Later, Crow joined her in her EarthCruiser. “You really won’t be going east, will you?”
“No. You’ll be in charge.”
“What do we do now?”
“Mourn him, of course. Unfortunately, we can only give him two days.”
The traditional period was seven: no fucking, no idle talk, no steam. Just meditation. Then a circle of farewell where everyone would step forward and say one memory of Grampa Jonas Flick and give up one object they had from him, or that they associated with him (Rose had already picked hers, a ring with a Celtic design Grampa had given her when this part of America had still been Indian country and she had been known as the Irish Rose). There was never a body when a member of the True died, so the objects of remembrance had to serve the purpose. Those things were wrapped in white linen and buried.
“So my group leaves when? Wednesday night or Thursday morning?”
“Wednesday night.” Rose wanted the girl as soon as possible. “Drive straight through. And you’re positive they’ll hold the knockout stuff at the mail drop in Sturbridge?”
“Yes. Set your mind at ease on that.”
My mind won’t be at ease until I can look at that little bitch lying in the room right across from mine, drugged to the gills, handcuffed, and full of tasty, suckable steam.
“Who are you taking? Name them off.”
“Me, Nut, Jimmy Numbers, if you can spare him—”
“I can spare him. Who else?”
“Snakebite Andi. If we need to put someone to sleep, she can get it done. And the Chink. Him for sure. He’s the best locator we’ve got now that Grampa’s gone. Other than you, that is.”
“By all means take him, but you won’t need a locator to find this one,” Rose said. “That’s not going to be the problem. And just one vehicle will be enough. Take Steamhead Steve’s Winnebago.”
“Already spoke to him about it.”
She nodded, pleased. “One other thing. There’s a little hole-in-the-wall store in Sidewinder called District X.”
Crow raised his eyebrows. “The porno palace with the inflatable nurse doll in the window?”
“You know it, I see.” Rose’s tone was dry. “Now listen to me, Daddy.”
Crow listened.
6
Dan and John Dalton flew out of Logan on Tuesday morning just as the sun was rising. They changed planes in Memphis and touched down in Des Moines at 11:15 CDT on a day that felt more like mid-July than late September.
Dan spent the first part of the Boston-to-Memphis leg pretending to sleep so he wouldn’t have to deal with the doubts and second thoughts he felt sprouting like weeds in John’s mind. Somewhere over upstate New York, pretending ceased and he fell asleep for real. It was John who slept between 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.”