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2
Dan heard the wind howling, but not outside the Overlook. No, outside the turret of Rivington
House. He heard snow rattle against the north-facing window. It sounded like sand. And he heard the
intercom giving off its low buzz.
He threw back the comforters and swung his legs out, wincing as his warm toes met the cold floor.
He crossed the room, almost prancing on the balls of his feet. He turned on the desk lamp and blew
out his breath. No visible vapor, but even with the space heater’s element coils glowing a dull red, the
room temperature tonight had to be in the mid-forties.
Buzz.
He pushed TALK on the intercom and said, “I’m here. Who’s there?”
“Claudette. I think you’ve got one, doc.”
“Mrs. Winnick?” He was pretty sure it was her, and that would mean putting on his parka, because
Vera Winnick was in Rivington Two, and the walkway between here and there would be colder than a
witch’s belt buckle. Or a well-digger’s tit. Or whatever the saying was. Vera had been hanging by a
thread for a week now, comatose, in and out of Cheyne-Stokes respiration, and this was exactly the sort
of night the frail ones picked to go out on. Usually at 4 a.m. He checked his watch. Only 3:20, but
that was close enough for government work.
Claudette Albertson surprised him. “No, it’s Mr. Hayes, right down here on the first floor with
us.”
“Are you sure?” Dan had played a game of checkers with Charlie Hayes just that afternoon, and for
a man with acute myelogenous leukemia, he’d seemed as lively as a cricket.
“Nope, but Azzie’s in there. And you know what you say.”
What he said was Azzie was never wrong, and he had almost six years’ worth of experience on
which to base that conclusion. Azreel wandered freely around the three buildings that made up the
Rivington complex, spending most of his afternoons curled up on a sofa in the rec room, although it
wasn’t unusual to see him draped across one of the card tables—with or without a half-completed
jigsaw puzzle on it—like a carelessly thrown stole. All the residents seemed to like him (if there had
been complaints about the House housecat, they hadn’t reached Dan’s ears), and Azzie liked them all
right back. Sometimes he would jump up in some half-dead oldster’s lap . . . but lightly, never
seeming to hurt. Which was remarkable, given his size. Azzie was a twelve-pounder.
Other than during his afternoon naps, Az rarely stayed in one location for long; he always had
places to go, people to see, things to do. (“That cat’s a playa,” Claudette had once told Danny.) You
might see him visiting the spa, licking a paw and taking a little heat. Relaxing on a stopped treadmill
in the Health Suite. Sitting atop an abandoned gurney and staring into thin air at those things only
cats can see. Sometimes he stalked the back lawn with his ears flattened against his skull, the very
picture of feline predation, but if he caught birds and chipmunks, he took them into one of the
neighboring yards or across to the town common and dismembered them there.
The rec room was open round-the-clock, but Azzie rarely visited there once the TV was off and the
residents were gone. When evening gave way to night and the pulse of Rivington House slowed, Azzie
became restless, patrolling the corridors like a sentry on the edge of enemy territory. Once the lights
dimmed, you might not even see him unless you were looking right at him; his unremarkable mousecolored
fur blended in with the shadows.
He never went into the guest rooms unless one of the guests was dying.
Then he would either slip in (if the door was unlatched) or sit outside with his tail curled around
his haunches, waowing in a low, polite voice to be admitted. When he was, he would jump up on the
guest’s bed (they were always guests at Rivington House, never patients) and settle there, purring. If