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Memphis and Des Moines, so that was all right. And once they were actually in Iowa, rolling toward
the town of Freeman in a totally unobtrusive Ford Focus from Hertz, Dan sensed that John had put his
doubts to bed. For the time being, at least. What had replaced them was curiosity and uneasy
excitement.
“Boys on a treasure hunt,” Dan said. He’d had the longer nap, and so he was behind the wheel.
High corn, now more yellow than green, flowed past them on either side.
John jumped a little. “Huh?”
Dan smiled. “Isn’t that what you were thinking? That we’re like boys on a treasure hunt?”
“You’re pretty goddam spooky, Daniel.”
“I suppose. I’ve gotten used to it.” This was not precisely true.
“When did you find out you could read minds?”
“It isn’t just mind-reading. The shining’s a uniquely variable talent. If it is a talent. Sometimes—
lots of times—it feels more like a disfiguring birthmark. I’m sure Abra would say the same. As for
when I found out . . . I never did. I just always had it. It came with the original equipment.”
“And you drank to blot it out.”
A fat woodchuck trundled with leisurely fearlessness across Route 150. Dan swerved to avoid it and
the chuck disappeared into the corn, still not hurrying. It was nice out here, the sky looking a
thousand miles deep and nary a mountain in sight. New Hampshire was fine, and he’d come to think
of it as home, but Dan thought he was always going to feel more comfortable in the flatlands. Safer.
“You know better than that, Johnny. Why does any alcoholic drink?”
“Because he’s an alcoholic?”
“Bingo. Simple as can be. Cut through the psychobabble and you’re left with the stark truth. We
drank because we’re drunks.”
John laughed. “Casey K. has truly indoctrinated you.”
“Well, there’s also the heredity thing,” Dan said. “Casey always kicks that part to the curb, but it’s
there. Did your father drink?”
“Him and mother dearest both. They could have kept the Nineteenth Hole at the country club in
business all by themselves. I remember the day my mother took off her tennis dress and jumped into
the pool with us kids. The men applauded. My dad thought it was a scream. Me, not so much. I was
nine, and until I went to college I was the boy with the Striptease Mommy. Yours?”
“My mother could take it or leave it alone. Sometimes she used to call herself Two Beers Wendy.
My dad, however . . . one glass of wine or can of Bud and he was off to the races.” Dan glanced at the
odometer and saw they still had forty miles to go. “You want to hear a story? One I’ve never told
anybody? I should warn you, it’s a weird one. If you think the shining begins and ends with paltry shit
like telepathy, you’re way short.” He paused. “There are other worlds than these.”
“You’ve . . . um . . . seen these other worlds?” Dan had lost track of John’s mind, but DJ suddenly
looked a little nervous. As if he thought the guy sitting next to him might suddenly stick his hand in
his shirt and declare himself the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte.
“No, just some of the people who live there. Abra calls them the ghostie people. Do you want to
hear, or not?”
“I’m not sure I do, but maybe I better.”
Dan didn’t know how much this New England pediatrician would believe about the winter the
Torrance family had spent at the Overlook Hotel, but found he didn’t particularly care. Telling it in
this nondescript car, under this bright Midwestern sky, would be good enough. There was one person
who would have believed it all, but Abra was too young, and the story was too scary. John Dalton
would have to do. But how to begin? With Jack Torrance, he supposed. A deeply unhappy man who
had failed at teaching, writing, and husbanding. What did the baseball players call three strikeouts in