle Dan! Gee, it’s good to see you!” And she gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. That hadn’t 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 Abra—a child of her culture—understood 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.
(where’s 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)
“I’m your father’s cousin, okay? Not really an uncle, but that’s what you call me.”
“Right, right, you’re Uncle Dan. We’ll be fine as long as my mother’s best friend doesn’t come along. Her name’s Gretchen Silverlake. I think she knows our whole family tree, and there isn’t very much of it.”
Oh, great, Dan thought. The nosy best friend.
“It’s okay,” Abra said. “Her older son’s on the football team, and she never misses a Cyclones game. Almost everyone goes to the game, so stop worrying that someone will think you’re—”
She finished the sentence with a mental picture—a 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 girl’s 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 jail-stripes, being led away by two big policemen. He had never tried anything like this, and it wasn’t 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. Couldn’t resist. We could do this all afternoon, couldn’t we? And it would be fun.”