Doctor Sleep: A Novel

try.
    Shine on, he thought, and pulled them all.
    6
    Billy Freeman’s pickup was six or eight miles west of the gas station and rolling through rural Vermont darkness on 108 when Crow first felt the pain. It was like a small silver band circling his left eye. It was cold, pressing. He reached up to touch it, but before he could, it slithered right, freezing the bridge of his nose like a shot of novocaine. Then it circled his other eye as well. It was like wearing metal binoculars.
    Or eyecuffs.
    Now his left ear began to ring, and suddenly his left cheek was numb. He turned his head and saw the little girl looking at him. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. They didn’t look doped in the slightest. For that matter, they didn’t look like her eyes. They looked older. Wiser. And as cold as his face now felt.
    ( stop the truck )
    Crow had capped the hypo and put it away, but he was still holding the gun he’d taken from beneath the seat when he decided she was spending way too much time in the crapper. He raised it, meaning to threaten the geezer and make her stop whatever it was she was doing, but all at once his hand felt as if it had been plunged into freezing water. The gun put on weight: five pounds, ten pounds, what felt like twenty-five. Twenty-five at least. And while he was struggling to raise it, his right foot came off the F-150’s gas pedal and his left hand turned the wheel so that the truck veered off the road and rolled along the soft shoulder—gently, slowing—with the right-side wheels tilting toward the ditch.
    “What are you doing to me?”
    “What you deserve. Daddy .”
    The truck bumped a downed birch tree, snapped it in two, and stopped. The girl and the geezer were seatbelted in, but Crow had forgotten his. He jolted forward into the steering wheel, honking the horn. When he looked down, he saw the geezer’s automatic turning in his fist. Very slowly turning toward him. This shouldn’t be happening. The dope was supposed to stop it. Hell, the dope had stopped it. But something had changed in that bathroom. Whoever was behind those eyes now was cold fucking sober.
    And horribly strong.
    Rose! Rose, I need you!
    “I don’t think she can hear,” the voice that wasn’t Abra’s said. “You may have some talents, you son of a bitch, but I don’t think you have much in the way of telepathy. I think when you want to talk to your girlfriend, you use the phone.”
    Exerting all his strength, Crow began to turn the Glock back toward the girl. Now it seemed to weigh fifty pounds. The tendons of his neck stood out like cables. Drops of perspiration beaded on his forehead. One ran into his eye, stinging, and Crow blinked it away.
    “I’ll . . . shoot . . . your friend,” he said.
    “No,” the person inside Abra said. “I won’t let you.”
    But Crow could see she was straining now, and that gave him hope. He put everything he had into pointing the muzzle at Rip Van Winkle’s midsection, and had almost gotten there when the gun started to rotate back again. Now he could hear the little bitch panting. Hell, he was, too. They sounded like marathoners approaching the end of a race side by side.
    A car went by, not slowing. Neither of them noticed. They were looking at each other.
    Crow brought his left hand down to join his right on the gun. Now it turned a little more easily. He was beating her, by God. But his eyes! Jesus!
    “Billy!” Abra shouted. “Billy, little help here!”
    Billy snorted. His eyes opened. “Wha—”
    For a moment Crow was distracted. The force he was exerting slackened, and the gun immediately began to turn back toward him. His hands were cold, cold. Those metal rings were pressing into his eyes, threatening to turn them to jelly.
    The gun went off for the first time when it was between them, blowing a hole in the dashboard just above the radio. Billy jerked awake, arms flailing to either side like a man pulling himself out of a nightmare. One of them struck Abra’s temple, the other Crow’s chest. The cab of the truck was filled with blue haze and the smell of burnt gunpowder.
    “What was that? What the hell was tha—”
    Crow snarled, “No, you bitch! No!”
    He swung the gun back toward Abra, and as he did it, he felt her control slip. It was the blow to the head. Crow could see dismay and terror in her eyes, and was savagely glad.
    Have to kill her. Can’t give her another chance. But not a headshot. In the gut. Then I’ll suck the stea—
    Billy