Doctor Sleep (54 page)

“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.

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.”

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.

“Let go of me, you guys,” Dan said. His voice was his own again. “I'm all right. I think.”

John and Dave let go, ready to grab him again if he staggered, but he didn't. What he did was touch himself: hair, face, chest, legs. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm here.” He looked around. “Which is where?”

“Fox Run Mall,” John said. “Sixty miles or so from Boston.”

“Okay, let's get back on the road.”

“Abra,” Dave said. “What about Abra?”

“Abra's fine. Back where she belongs.”

“She
belongs
at home,” Dave said, and with more than a touch of resentment. “In her room. IM'ing with her friends or listening to those stupid 'Round Here kids on her iPod.”

She
is
at home,
Dan thought.
If a person's body is their home, she's there
.

“She's with Billy. Billy will take care of her.”

“What about the one who kidnapped her? This Crow?”

Dan paused beside the back door of John's Suburban. “You don't have to worry about him anymore. The one we have to worry about now is Rose.”

The Crown Motel was actually over the state line, in Crownville, New York. It was a rattletrap place with a flickering sign out front reading VAC NCY and M NY CAB E CHAN ELS! Only four cars were parked in the thirty or so slots. The man behind the counter was a descending mountain of fat, with a ponytail that trickled to
a stop halfway down his back. He ran Billy's Visa and gave him the keys to two rooms without taking his eyes from the TV, where two women on a red velvet sofa were engaged in strenuous osculation.

“Do they connect?” Billy asked. And, looking at the women: “The rooms, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah, they all connect, just open the doors.”

“Thanks.”

He drove down the rank of units to twenty-three and twenty-four, and parked the truck. Abra was curled up on the seat with her head pillowed on one arm, fast asleep. Billy unlocked the rooms, turned on the lights, and opened the connecting doors. He judged the accommodations shabby but not quite desperate. All he wanted now was to get the two of them inside and go to sleep himself. Preferably for about ten hours. He rarely felt old, but tonight he felt ancient.

Abra woke up a little as he laid her on the bed. “Where are we?”

“Crownville, New York. We're safe. I'll be in the next room.”

“I want my dad. And I want Dan.”

“Soon.” Hoping he was right about that.

Her eyes closed, then slowly opened again. “I talked to that woman. That
bitch
.”

“Did you?” Billy had no idea what she meant.

“She knows what we did. She felt it. And it
hurt
.” A harsh light gleamed momentarily in Abra's eyes. Billy thought it was like seeing a peek of sun at the end of a cold, overcast day in February. “I'm glad.”

“Go to sleep, hon.”

That cold winter light still shone out of the pale and tired face. “She knows I'm coming for her.”

Billy thought of brushing her hair out of her eyes, but what if she bit? Probably that was silly, but . . . the light in her eyes. His mother had looked like that sometimes, just before she lost her temper and whopped one of the kids. “You'll feel better in the morning. I'd like it if we could go back tonight—I'm sure your dad feels that way, too—but I'm in no shape to drive. I was lucky to get this far without running off the road.”

“I wish I could talk to my mom and dad.”

Billy's own mother and father—never candidates for Parents of the Year, even at their best—were long dead and he wished only for sleep. He looked longingly through the open door at the bed in the other room. Soon, but not quite yet. He took out his cell phone and flipped it open. It rang twice, and then he was talking to Dan. After a few moments, he handed the phone to Abra. “Your father. Knock yourself out.”

Abra seized the phone. “Dad?
Dad?
” Tears began to fill her eyes. “Yes, I'm . . . stop, Dad, I'm
all right
. Just so sleepy I can hardly—” Her eyes widened as a thought struck her. “Are
you
okay?”

She listened. Billy's eyes drifted shut and he snapped them open with an effort. The girl was crying hard now, and he was sort of glad. The tears had doused that light in her eyes.

She handed the phone back. “It's Dan. He wants to talk to you again.”

He took the phone and listened. Then he said, “Abra, Dan wants to know if you think there are any other bad guys. Ones close enough to get here tonight.”

“No. I think the Crow was going to meet some others, but they're still a long way away. And they can't figure out where we are”—she broke off for a huge yawn—“without him to tell them. Tell Dan we're safe. And tell him to make sure my dad gets that.”

Billy relayed this message. When he ended the call, Abra was curled up on the bed, knees to chest, snoring softly. Billy covered her with a blanket from the closet, then went to the door and ran the chain. He considered, then propped the desk chair under the knob for good measure.
Always safe, never sorry,
his father had liked to say.

Rose opened the compartment under the floor and took out one of the canisters. Still on her knees between the EarthCruiser's
front seats, she cracked it and put her mouth over the hissing lid. Her jaw unhinged all the way to her chest, and the bottom of her head became a dark hole in which a single tooth jutted. Her eyes, ordinarily uptilted, bled downward and darkened. Her face became a doleful deathmask with the skull standing out clear beneath.

She took steam.

When she was done, she replaced the canister and sat behind the wheel of her RV, looking straight ahead.
Don't bother coming to me, Rose—I'll come to you
. That was what she had said. What she had
dared
to say to her, Rose O'Hara, Rose the Hat. Not just strong, then; strong and
vengeful
. Angry.