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walked, taking long slow breaths to calm his heart and mind. There was a saying in AA, “Think before
you drink,” but what Casey K. told him during their once-a-week tête-à-têtes was to think before he
did anything. You didn’t get sober to be stupid, Danny. Keep it in mind the next time you start listening to
that itty-bitty shitty committee inside your head.
But those goddam fingermarks.
Carling was rocked back in his chair, now eating Junior Mints. He had swapped Popular Mechanics
for a photo mag with the latest bad-boy sitcom star on the cover.
“Mr. Hayes has passed on,” Dan said mildly.
“Sorry to hear it.” Not looking up from the magazine. “But that is what they’re here for, isn’t i—”
Dan lifted one foot, hooked it behind one of the tilted front legs of Carling’s chair, and yanked. The
chair spun away and Carling landed on the floor. The box of Junior Mints flew out of his hand. He
stared up at Dan unbelievingly.
“Have I got your attention?”
“You sonofa—” Carling started to get up. Dan put his foot on the man’s chest and pushed him back
against the wall.
“I see I have. Good. It would be better right now if you didn’t get up. Just sit there and listen to
me.” Dan bent forward and clasped his knees with his hands. Tight, because all those hands wanted to
do right now was hit. And hit. And hit. His temples were throbbing. Slow, he told himself. Don’t let it
get the better of you.
But it was hard.
“The next time I see your fingermarks on a patient, I’ll photograph them and go to Mrs. Clausen
and you’ll be out on the street no matter who you know. And once you’re no longer a part of this
institution, I’ll find you and beat the living shit out of you.”
Carling got to his feet, using the wall to support his back and keeping a close eye on Dan as he did
it. He was taller, and outweighed Dan by a hundred pounds at least. He balled his fists. “I’d like to see
you try. How about now?”
“Sure, but not here,” Dan said. “Too many people trying to sleep, and we’ve got a dead man down
the hall. One with your marks on him.”
“I didn’t do nothing but go to take his pulse. You know how easy they bruise when they got the
leukemia.”
“I do,” Dan agreed, “but you hurt him on purpose. I don’t know why, but I know you did.”
There was a flicker in Carling’s muddy eyes. Not shame; Dan didn’t think the man was capable of
feeling that. Just unease at being seen through. And fear of being caught. “Big man. Doctor Sleeeep.
Think your shit don’t stink?”
“Come on, Fred, let’s go outside. More than happy to.” And this was true. There was a second Dan
inside. He wasn’t as close to the surface anymore, but he was still there and still the same ugly,
irrational sonofabitch he’d always been. Out of the corner of his eye Dan could see Claudette and Jan
standing halfway down the hall, their eyes wide and their arms around each other.
Carling thought it over. Yes, he was bigger, and yes, he had more reach. But he was also out of
shape—too many overstuffed burritos, too many beers, much shorter wind than he’d had in his
twenties—and there was something worrisome in the skinny guy’s face. He’d seen it before, back in
his Road Saints days. Some guys had lousy circuit breakers in their heads. They tripped easy, and once
they did, those guys would burn on until they burned out. He had taken Torrance for some mousy
little geek who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful, but he saw that he’d been wrong about that.
His secret identity wasn’t Doctor Sleep, it was Doctor Crazy.
After considering this carefully, Fred said, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”