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colleagues at any party where alcohol was served； even wine。 The slowly dawning
realization that he was being talked about。 The knowledge that he was producing
nothing at his Underwood but balls of mostly blank paper that ended up in the
wastebasket。 He had been something of a catch for Stovington； a slowly blooming
American writer perhaps； and certainly a man well qualified to teach that great
mystery； creative writing。 He had published two dozen short stories。 He was
working on a play； and thought there might be a novel incubating in some mental
back room。 But now he was not producing and his teaching had bee erratic。
It had finally ended one night less than a month after Jack had broken his
son's arm。 That； it seemed to him； had ended his marriage。 All that remained was
for Wendy to gather her will 。。。 if her mother hadn't been such a grade A
bitch； he knew； Wendy would have taken a bus back to New Hampshire as soon as
Danny had been okay to travel。 It was over。
It had been a little past midnight。 Jack and Al were ing into Barre on U。S。
31； Al behind the wheel of his Jag； shifting fancily on the curves； sometimes
crossing the double yellow line。 They were both very drunk； the martians had
landed that night in force。 They came around the last curve before the bridge at
seventy； and there was a kid's bike in the road； and then the sharp； hurt
squealing as rubber shredded from the Jag's tires； and Jack remembered seeing
Al's face looming over the steering wheel like a round white moon。 Then the
jingling crashing sound as they hit the bike at forty； and it had flown up like
a bent and twisted bird； the handlebars striking the windshield； and then it was
in the air again； leaving the starred safety glass in front of Jack's bulging
eyes。 A moment later he heard the final dreadful smash as it landed on the road
behind them。 Something thumped underneath them as the tires passed over it。 The
Jag drifted around broadside； Al still jockeying the wheel； and from far away
Jack heard himself saying： 〃Jesus； Al。 We ran him down。 I felt it。〃
In his ear the phone kept ringing。 e on； Al。 Be home。 Let me get this over
with。
Al had brought the car to a smoking halt not more than three feet from a
bridge stanchion。 Two of the Jag's tires were flat。 They had left zigzagging
loops of burned rubber for a hundred and thirty feet。 They looked at each other
for a moment and then ran back in the cold darkness。
The bike was pletely ruined。 One wheel was gone； and looking back over his
shoulder Al had seen it lying in the middle of the road； half a dozen spokes
sticking up like piano wire。 Al had said hesitantly： 〃I think that's what we ran
over； Tacky…boy。〃
〃Then where's the kid？〃
〃Did you see a kid？〃
Jack frowned。 It had all happened with such crazy speed。 ing around the
corner。 The bike looming in the Jag's headlights。 Al yelling something。 Then the
collision and the long skid。
They moved the bike to one shoulder of the road。 Al went back to the Jag and
put on its four…way flashers。 For the next two hours they searched the sides of
the road； using a powerful four…cell flashlight。 Nothing。 Although it was late；
several cars passed the beached Jaguar and the two men with the bobbing
flashlight。 None of them stopped。 Jack thought later that some queer providence；
bent on giving them both a last chance； had kept the cops away； had kept any of
the passersby from calling them。
At quarter past two they returned to the Jag； sober but queasy。 〃If there was
nobody riding it； what was it doing in the middle of the road？〃 Al demanded。 〃It
wasn't parked on the side； it was right in the fucking middle！〃
Jack could only shake his head。
〃Your party does not answer；〃 the operator said。 〃Would you like me to keep on
trying？〃
〃A couple more rings； operator。 Do you mind？〃
〃No； sir；〃 the voice said dutifully。
e on； Al！
Al had hiked across the bridge to the nearest pay phone； called a bachelor
friend and told him it would be worth fifty dollars if the friend would get the
Jag's snow tires out of the garage and bring them down to the Highway 31 bridge
outside of Barre。 The friend showed up twenty minutes later； wearing a pair of
jeans and his pajama top。 He surveyed the scene。
〃Kill anybody？〃 he asked。
Al was already jacking up the back of the car and Jack was loosening lug nuts。
〃Providentially； no one；〃 Al said。
〃I think I'll just head on back anyway。 Pay me in the morning。〃
〃Fine；〃 Al said without looking up。
The two of them had gotten the tires on without incident； and together they
drove back to Al Shockley's house。 Al put the Jag in the garage and killed the
motor。
In the dark quiet he said： 〃I'm off drinking； Jacky…boy。 It's all over。 I've
slain my last martian。〃
And now； sweating in this phonebooth； it occurred to Jack that he had never
doubted Al's ability to carry through。 He had driven back to his own house in
the VW with the radio turned up； and some disco group chanted over and over
again； talismanic in the house before dawn： Do it anyway 。。。 you wanta do it 。
。 。 do it anyway you want 。。。 No matter how loud he heard the squealing tires；
the crash。 When he blinked his eyes shut； he saw that single crushed wheel with
its broken spokes pointing at the sky。
When he got in； Wendy was asleep on the couch。 He looked in Danny's room and
Danny was in his crib on his back； sleeping deeply； his arm still buried in the
cast。 In the softly filtered glow from the streetlight outside he could see the
dark lines on its plastered whiteness where all the doctors and nurses in
pediatrics had signed it。
It was an accident。 He fell down the stairs。
（o you dirty liar）
It was an accident。 l lost my temper。
（you fucking drunken waste god wiped snot out of his nose and that was you）
Listen； hey； e on； please； just an accident —
But the last plea was driven away by the image of that bobbing flashlight as
they hunted through the dry late November weeds； looking for the sprawled body
that by all good rights should have been there； waiting for the police。 It
didn't matter that Al had been driving。 There had been other nights when he had
been driving。
He pulled the covers up over Danny； went into their bedroom； and took the
Spanish Llama 。38 down from the top shelf of the closet。 It was in a shoe box。
He sat on the bed with it for nearly an hour； looking at it； fascinated by its
deadly shine。
It was dawn when he put it back in the box and put the box back in the closet。
That morning he had called Bruckner； the department head； and told him to
please post his classes。 He had the flu。 Bruckner agreed； with less good grace
than was mon。 Jack Torrance had been extremely susceptible to the flu in the
last year。
Wendy made him scrambled eggs and coffee。 They ate in silence。 The only sound
came from the back yard； where Danny was gleefully running his trucks across the
sand pile with his good hand。
She went to do the dishes。 Her back to him； she said： 〃Jack。 I've been
thinking。〃
〃Have you？〃 He lit a cigarette with trembling hands。 No hangover this morning；
oddly enough。 Only the shakes。 He blinked。 In the instant's darkness the bike
flew up against the windshield； starring the glass。 The tires shrieked。 The
flashlight bobbed。
〃I want to talk to you about 。。。 about what's best for me and Danny。 For you
too； maybe。 I don't know。 We should have talked about it before； I guess。〃
〃Would you do something for me？〃 he asked； looking at the wavering tip of his
cigarette。 〃Would you do me a favor？〃
〃What？〃 Her voice was dull and neutral。 He looked at her back。
〃Let's talk about it a week from today。 If you still want to。。；
Now she turned to him； her hands lacy with suds； her pretty face pale and
disillusioned。 〃Jack； promises don't work with you。 You just go right on with — 〃
She stopped； looking in his eyes； fascinated； suddenly uncertain。
〃In a week；〃 he said。 His voice had lost all its strength and dropped to a
whisper。 〃Please。 I'm not promising anything。 If