Doctor Sleep

saltboxes and Cape Cods ending in a circular turnaround. Crow had grabbed a free newspaper called The Anniston Shopper on his walk from the library and now stood at the corner, leaning against a handy oak tree and pretending to study it. The oak shielded him from the street, and maybe that was a good thing, becausethere was a red truck with a guy sitting behind the wheel parked about halfway down. The truck was an oldie, with some hand-tools and what looked like a Rototiller in the bed, so the guy could be a groundskeeper—this was the kind of street where people could afford them—but if so, why was he just sitting there?
    Baby sitting, maybe?
    Crow was suddenly glad he had taken Barry seriously enough tojump ship. The question was, what to do now? He could call Rose, but their last conversation hadn’t netted anything he couldn’t have gotten from a Magic 8 Ball.
    He was still standing half-hidden behind the fine old oak anddebating his next move when the providence that favored the True Knot above rubes stepped in. A door partway down the street opened, and two girls came out. Crow’s eyes wereevery bit as sharp as those of his namesake bird, and he ID’d them at once as two of the three girls in Billy’s computer pix. The one in the brown skirt was Emma Deane. The one in the black pants was Abra Stone.
    He glanced back at the truck. The driver, also an oldie, had been slouched behind the wheel. Now he was sitting up. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. On the alert. So she had been gamingthem. Crow still didn’t know for sure which of the two was the steamhead, but one thing he was sure of: the men in the Winnebago were on a wild goosechase.
    Crow took out his cell but only held it in his hand for a moment, watching the girl in the black pants go down the walk to the street. The girl in the skirt watched her for a second, then went back inside. The girl in the pants—Abra—crossedRichland Court, and as she did, the man in the truck raised his hands in a what gives gesture. She responded with a thumbs-up: Don’t worry, everything’s okay . Crow felt a surge of triumph as hot as a knock of whiskey. Question answered. Abra Stone was the steamhead. No question about it. She was being guarded, and the guard was an old geezer with a perfectly good pickup truck. Crow felt confidentit would take him and a certain young passenger as far as Albany.
    He hit Snake on the speed dial, and wasn’t surprised or uneasy when he got a CALL FAILED message. Cloud Gap was a local beauty spot, and God forbid there should be any cell phone towers to clutter up the tourists’ snapshots. But that was okay. If he couldn’t take care of an old man and a young girl, it was time to turn in his badge.He considered his phone for a moment, then turned it off. For the next twenty minutes or so, there was no one he wanted to talk to, and that included Rose.
    His mission, his responsibility.
    He had four loaded syringes, two in the left pocket of his light jacket, two in the right. Putting his best Henry Rothman smile on his face—the one he wore when reserving campground space orfour-walling motelsfor the True—Crow stepped from behind the tree and strolled down the street. In his left hand he still held his folded copy of The Anniston Shopper . His right hand was in his jacket pocket, easing the plastic cap off one of the needles.
    4
    “Pardon me, sir, I seem to be a little lost. I wonder if you could give me some directions.”
    Billy Freeman was nervous, on edge, filled with something thatwas not quite foreboding . . . and still that cheerful voice and bright you-can-trust-me smile took him in. Only for two seconds, but that was enough. As he reached toward the open glove compartment, he felt a small sting on the side of his neck.
    Bug bit me, he thought, and then slumped sideways, his eyes rolling up to the whites.
    Crow opened the door and shoved the driver across the seat. Theold guy’s head bonked the passenger-side window. Crow lifted limp legs over the transmission hump, batting the glove compartment closed to make a little more room, then slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. He took a deep breath and looked around, ready for anything, but there was nothing to be ready for. Richland Court was dozing the afternoon away, and that was lovely.
    The key was inthe ignition. Crow started the engine and the radio came on in a yahoo roar of Toby Keith: God bless America and pour the beer. As he reached to turn it off, a