Doctor Sleep: A Novel

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.
    4
    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?
    Before any of them could risk starting a conversation that was