by Stephen King
"Abra doesn't think so, but you have to remember she's only thirteen. She could be wrong."
"Does Abra know where the woman is?"
"All she knows is that when this contact--this mutual seeing--occurred, the woman was in a Sam's Supermarket. That puts it somewhere out West, but there are Sams in at least nine states."
"Including Iowa?"
Dan shook his head.
"Then I don't see what we can accomplish by going there."
"We can get the glove," Dan said. "Abra thinks if she has the glove, she can link to the man who had it on his hand for a little while. She calls him Barry the Chunk."
John sat with his head lowered, thinking. Dan let him do it.
"All right," John said at last. "This is crazy, but I'll buy it. Given what I know of Abra's history and given my own history with you, it's actually kind of hard not to. But if this woman doesn't know where Abra is, might it not be wiser to leave things alone? Don't kick a sleeping dog and all that?"
"I don't think this dog's asleep," Dan said. "These
(empty devils)
freaks want her for the same reason they wanted the Trevor boy--I'm sure Billy's right about that. Also, they know she's a danger to them. To put it in AA terms, she has the power to break their anonymity. And they may have resources we can only guess at. Would you want a patient of yours to live in fear, month after month and maybe year after year, always expecting some sort of paranormal Manson Family to show up and snatch her off the street?"
"Of course not."
"These assholes live on children like her. Children like I was. Kids with the shining." He stared grimly into John Dalton's face. "If it's true, they need to be stopped."
Billy said, "If I'm not going to Iowa, what am I supposed to do?"
"Let's put it this way," Dan said. "You're going to get very familiar with Anniston in the week ahead. In fact, if Casey will give you time off, you're going to stay at a motel there."
5
Rose finally entered the meditative state she had been seeking. The hardest thing to let go of had been her worries about Grampa Flick, but she finally got past them. Got above them. Now she cruised within herself, repeating the old phrases--sabbatha hanti and lodsam hanti and cahanna risone hanti--over and over again, her lips barely moving. It was too early to seek the troublesome girl, but now that she'd been left alone and the world was quiet, both inside and out, she was in no hurry. Meditation for its own sake was a fine thing. Rose went about gathering her tools and focusing her concentration, working slowly and meticulously.
Sabbatha hanti, lodsam hanti, cahanna risone hanti: words that had been old when the True Knot moved across Europe in wagons, selling peat turves and trinkets. They had probably been old when Babylon was young. The girl was powerful, but the True was all-powerful, and Rose anticipated no real problem. The girl would be asleep, and Rose would move with quiet stealth, picking up information and planting suggestions like small explosives. Not just one worm, but a whole nest of them. Some the girl might detect, and disable.
Others, not.
6
Abra spoke with her mother on the phone for almost forty-five minutes that night after she'd finished her homework. The conversation had two levels. On the top one, they talked about Abra's day, the school week ahead, and her costume for the upcoming Halloween Dance; they discussed the ongoing plans to have Momo moved north to the Frazier hospice (which Abra still thought of as the "hot spice"); Lucy brought Abra up-to-date on Momo's condition, which she said was "actually pretty good, all things considered."
On another level, Abra listened to Lucy's nagging worry that she had somehow failed her grandmother, and to the truth of Momo's condition: frightened, addled, racked with pain. Abra tried to send her mother soothing thoughts: it's all right, Mom and we love you, Mom and you did the best you could, for as long as you were able. She liked to believe that some of these thoughts got through, but didn't really believe it. She had many talents--the kind that were wonderful and scary at the same time--but changing another person's emotional temperature had never been one of them.
Could Dan do that? She thought maybe he could. She thought he used that part of his shining to help people in the hot spice. If he could really do that, maybe he would help Momo when she got there. That would be good.
She came downstairs wearing the pink flannel pajamas Momo had given her last Christmas. Her father was watching the Red Sox and drinking a glass of beer. She put a big smackeroo on his nose (he always said he hated that, but she knew he sort of liked it) and told him she was off to bed.
"La homework est complete, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, Daddy, but the French word for homework is devoirs."
"Good to know, good to know. How was your mother? I ask because I only had about ninety seconds with her before you snatched the phone."
"She's doing okay." Abra knew this was the truth, but she also knew okay was a relative term. She started for the hall, then turned back. "She said Momo was like a glass ornament." She hadn't, not out loud, but she'd been thinking it. "She says we all are."
Dave muted the TV. "Well, I guess that's true, but some of us are made of surprisingly tough glass. Remember, your momo's been up on the shelf, safe and sound, for many, many years. Now come over here, Abba-Doo, and give your Dad a hug. I don't know if you need it, but I could use one."
7
Twenty minutes later she was in bed with Mr. Pooh Bear Nightlight, a holdover from earliest childhood, glowing on the dresser. She reached for Dan and found him in an activities room where there were jigsaw puzzles, magazines, a Ping-Pong table, and a big TV on the wall. He was playing cards with a couple of hot spice residents.
(did you talk to Doctor John?)
( yes we're going to Iowa day after tomorrow)
This thought was accompanied by a brief picture of an old biplane. Inside were two men wearing old-fashioned flying helmets, scarves, and goggles. It made Abra smile.
(if we bring you)
Picture of a catcher's mitt. That wasn't what the baseball boy's glove really looked like, but Abra knew what Dan was trying to say.
(will you freak out)
(no)
She better not. Holding the dead boy's glove would be terrible, but she would have to do it.
8
In the common room of Rivington One, Mr. Braddock was staring at Dan with that look of monumental but slightly puzzled irritation which only the very old and borderline senile can bring off successfully. "Are you gonna discard something, Danny, or just sit there starin into the corner until the icecaps melt?"
( goodnight Abra)
( goodnight Dan say goodnight to Tony for me)
"Danny?" Mr. Braddock knocked his swollen knuckles on the table. "Danny Torrance, come in, Danny Torrance, over?"
(don't forget to set your alarm)
"Hoo-hoo, Danny," Cora Willingham said.
Dan looked at them. "Did I discard, or is it still my turn?"
Mr. Braddock rolled his eyes at Cora; Cora rolled hers right back.
"And my daughters think I'm the one losing my marbles," she said.
9
Abra had set the alarm on her iPad because tomorrow was not only a schoolday but one of her days to make breakfast--scrambled eggs with mushrooms, peppers, and Jack cheese was the plan. But that wasn't the alarm Dan had been talking about. She closed her eyes and concentrated, her brow furrowing. One hand crept out from under the covers and began wiping at her lips. What she was doing was tricky, but maybe it would be worth it.
Alarms were all well and good, but if the woman in the hat came looking for her, a trap might be even better.
After five minutes or so, the lines on her forehead smoothed out and her hand fell away from her mouth. She rolled over on her side and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She was visualizing herself riding a white stallion in full warrior garb when she fell asleep. Mr. Pooh Bear Nightlight watched from his place on the dresser as he had since Abra was fou
r, casting a dim radiance on her left cheek. That and her hair were the only parts of her that still showed.
In her dreams, she galloped over long fields under four billion stars.
10
Rose continued her meditations until one thirty that Monday morning. The rest of the True (with the exception of Apron Annie and Big Mo, currently watching over Grampa Flick) were sleeping deeply when she decided she was ready. In one hand she held a picture, printed off her computer, of Anniston, New Hampshire's not-very-impressive downtown. In the other she held one of the canisters. Although there was nothing left inside but the faintest whiff of steam, she had no doubt it would be enough. She put her fingers on the valve, preparing to loosen it.
We are the True Knot, and we endure: Sabbatha hanti.
We are the chosen ones: Lodsam hanti.
We are the fortunate ones: Cahanna risone hanti.
"Take this and use it well, Rosie-girl," she said. When she turned the valve, a short sigh of silver mist escaped. She inhaled, fell back on her pillow, and let the canister drop to the carpet with a soft thud. She lifted the picture of Anniston's Main Street in front of her eyes. Her arm and hand were no longer precisely there, and so the picture seemed to float. Not far from that Main Street, a little girl lived down a lane that was probably called Richland Court. She would be fast asleep, but somewhere in her mind was Rose the Hat. She assumed the little girl didn't know what Rose the Hat looked like (any more than Rose knew what the girl looked like . . . at least not yet), but she knew what Rose the Hat felt like. Also, she knew what Rose had been looking at in Sam's yesterday. That was her marker, her way in.
Rose stared at the picture of Anniston with fixed and dreaming eyes, but what she was really looking for was Sam's meat counter, where EVERY CUT IS A BLUE RIBBON COWBOY CUT. She was looking for herself. And, after a gratifyingly short search, found her. At first just an auditory trace: the sound of supermarket Muzak. Then a shopping cart. Beyond it, all was still dark. That was all right; the rest would come. Rose followed the Muzak, now echoing and distant.
It was dark, it was dark, it was dark, then a little light and a little more. Here was the supermarket aisle, then it became a hallway and she knew she was almost in. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch.
Lying on her bed, she closed her eyes so if the kid realized what was happening--unlikely but not impossible--she would see nothing. Rose took a few seconds to review her primary goals: name, exact location, extent of knowledge, anyone she might have told.
(turn, world )
She gathered her strength and pushed. This time the sensation of revolving wasn't a surprise but something she had planned for and over which she had complete control. For a moment she was still in that hallway--the conduit between their two minds--and then she was in a large room where a little girl in pigtails was riding a bike and lilting a nonsense song. It was the little girl's dream and Rose was watching it. But she had better things to do. The walls of the room weren't real walls, but file drawers. She could open them at will now that she was inside. The little girl was safely dreaming in Rose's head, dreaming she was five and riding her first bicycle. That was very fine. Dream on, little princess.
The child rode past her, singing la-la-la and seeing nothing. There were training wheels on her bike, but they flickered on and off. Rose guessed the princess was dreaming of the day when she had finally learned to ride without them. Always a very fine day in a child's life.
Enjoy your bicycle, dear, while I find out all about you.
Moving with confidence, Rose opened one of the drawers.
The instant she reached inside, an earsplitting alarm began to bray and brilliant white spotlights blazed on all around the room, beating down on her with heat as well as light. For the first time in a great many years, Rose the Hat, once Rose O'Hara from County Antrim in Northern Ireland, was caught completely off-guard. Before she could pull her hand out of the drawer, it slammed shut. The pain was enormous. She screamed and jerked backward, but she was held fast.
Her shadow jumped high on the wall, but not just hers. She turned her head and saw the little girl bearing down on her. Only she wasn't little anymore. Now she was a young woman wearing a leather jerkin with a dragon on her blooming chest and a blue band to hold back her hair. The bike had become a white stallion. Its eyes, like those of the warrior-woman, were blazing.
The warrior-woman had a lance.
(You came back Dan said you would and you did )
And then--unbelievable in a rube, even one loaded with big steam--pleasure.
(GOOD)
The child who was no longer a child had been lying in wait for her. She had laid a trap, she meant to kill Rose . . . and considering Rose's state of mental vulnerability, she probably could.
Summoning every bit of her strength, Rose fought back, not with some comic-book lance, but with a blunt battering ram that had all her years and will behind it.
(GET AWAY FROM ME! GET THE FUCK BACK! NO MATTER WHAT YOU THINK YOU ARE YOU'RE JUST A LITTLE GIRL!)
The girl's grown-up vision of herself--her avatar--kept coming, but she flinched as Rose's thought hit her, and the lance crashed into the wall of file drawers to Rose's immediate left instead of into her side, which was where it had been aimed.
The kid (that's all she is, Rose kept telling herself ) wheeled her horse away and Rose turned to the drawer that had caught her. She braced her free hand above it and pulled with all her might, ignoring the pain. At first the drawer held. Then it gave a little and she was able to pull out the heel of her hand. It was scraped and bleeding.
Something else was happening. There was a fluttering sensation in her head, as if a bird were flying around up there. What new shit was this?
Expecting that goddamned lance to drive into her back at any moment, Rose yanked with all her might. Her hand slipped all the way out and she curled her fingers into a fist just in time. If she'd waited even an instant, the drawer would have cut them off when it slammed shut. Her nails throbbed, and she knew when she had a chance to look at them, they would be plum-colored with trapped blood.
She turned. The girl was gone. The room was empty. But that fluttering sensation continued. If anything, it had intensified. Suddenly the pain in her hand and wrist was the last thing on Rose's mind. She wasn't the only one who had ridden the turntable, and it didn't matter that her eyes were still shut back in the real world, where she lay on her double bed.
The fucking brat was in another room filled with file drawers.
Her room. Her head.
Instead of the burglar, Rose had become the burgled.
(GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT)
The fluttering didn't stop; it sped up. Rose shoved away her panic, fought for clarity and focus, found some. Just enough to set the turntable in motion again, even though it had become weirdly heavy.
(turn, world )
As it did, she felt the maddening flutter in her head first diminish and then cease as the little girl was rotated back to wherever she came from.
Except that's not right, and this is far too serious for you to indulge in the luxury of lying to yourself. You came to her. And walked right into a trap. Why? Because in spite of all you knew, you underestimated.
Rose opened her eyes, sat up, and swung her feet onto the carpet. One of them struck the empty canister and she kicked it away. The Sidewinder t-shirt she had pulled on before lying down was damp; she reeked of sweat. It was a piggy smell, entirely unattractive. She looked unbelievingly at her hand, which was scraped and bruised and swelling. Her fingernails were going from purple to black, and she guessed she might lose at least two of them.
"But I didn't know," she said. "There was no way I could." She hated the whine she heard in her voice. It was the voice of a querulous old woman. "No way at all."
She had to get out of this goddam camper. It might be the biggest, luxiest one in the world, but right now it felt the size of a coffin. She made her way to the door, holding onto things to k
eep her balance. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard before she went out. Ten to two. Everything had happened in just twenty minutes. Incredible.
How much did she find out before I got free of her? How much does she know?
No way of telling for sure, but even a little could be dangerous. The brat had to be taken care of, and soon.
Rose stepped out into the pale early moonlight and took half a dozen long, steadying breaths of fresh air. She began to feel a little better, a little more herself, but she couldn't let go of that fluttering sensation. The feeling of having someone else inside her--a rube, no less--looking at her private things. The pain had been bad, and the surprise of being trapped that way was worse, but the worst thing of all was the humiliation and sense of violation. She had been stolen from.
You are going to pay for that, princess. You just messed in with the wrong bitch.
A shape was moving toward her. Rose had settled on the top step of her RV, but now she stood up, tense, ready for anything. Then the shape got closer and she saw it was Crow. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and slippers.
"Rose, I think you better--" He stopped. "What the hell happened to your hand?"
"Never mind my fucking hand," she snapped. "What are you doing here at two in the morning? Especially when you knew I was apt to be busy?"
"It's Grampa Flick," Crow said. "Apron Annie says he's dying."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THOME 25
1
Instead of pine-scented air freshener and Alcazar cigars, Grampa Flick's Fleetwood this morning smelled of shit, disease, and death. It was also crowded. There were at least a dozen members of the True Knot present, some gathered around the old man's bed, many more sitting or standing in the living room, drinking coffee. The rest were outside. Everyone looked stunned and uneasy. The True wasn't used to death among their own.
"Clear out," Rose said. "Crow and Nut--you stay."
"Look at him," Petty the Chink said in a trembling voice. "Them spots! And 'e's cycling like crazy, Rose! Oh, this is 'orrible!"
"Go on," Rose said. She spoke gently and gave Petty a comforting squeeze on the shoulder when what she felt like doing was kicking her fat Cockney ass right out the door. She was a lazy gossip, good for nothing but warming Barry's bed, and probably not very good at that. Rose guessed that nagging was more Petty's specialty. When she wasn't scared out of her mind, that is.
