Doctor Sleep: A Novel

All three of them probably wear the same lipstick and moan over the same bands. What’s your point?”
    “No point,” Crow said. “Just information. Information is power, or so they say.”
    Two minutes later, Steamhead Steve’s ’Bago was merging back onto Interstate 90. When the speedometer was pegged at sixty-five, Crow put on the cruise control and let it ride.
    7
    Dan outlined what he had in mind, then waited for Dave Stone to respond. For a long time he only sat beside Abra with his head lowered and his hands clasped between his knees.
    “Daddy?” Abra asked. “Please say something.”
    Dave looked up and said, “Who wants a beer?”
    Dan and John exchanged a brief bemused glance and declined.
    “Well, I do. What I really want is a double shot of Jack, but I’m willing to stipulate with no input from you gentlemen that sippin whiskey might not be such a good idea tonight.”
    “I’ll get it, Dad.”
    Abra bounced into the kitchen. They heard the snap of the flip-top and the hiss of the carbonation—sounds that brought back memories for Dan, many of them treacherously happy. She returned with a can of Coors and a pilsner glass.
    “Can I pour it?”
    “Knock yourself out.”
    Dan and John watched with silent fascination as Abra tilted the glass and slid the beer down the side to minimize the foam, operating with the casual expertise of a good bartender. She handed the glass to her father and set the can on a coaster beside him. Dave took a deep swallow, sighed, closed his eyes, then opened them again.
    “That’s good,” he said.
    I bet it is, Dan thought, and saw Abra watching him. Her face, usually so open, was inscrutable, and for the moment he could not read the thoughts behind it.
    Dave said, “What you’re proposing is crazy, but it has its attractions. Chief among them would be a chance to see these . . . creatures . . . with my own eyes. I think I need to, because—in spite of everything you’ve told me—I find it impossible to believe in them. Even with the glove, and the body you say you found.”
    Abra opened her mouth to speak. Her father stayed her with a raised hand.
    “I believe that you believe,” he went on. “All three of you. And I believe that some group of dangerously deranged individuals might—I say might —be after my daughter. I’d certainly go along with your idea, Mr. Torrance, if it didn’t mean bringing Abra. I won’t use my kid as bait.”
    “You wouldn’t have to,” Dan said. He was remembering how Abra’s presence in the loading dock area behind the ethanol plant had turned him into a kind of human cadaver dog, and the way his vision had sharpened when Abra opened her eyes inside his head. He had even cried her tears, although a DNA test might not have shown it.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Your daughter doesn’t have to be with us to be with us. She’s unique that way. Abra, do you have a friend you could visit tomorrow after school? Maybe even stay with overnight?”
    “Sure, Emma Deane.” He could see by the excited sparkle in her eyes that she already understood what he had in mind.
    “Bad idea,” Dave said. “I won’t leave her unguarded.”
    “Abra was being guarded all the time we were in Iowa,” John said.
    Abra’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth dropped open a little. Dan was glad to see this. He was sure she could have picked his brain any old time she wanted to, but she had done as he asked.
    Dan took out his cell and speed-dialed. “Billy? Why don’t you come on in here and join the party.”
    Three minutes later, Billy Freeman stepped into the Stone house. He was wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt with tails hanging almost to his knees, and a Teenytown Railroad cap, which he doffed before shaking hands with Dave and Abra.
    “You helped him with his stomach,” Abra said, turning to Dan. “I remember that.”
    “You’ve been picking my brains after all,” Dan said.
    She flushed. “Not on purpose. Never. Sometimes it just happens.”
    “Don’t I know it.”
    “All respect to you, Mr. Freeman,” Dave said, “but you’re a little old for bodyguard duty, and this is my daughter we’re talking about.”
    Billy raised his shirttails and revealed an automatic pistol in a battered black holster. “One-nine-one-one Colt,” he said. “Full auto. World War II vintage. This is old, too, but it’ll do the job.”
    “Abra?” John asked. “Do you think bullets can kill these things, or is it only childhood