Doctor Sleep (42 page)

Early Thursday morning.

Steamhead Steve's Winnebago, with Snakebite Andi currently behind the wheel, was cruising eastbound on I-80 in western Nebraska at a perfectly legal sixty-five miles an hour. The first streaks of dawn had just begun to show on the horizon. In Anniston it was two hours later. Dave Stone was in his bathrobe making coffee when the phone rang. It was Lucy, calling from Concetta's Marlborough Street condo. She sounded like a woman who had nearly reached the end of her resources.

“If nothing changes for the worse—although I guess that's the only way things
can
change now—they'll be releasing Momo from the hospital first thing next week. I talked with the two doctors on her case last night.”

“Why didn't you call me, sweetheart?”

“Too tired. And too depressed. I thought I'd feel better after a night's sleep, but I didn't get much. Honey, this place is just so full of her. Not just her work, her
vitality
 . . .”

Her voice wavered. David waited. They had been together for
over fifteen years, and he knew that when Lucy was upset, waiting was sometimes better than talking.

“I don't know what we're going to
do
with it all. Just looking at the books makes me tired. There are thousands on the shelves and stacked in her study, and the super says there are thousands more in storage.”

“We don't have to decide right now.”

“He says there's also a trunk marked
Alessandra.
That was my mother's real name, you know, although I guess she always called herself Sandra or Sandy. I never knew Momo had her stuff.”

“For someone who let it all hang out in her poetry, Chetta could be one closemouthed lady when she wanted to.”

Lucy seemed not to hear him, only continued in the same dull, slightly nagging, tired-to-death tone. “Everything's arranged, although I'll have to reschedule the private ambulance if they decide to let her go Sunday. They said they might. Thank God she's got good insurance. That goes back to her teaching days at Tufts, you know. She never made a dime from poetry. Who in this fucked-up country would pay a dime to
read
it anymore?”

“Lucy—”

“She's got a good place in the main building at Rivington House—a little suite. I took the online tour. Not that she'll be using it long. I made friends with the head nurse on her floor here, and she says Momo's just about at the end of her—”

“Chia, I love you, honey.”

That—Concetta's old nickname for her—finally stopped her.

“With all my admittedly non-Italian heart and soul.”

“I know, and thank God you do. This has been so hard, but it's almost over. I'll be there Monday at the very latest.”

“We can't wait to see you.”

“How are you? How's Abra?”

“We're both fine.” David would be allowed to go on believing this for another sixty seconds or so.

He heard Lucy yawn. “I might go back to bed for an hour or two. I think I can sleep now.”

“You do that. I've got to get Abs up for school.”

They said their goodbyes, and when Dave turned away from the kitchen wall phone, he saw that Abra was already up. She was still in her pajamas. Her hair was every whichway, her eyes were red, and her face was pale. She was clutching Hoppy, her old stuffed rabbit.

“Abba-Doo? Honey? Are you sick?”

Yes. No. I don't know. But you will be, when you hear what I'm going to tell you
.

“I need to talk to you, Daddy. And I don't want to go to school today. Tomorrow, either. Maybe not for awhile.” She hesitated. “I'm in trouble.”

The first thing that phrase brought to mind was so awful that he pushed it away at once, but not before Abra caught it.

She smiled wanly. “No, I'm not pregnant.”

He stopped on his way to her, halfway across the kitchen, his mouth falling open. “You . . . did you just—”

“Yes,” she said. “I just read your mind. Although anyone could have guessed what you were thinking that time, Daddy—it was all over your face. And it's called shining, not mind-reading. I can still do most of the things that used to scare you when I was little. Not all, but most.”

He spoke very slowly. “I know you still sometimes have premonitions. Your mom and I both know.”

“It's a lot more than that. I have a friend. His name is Dan. He and Dr. John have been in Iowa—”

“John Dalton?”

“Yes—”

“Who's this Dan? Is he a kid Dr. John treats?”

“No, he's a grown-up.” She took his hand and led him to the kitchen table. There they sat down, Abra still holding Hoppy. “But when he was a kid, he was like me.”

“Abs, I'm not understanding any of this.”

“There are bad people, Daddy.” She knew she couldn't tell him they were more than people,
worse
than people, until Dan and John were here to help her explain. “They might want to hurt me.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt you? You're not making sense. As for all those things you used to do, if you could still do them, we'd kn—”

The drawer below the hanging pots flew open, then shut, then opened again. She could no longer lift the spoons, but the drawer was enough to get his attention.

“Once I understood how much it worried you guys—how much it scared you—I hid it. But I can't hide it anymore. Dan says I have to tell.”

She pressed her face against Hoppy's threadbare fur and began to cry.

John turned on his cell as soon as he and Dan emerged from the jetway at Logan Airport late Thursday afternoon. He had no more than registered the fact that he had well over a dozen missed calls when the phone rang in his hand. He glanced down at the window.

“Stone?” Dan asked.

“I've got a lot of missed calls from the same number, so I'd say it has to be.”

“Don't answer. Call him back when we're on the expressway north and tell him we'll be there by—” Dan glanced at his watch, which he had never changed from Eastern Time. “By six. When we get there, we'll tell him everything.”

John reluctantly pocketed his cell. “I spent the flight back hoping I'm not going to lose my license to practice over this. Now I'm just hoping the cops don't grab us as soon as we park in front of Dave Stone's house.”

Dan, who had consulted several times with Abra on their way back across the country, shook his head. “She's convinced him to wait, but there's a lot going on in that family just now, and Mr. Stone is one confused American.”

To this, John offered a smile of singular bleakness. “He's not the only one.”

Abra was sitting on the front step with her father when Dan swung into the Stones' driveway. They had made good time; it was only five thirty.

Abra was up before Dave could grab her and came running down the walk with her hair flying out behind her. Dan saw she was heading for him, and handed the towel-wrapped fielder's mitt to John. She threw herself into his arms. She was trembling all over.

(
you found him you found him and you found the glove give it to me
)

“Not yet,” Dan said, setting her down. “We need to thrash this out with your dad first.”

“Thrash what out?” Dave asked. He took Abra by the wrist and pulled her away from Dan. “Who are these bad people she's talking about? And who the hell are you?” His gaze shifted to John, and there was nothing friendly in his eyes. “What in the name of sweet Jesus is going on here?”

“This is Dan, Daddy. He's like me. I
told
you.”

John said, “Where's Lucy? Does she know about this?”

“I'm not telling you anything until I find out what's going on.”

Abra said, “She's still in Boston, with Momo. Daddy wanted to call her, but I persuaded him to wait until you got here.” Her eyes remained pinned on the towel-wrapped glove.

“Dan Torrance,” Dave said. “That your name?”

“Yes.”

“You work at the hospice in Frazier?”

“That's right.”

“How long have you been meeting my daughter?” His hands were clenching and unclenching. “Did you meet her on the internet? I'm betting that's it.” He switched his gaze to John. “If you hadn't been Abra's pediatrician from the day she was born, I would have called the police six hours ago, when you didn't answer your phone.”

“I was in an airplane,” John said. “I couldn't.”

“Mr. Stone,” Dan said. “I haven't known your daughter as long as
John has, but almost. The first time I met her, she was just a baby. And it was she who reached out to me.”

Dave shook his head. He looked perplexed, angry, and little inclined to believe anything Dan told him.

“Let's go in the house,” John said. “I think we can explain everything—
almost
everything—and if that's the case, you'll be very happy that we're here, and that we went to Iowa to do what we did.”

“I damn well hope so, John, but I've got my doubts.”

They went inside, Dave with his arm around Abra's shoulders—at that moment they looked more like jailer and prisoner than father and daughter—John Dalton next, Dan last. He looked across the street at the rusty red pickup parked there. Billy gave him a quick thumbs-up . . . then crossed his fingers. Dan returned the gesture, and followed the others through the front door.

As Dave was sitting down in his Richland Court living room with his puzzling daughter and his even more puzzling guests, the Winnebago containing the True raiding party was southeast of Toledo. Walnut was at the wheel. Andi Steiner and Barry were sleeping—Andi like the dead, Barry rolling from side to side and muttering. Crow was in the parlor area, paging through
The New Yorker
. The only things he really liked were the cartoons and the tiny ads for weird items like yak-fur sweaters, Vietnamese coolie hats, and faux Cuban cigars.

Jimmy Numbers plunked down next to him with his laptop in hand. “I've been combing the 'net. Had to hack and back with a couple of sites, but . . . can I show you something?”

“How can you surf the 'net from an interstate highway?”

Jimmy gave him a patronizing smile. “4G connection, baby. This is the modern age.”

“If you say so.” Crow put his magazine aside. “What've you got?”

“School pictures from Anniston Middle School.” Jimmy tapped
the touchpad and a photo appeared. No grainy newsprint job, but a high-res school portrait of a girl in a red dress with puffed sleeves. Her braided hair was chestnut brown, her smile wide and confident.

“Julianne Cross,” Jimmy said. He tapped the touchpad again and a redhead with a mischievous grin popped up. “Emma Deane.” Another tap, and an even prettier girl appeared. Blue eyes, blond hair framing her face and spilling over her shoulders. Serious expression, but dimples hinting at a smile. “This one's Abra Stone.”

“Abra?”

“Yeah, they name em anything these days. Remember when Jane and Mabel used to be good enough for the rubes? I read somewhere that Sly Stallone named his kid Sage Moonblood, how fucked up is that?”

“You think one of these three is Rose's girl.”

“If she's right about the girl being a young teenager, it just about has to be. Probably Deane or Stone, they're the two who actually live on the street where the little earthquake was, but you can't count the Cross girl out completely. She's just around the corner.” Jimmy Numbers made a swirling gesture on the touchpad and the three pictures zipped into a row. Written below each in curly script was
MY SCHOOL MEMORIES
.

Crow studied them. “Is anyone going to tip to the fact that you've been filching pictures of little girls off of Facebook, or something? Because that sets off all kinds of warning bells in Rubeland.”

Jimmy looked offended. “Facebook, my ass. These came from the Frazier Middle School files, pipelined direct from their computer to mine.” He made an unlovely sucking sound. “And guess what, a guy with access to a whole bank of NSA computers couldn't follow my tracks on this one. Who rocks?”

“You do,” Crow said. “I guess.”

“Which one do you think it is?”

“If I had to pick . . .” Crow tapped Abra's picture. “She's got a certain look in her eyes. A
steamy
look.”

Jimmy puzzled over this for a moment, decided it was dirty, and guffawed. “Does it help?”

“Yes. Can you print these pictures and make sure the others have copies? Particularly Barry. He's Locator in Chief on this one.”

“I'll do it right now. I'm packing a Fujitsu ScanSnap. Great little on-the-go machine. I used to have the S1100, but I swapped it when I read in
Computerworld
—”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Sure.”

Crow picked up the magazine again and turned to the cartoon on the last page, the one where you were supposed to fill in the caption. This week's showed an elderly woman walking into a bar with a bear on a chain. She had her mouth open, so the caption had to be her dialogue. Crow considered carefully, then printed:
“Okay, which one of you assholes called me a cunt?”

Probably not a winner.

The Winnebago rolled on through the deepening evening. In the cockpit, Nut turned on the headlights. In one of the bunks, Barry the Chink turned and scratched at his wrist in his sleep. A red spot had appeared there.

The three men sat in silence while Abra went upstairs to get something in her room. Dave thought of suggesting coffee—they looked tired, and both men needed a shave—but decided he wasn't going to offer either of them so much as a dry Saltine until he got an explanation. He and Lucy had discussed what they were going to do when Abra came home some day in the not-too-distant future and announced that a boy had asked her out, but these were men,
men,
and it seemed that the one he didn't know had been dating his daughter for quite some time. After a fashion, anyway . . . and wasn't that really the question: What
sort
of fashion?