Doctor Sleep

jumped, and the sleepiness left Dan’s head like the illusionthat it was. The woman with the snake tattoo and the man with the popcorny fringe of white hair flinchedback, but the one with the odd-looking pistol charged forward, yelling “Get him! Get him!”
    “Get this, you kidnapping fuckers!” Dave Stone shouted. He stepped out of the woods and began to spray bullets. Most of them went wild, but one hit Walnut in the neck and the True’s doctor went downon the pine duff, the hypo spilling from his fingers.
    14
    Leading the True had its responsibilities, but also its perks. Rose’s gigantic EarthCruiser, imported from Australia at paralyzing expense and then converted to left-hand drive, was one. Having the ladies’ shower room at the Bluebell Campground all to herself whenever she wanted it was another. After months on the road, there was nothinglike a long hot shower in a big tiled room where you could hold your arms out or even dance around, if the spirit moved you. And where the hot water didn’t run out after four minutes.
    Rose liked to turn off the lights and shower in darkness. She found she did her best thinking that way, and for just that reason she had headed to the shower immediately after the troubling cell phone call she’dgotten at 1 p.m., Mountain Time. She still believed everything was all right, but a few doubts had begun to sprout, like dandelions on a previously flawless lawn. If the girl was even smarter than they thought . . . or if she had enlisted help . . .
    No. It couldn’t be. She was a steamhead for sure—the steamhead of all steamheads—but she was still only a child. A rube child. In any case, all Rosecould do for the time being was wait on developments.
    After fifteen refreshing minutes, she stepped out, dried off, wrapped herself in a fluffy bath sheet, and headed back to her RV, carrying her clothes. Short Eddie and Big Mo were cleaning up the open-air barbecue area following another excellent lunch. Not their fault that nobody felt much like eating, with two more of the True showing thosegoddamned red spots. They waved to her. Rose was raising her own hand in return when a bundle of dynamite went offin her head. She went sprawling, her pants and shirt spilling from her hand. Her bath sheet unraveled.
    Rose barely noticed. Something had happened to the raiding party. Something bad. She was digging for her cell in the pocket of her crumpled jeans as soon as her head began to clear.Never in her life had she wished so strongly (and so bitterly) that Crow Daddy was capable of long-distance telepathy, but—with a few exceptions, like herself—that gift seemed reserved for rube steamheads like the girl in New Hampshire.
    Eddie and Mo were running toward her. Behind them came Long Paul, Silent Sarey, Token Charlie, and Harpman Sam. Rose hit speed dial on her phone. A thousand milesaway, Crow’s gave just half a ring.
    “Hello, you’ve reached Henry Rothman. I can’t talk to you right now, but if you leave your number and a brief message—”
    Fucking voice mail. Which meant his phone was either turned off or getting no service. Rose was betting the latter. Naked and on her knees in the dirt, her heels digging into the backs of her thighs, Rose smacked the center of her foreheadwith the hand not holding her cell.
    Crow, where are you? What are you doing? What’s happening?
    15
    The man in the chinos and t-shirt fired his weird pistol at Dan. There was a chuff of compressed air, and suddenly a dart was sticking out of Hoppy’s back. Dan raised the Glock from the ruins of the picnic basket and fired again. Chinos Guy took it in the chest and went over backwards, grunting,as fine droplets of blood blew out through the back of his shirt.
    Andi Steiner was the last one standing. She turned, saw Dave Stone frozen there, looking dazed, and charged at him with her hypodermic needle clutched in her fist like a dagger. Her ponytail swung like a pendulum. She was screaming. To Dan, everythingseemed to have slowed down and gained clarity. He had time to see that the plasticprotector-sleeve was still on the end of the needle and had time to think, What kind of clowns are these guys? The answer, of course, was that they weren’t clowns at all. They were hunters completely unused to resistance from their prey. But of course children were their usual targets, and unsuspecting ones, at that.
    Dave only stared at the howling harpy coming toward him. Perhaps his gun wasempty; more