8456893456983

Crow . . . put into her.”
“Soon,” Dave said. “You’ll see her soon.” He put his hand over hers. For a moment Lucy looked as if
she would shake it off. She clasped it instead.
“I can start on the way back to your grandmother’s,” Dan said. He got up. It was an effort. “Come
on.”
8
He had time to tell her how a lost man had ridden a northbound bus out of Massachusetts, and how—
just over the New Hampshire state line—he’d tossed what would turn out to be his last bottle of
booze into a trash can with IF YOU NO LONGER NEED IT, LEAVE IT HERE stenciled on the side.
He told them how his childhood friend Tony had spoken up for the first time in years when the bus
had rolled into Frazier. This is the place, Tony had said.
From there he doubled back to a time when he had been Danny instead of Dan (and sometimes doc,
as in what’s up, doc), and his invisible friend Tony had been an absolute necessity. The shining was only
one of the burdens that Tony helped him bear, and not the major one. The major one was his alcoholic
father, a troubled and ultimately dangerous man whom both Danny and his mother had loved deeply
—perhaps as much because of his flaws as in spite of them.
“He had a terrible temper, and you didn’t have to be a telepath to know when it was getting the
best of him. For one thing, he was usually drunk when it happened. I know he was loaded on the night
he caught me in his study, messing with his papers. He broke my arm.”
“How old were you?” Dave asked. He was riding in the backseat with his wife.
“Four, I think. Maybe even younger. When he was on the warpath, he had this habit of rubbing his
mouth.” Danny demonstrated. “Do you know anyone else who does that when she’s upset?”
“Abra,” Lucy said. “I thought she got it from me.” She raised her right hand toward her mouth,
then captured it with her left and returned it to her lap. Dan had seen Abra do exactly the same thing
on the bench outside the Anniston Public Library, on the day they’d met in person for the first time.
“I thought she got her temper from me, too. I can be . . . pretty ragged sometimes.”
“I thought of my father the first time I saw her do the mouth-rubbing thing,” Dan said, “but I had
other things on my mind. So I forgot.” This made him think of Watson, the caretaker at the
Overlook, who had first shown the hotel’s untrustworthy furnace boiler to his father. You have to watch
it, Watson had said. Because she creeps. But in the end, Jack Torrance had forgotten. It was the reason
Dan was still alive.
“Are you telling me you figured out this family relationship from one little habit? That’s quite a
deductive leap, especially when it’s you and I who look alike, not you and Abra—she gets most of her
looks from her father.” Lucy paused, thinking. “But of course you share another family trait—Dave
says you call it the shining. That’s how you knew, isn’t it?”
Dan shook his head. “I made a friend the year my father died. His name was Dick Hallorann, and
he was the cook at the Overlook Hotel. He also had the shining, and he told me lots of people had a
little bit of it. He was right. I’ve met plenty of people along the way who shine to a greater or lesser
degree. Billy Freeman, for one. Which is why he’s with Abra right now.”
John swung the Suburban into the little parking area behind Concetta’s condo, but for the time
being, none of them got out. In spite of her worry about her daughter, Lucy was fascinated by this
history lesson. Dan didn’t have to look at her to know it.
“If it wasn’t the shining, what was it?”