by Stephen King
(get out of here Abra)
(Dan are you)
(yes fine but you don't need to see this)
Suddenly that absolute clarity of vision was gone. Abra had broken the connection, and that was good.
"Dan?" John called, low. "All right?"
"Yes." His voice was still clogged with Abra's tears. "Bring that spade."
12
It took them twenty minutes. Dan dug for the first ten, then passed the spade to John, who actually found Brad Trevor. He turned away from the hole, covering his mouth and nose. His words were muffled but understandable. "Okay, there's a body. Jesus!"
"You didn't smell it before?"
"Buried that deep, and after two years? Are you saying that you did?"
Dan didn't reply, so John addressed the hole again, but without conviction this time. He stood for a few seconds with his back bent as if he still meant to use the spade, then straightened and drew back when Dan shone the penlight into the little excavation they had made. "I can't," he said. "I thought I could, but I can't. Not with . . . that. My arms feel like rubber."
Dan handed him the light. John shone it into the hole, centering the beam on what had freaked him out: a dirt-clotted sneaker. Working slowly, not wanting to disturb the earthly remains of Abra's baseball boy any more than necessary, Dan scraped dirt away from the sides of the body. Little by little, an earth-covered shape emerged. It reminded him of the carvings on sarcophagi he had seen in National Geographic.
The smell of decay was now very strong.
Dan stepped away and hyperventilated, ending with the deepest breath he could manage. Then he dropped into the end of the shallow grave, where both of Brad Trevor's sneakers now protruded in a V. He knee-walked up to about where he thought the boy's waist must be, then held up a hand for the penlight. John handed it over and turned away. He was sobbing audibly.
Dan clamped the slim flashlight between his lips and began brushing away more dirt. A child's t-shirt came into view, clinging to a sunken chest. Then hands. The fingers, now little more than bones wrapped in yellow skin, were clasped over something. Dan's chest was starting to pound for air now, but he pried the Trevor boy's fingers apart as gently as he could. Still, one of them snapped with a dry crunching sound.
They had buried him holding his baseball glove to his chest. Its lovingly oiled pocket was full of squirming bugs.
The air escaped Dan's lungs in a shocked whoosh, and the breath he inhaled to replace it was rich with rot. He lunged out of the grave to his right, managing to vomit on the dirt they'd taken out of the hole instead of on the wasted remains of Bradley Trevor, whose only crime had been to be born with something a tribe of monsters wanted. And had stolen from him on the very wind of his dying shrieks.
13
They reburied the body, John doing most of the work this time, and covered the spot with a makeshift crypt of broken asphalt chunks. Neither of them wanted to think of foxes or stray dogs feasting on what scant meat was left.
When they were done, they got back into the car and sat without speaking. At last John said, "What are we going to do about him, Danno? We can't just leave him. He's got parents. Grandparents. Probably brothers and sisters. All of them still wondering."
"He has to stay awhile. Long enough so nobody's going to say, 'Gee, that anonymous call came in just after some stranger bought a spade in the Adair hardware store.' That probably wouldn't happen, but we can't take the chance."
"How long's awhile?"
"Maybe a month."
John considered this, then sighed. "Maybe even two. Give his folks that long to go on thinking he might just have run off. Give them that long before we break their hearts." He shook his head. "If I'd had to look at his face, I don't think I ever could have slept again."
"You'd be surprised what a person can live with," Dan said. He was thinking of Mrs. Massey, now safely stored away in the back of his head, her haunting days over. He started the car, powered down his window, and beat the baseball glove several times against the door to dislodge the dirt. Then he put it on, sliding his fingers into the places where the child's had been on so many sunlit afternoons. He closed his eyes. After thirty seconds or so, he opened them again.
"Anything?"
" 'You're Barry. You're one of the good guys.' "
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know, except I'm betting he's the one Abra calls Barry the Chunk."
"Nothing else?"
"Abra will be able to get more."
"Are you sure of that?"
Dan thought of the way his vision had sharpened when Abra opened her eyes inside his head. "I am. Shine your light on the pocket of the glove for a sec, will you? There's something written there."
John did it, revealing a child's careful printing: THOME 25.
"What does that mean?" John asked. "I thought his name was Trevor."
"Jim Thome's a baseball player. His number is twenty-five." He stared into the pocket of the glove for a moment, then laid it gently on the seat between them. "He was that kid's favorite Major Leaguer. He named his glove after him. I'm going to get these fuckers. I swear before God Almighty, I'm going to get them and make them sorry."
14
Rose the Hat shone--the entire True shone--but not in the way Dan or Billy did. Neither Rose nor Crow had any sense, as they said their goodbyes, that the child they had taken years ago in Iowa was at that moment being uncovered by two men who knew far too much about them already. Rose could have caught the communications flying between Dan and Abra if she had been in a state of deep meditation, but of course then the little girl would have noticed her presence immediately. Besides, the goodbyes going on in Rose's EarthCruiser that night were of an especially intimate sort.
She lay with her fingers laced together behind her head and watched Crow dress. "You visited that store, right? District X?"
"Not me personally, I have a reputation to protect. I sent Jimmy Numbers." Crow grinned as he buckled his belt. "He could've gotten what we needed in fifteen minutes, but he was gone for two hours. I think Jimmy's found a new home."
"Well, that's good. I hope you boys enjoy yourselves." Trying to keep it light, but after two days of mourning Grampa Flick, climaxed by the circle of farewell, keeping anything light was an effort.
"He didn't get anything that compares to you."
She raised her eyebrows. "Had a preview, did you, Henry?"
"Didn't need one." He eyed her as she lay naked with her hair spread out in a dark fan. She was tall, even lying down. He had ever liked tall women. "You're the feature attraction in my home theater and always will be."
Overblown--just a bit of Crow's patented razzle-dazzle--but it pleased her just the same. She got up and pressed against him, her hands in his hair. "Be careful. Bring everyone back. And bring her."
"We will."
"Then you better get a wiggle on."
"Relax. We'll be in Sturbridge when EZ Mail Services opens on Friday morning. In New Hampshire by noon. By then, Barry will have located her."
"As long as she doesn't locate him."
"I'm not worried about that."
Fine, Rose thought. I'll worry for both of us. I'll worry until I'm looking at her wearing cuffs on her wrists and clamps on her ankles.
"The beauty of it," Crow said, "is that if she does sense us and tries to put up an interference wall, Barry will key on that."
"If she's scared enough, she might go to the police."
He flashed a grin. "You think? 'Yes, little girl,' they'd say, 'we're sure these awful people are after you. So tell us if they're from outer space or just your ordinary garden variety zombies. That way we'll know what to look for.' "
"Don't joke, and don't take this lightly. Get in clean and get out the same way, that's how it has to be. No outsiders involved. No innocent bystanders. Kill the parents if you need to, kill anyone who tries to interfere, but keep it quiet."
Crow snapped off a comic salute. "Yes, my captain
."
"Get out of here, idiot. But give me another kiss first. Maybe a little of that educated tongue, for good measure."
He gave her what she asked for. Rose held him tight, and for a long time.
15
Dan and John rode in silence most of the way back to the motel in Adair. The spade was in the trunk. The baseball glove was in the backseat, wrapped in a Holiday Inn towel. At last John said, "We've got to bring Abra's folks into this now. She's going to hate it and Lucy and David won't want to believe it, but it has to be done."
Dan looked at him, straight-faced, and said: "What are you, a mind-reader?"
John wasn't, but Abra was, and her sudden loud voice in Dan's head made him glad that this time John was driving. If he had been behind the wheel, they very likely would have ended up in some farmer's cornpatch.
(NOOOOO!)
"Abra." He spoke aloud so that John could hear at least his half of the conversation. "Abra, listen to me."
(NO, DAN! THEY THINK I'M ALL RIGHT! THEY THINK I'M ALMOST NORMAL NOW!)
"Honey, if these people had to kill your mom and dad to get to you, do you think they'd hesitate? I sure don't. Not after what we found back there."
There was no counterargument she could make to this, and Abra didn't try . . . but suddenly Dan's head was filled with her sorrow and her fear. His eyes welled up again and spilled tears down his cheeks.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
16
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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY CALL IT STEAM
1
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."
2
Abra was sitting on the front step with her fath
er 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.