Doctor Sleep

her free hand above it and pulled with all her might, ignoring the pain. At first the drawer held. Then it gave a little and she was able to pull out theheel of her hand. It was scraped and bleeding.
    Something else was happening. There was a fluttering sensation in her head, as if a bird were flying around up there. What new shit was this?
    Expecting that goddamned lance to drive into her back at any moment, Rose yanked with all her might. Her hand slipped all the way out and she curled her fingers into a fist just in time. If she’d waited evenan instant, the drawer would have cut them off when it slammed shut. Her nails throbbed, and she knew when she had a chance to look at them, they would be plum-colored with trapped blood.
    She turned. The girl was gone. The room was empty. But that fluttering sensation continued. If anything, it had intensified. Suddenly the pain in her hand and wrist was the last thing on Rose’s mind. She wasn’tthe only one who had ridden the turntable, and it didn’t matter that her eyes were still shut back in the real world, where she lay on her double bed.
    The fucking brat was in another room filled with file drawers.
    Her room. Her head.
    Instead of the burglar, Rose had become the burgled.
    ( GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT )
    The fluttering didn’t stop; it sped up. Rose shoved away her panic, foughtfor clarity and focus, found some. Just enough to set the turntable in motion again, even though it had become weirdly heavy.
    ( turn, world   )
    As it did, she felt the maddening flutter in her head first diminish and then cease as the little girl was rotated back to wherever she came from.
    Except that’s not right, and this is far too serious for you to indulge in the luxury of lying to yourself. You came to her. And walked right into a trap. Why? Because in spite of all you knew, you underestimated .
    Rose opened her eyes, sat up, and swung her feet onto the carpet. One of them struck the empty canister and she kicked it away. The Sidewinder t-shirt she had pulled on before lying down was damp; she reeked of sweat. It was a piggy smell, entirely unattractive. Shelooked unbelievingly ather hand, which was scraped and bruised and swelling. Her fingernails were going from purple to black, and she guessed she might lose at least two of them.
    “But I didn’t know,” she said. “There was no way I could.” She hated the whine she heard in her voice. It was the voice of a querulous old woman. “No way at all.”
    She had to get out of this goddam camper. It might be the biggest, luxiestone in the world, but right now it felt the size of a coffin. She made her way to the door, holding onto things to keep her balance. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard before she went out. Ten to two. Everything had happened in just twenty minutes. Incredible.
    How much did she find out before I got free of her? How much does she know?
    No way of telling for sure, but even a little couldbe dangerous. The brat had to be taken care of, and soon.
    Rose stepped out into the pale early moonlight and took half a dozen long, steadying breaths of fresh air. She began to feel a little better, a little more herself, but she couldn’t let go of that fluttering sensation. The feeling of having someone else inside her—a rube, no less—looking at her private things. The pain had been bad, andthe surprise of being trapped that way was worse, but the worst thing of all was the humiliation and sense of violation. She had been stolen from.
    You are going to pay for that, princess. You just messed in with the wrong bitch .
    A shape was moving toward her. Rose had settled on the top step of her RV, but now she stood up, tense, ready for anything. Then the shape got closer and she saw itwas Crow. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and slippers.
    “Rose, I think you better—” He stopped. “What the hell happened to your hand?”
    “Never mind my fucking hand,” she snapped. “What are you doing here at two in the morning? Especially when you knew I was apt to be busy?”
    “It’s Grampa Flick,” Crow said. “Apron Annie says he’s dying.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    THOME 25
    1
    Instead of pine-scented air freshener and Alcazar cigars, Grampa Flick’s Fleetwood this morning smelled of shit, disease, and death. It was also crowded. There were at least a dozen members of the True Knot present, some gathered around the old man’s bed, many more sitting or standing in the living room, drinking coffee.