8456893456983

six-figure annual salary.
First he listened to Dan. Then he listened to Billy’s protests about how there was no way he could
leave, not at the height of the season with people already lining up to ride the Riv on its 8 a.m. run.
Besides, no doctor would see him on such short notice. It was the height of the season for them, too.
“When’s the last time you had a checkup?” Casey asked once Billy finally ran down. Dan and Billy
were standing in front of his desk. Casey was rocked back in his office chair, head resting in its
accustomed place just below the cross on the wall, fingers laced together across his belly.
Billy looked defensive. “I guess back in oh-six. But I was fine then, Case. Doc said my blood
pressure was ten points lower’n his.”
Casey’s eyes shifted to Dan. They held speculation and curiosity but no disbelief. AA members
mostly kept their lips zipped during their various interactions with the wider world, but inside the
groups, people talked—and sometimes gossiped—quite freely. Casey therefore knew that Dan
Torrance’s talent for helping terminal patients die easily was not his only talent. According to the
grapevine, Dan T. had certain helpful insights from time to time. The kind that can’t exactly be
explained.
“You’re tight with Johnny Dalton, aren’t you?” he asked Dan now. “The pediatrician?”
“Yes. I see him most Thursday nights, in North Conway.”
“Got his number?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Dan had a whole list of AA contact numbers in the back of the little
notebook Casey had given him, which he still carried.
“Call him. Tell him it’s important this yobbo here sees someone right away. Don’t suppose you
know what kind of a doctor it is he needs, do you? Sure as hell isn’t a pediatrician at his age.”
“Casey—” Billy began.
“Hush,” Casey said, and returned his attention to Dan. “I think you do know, by God. Is it his
lungs? That seems the most likely, the way he smokes.”
Dan decided he had come too far to turn back now. He sighed and said, “No, I think it’s something
in his guts.”
“Except for a little indigestion, my guts are—”
“Hush I said.” Then, turning back to Dan: “A gut doctor, then. Tell Johnny D. it’s important.” He
paused. “Will he believe you?”
This was a question Dan was glad to hear. He had helped several AAs during his time in New
Hampshire, and although he asked them all not to talk, he knew perfectly well that some had, and
still did. He was happy to know John Dalton hadn’t been one of them.
“I think so.”
“Okay.” Casey pointed at Billy. “You got the day off, and with pay. Medical leave.”
“The Riv—”
“There’s a dozen people in this town that can drive the Riv. I’ll make some calls, then take the first
two runs myself.”
“Your bad hip—”
“Balls to my bad hip. Do me good to get out of this office.”
“But Casey, I feel f—”
“I don’t care if you feel good enough to run a footrace all the way to Lake Winnipesaukee. You’re
going to see the doctor and that’s the end of it.”
Billy looked resentfully at Dan. “See the trouble you got me in? I didn’t even get my morning
coffee.”
The flies were gone this morning—except they were still there. Dan knew that if he concentrated,
he could see them again if he wanted to . . . but who in Christ’s name would want to?