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his own heart as he struggled with the passkey。
〃Nothing；〃 he said； and that was true。 He had been strung up； not sure of
what was happening。 He hadn't had a chance to sift through his thoughts for a
reasonable explanation concerning the bruises on his son's neck。 He had been
pretty damn suggestible himself。 Hallucinations could sometimes be catching。
〃And you haven't changed your mind？ About the snowmobile； I mean？〃
His hands clamped into sudden tight fists
（Stop nagging me！ ）
by his sides。 〃I said I would； didn't I？ I will。 Now go to sleep。 It's been a
long hard day。〃
〃And how；〃 she said。 There was a rustle of bedclothes as she turned toward him
and kissed his shoulder。 〃I love you； Jack。〃
〃I love you too；〃 he said； but he was only mouthing the words。 His hands were
still clenched into fists。 They felt like rocks on the ends of his arms。 The
pulse beat prominently in his forehead。 She hadn't said a word about what was
going to happen to them after they got down； when the party was over。 Not one
word。 It had been Danny this and Danny that and Jack I'm so scared。 Oh yes； she
was scared of a lot of closet boogeymen and jumping shadows； plenty scared。 But
there was no lack of real ones； either。 When they got down to Sidewinder they
would arrive with sixty dollars and the clothes they stood up in。 Not even a
car。 Even if Sidewinder bad a pawnshop； which it didn't； they had nothing to
hock but Wendy's ninety…dollar diamond engagement ring and the Sony AM/FM radio。
A pawnbroker might give them twenty bucks。 A kind pawnbroker。 There would be no
job； not even part…time or seasonal； except maybe shoveling out driveways for
three dollars a shot。 The picture of John Torrance； thirty years old； who had
once published in Esquire and who had harbored dreams — not at all unreasonable
dreams； he felt； of being a major American writer during the next decade； with
a shovel from the Sidewinder Western Auto on his shoulder； ringing doorbells。。。
that picture suddenly came to him much more clearly than the hedge lions and
he clenched his fists tighter still； feeling the fingernails sink into his palms
and draw blood in mystic quarter…moon shapes。 John Torrance； standing in line
to change his sixty dollars into food stamps； standing in line again at the
Sidewinder Methodist Church to get donated modities and dirty looks from the
locals。 John Torrance explaining to Al that they'd just had to leave； had to
shut down the boiler； had to leave the Overlook and all it contained open to
vandals or thieves on snow machines because； you see； Al； attendez…vous； Al；
there are ghosts up there and they have it in for my boy。 Good…by； Al。 Thoughts
of Chapter Four； Spring es for John Torrance。 What then？ Whatever then？ They
might be able to get to the West Coast in the VW； he supposed。 A new fuel pump
would do it。 Fifty miles west of here and it was all downhill； you could damn
near put the bug in neutral and coast to Utah。 On to sunny California； land of
oranges and opportunity。 A man with his sterling record of alcoholism； student…
beating； and ghost…chasing would undoubtedly be able to write his own ticket。
Anything you like。 Custodial engineer — swamping out Greyhound buses。 The
automotive business — washing cars in a rubber suit。 The culinary arts； perhaps；
washing dishes in a diner。 Or possibly a more responsible position； such as
pumping gas。 A job like that even held the intellectual stimulation of making
change and writing out credit slips。 I can give you twenty…five hours a week at
the minimum wage。 That was heavy tunes in a year when Wonder bread went for
sixty cents a loaf。
Blood had begun to trickle down from his palms。 Like stigmata； oh yes。 He
squeezed tighter； savaging himself with pain。 His wife was asleep beside him；
why not？ There were no problems。 He had agreed to take her and Danny away from
the big bad boogeyman and there were no problems。 So you see； Al； I thought the
best thing to do would be to
（kill her。）
The thought rose up from nowhere； naked and unadorned。 The urge to tumble her
out of bed； naked； bewildered； just beginning to wake up； to pounce on her；
seize her neck like the green limb of a young aspen and to throttle her； thumbs
on windpipe； fingers pressing against the top of her spine； jerking her head up
and ramming it back down against the floorboards； again and again； whamming；
whacking； smashing； crashing。 Jitter and jive； baby。 Shake； rattle； and roll。 He
would make her take her medicine。 Every drop。 Every last bitter drop。
He was dimly aware of a muffled noise somewhere； just outside his hot and
racing inner world。 He looked across the room and Danny was thrashing again；
twisting in his bed and rumpling the blankets。 The boy was moaning deep in his
throat； a small； caged sound。 What nightmare？ A purple woman； long dead；
shambling after him down twisting hotel corridors？ Somehow he didn't think so。
Something else chased Danny in his dreams。 Something worse。
The bitter lock of his emotions was broken。 He got out of bed and went across
to the boy； feeling sick and ashamed of himself。 It was Danny he had to think
of； not Wendy； not himself。 Only Danny。 And no matter what shape he wrestled the
facts into； he knew in his heart that Danny must be taken out。 He straightened
the boy's blankets and added the quilt from the foot of the bed。 Danny had
quieted again now。 Jack touched the sleeping forehead
（what monsters capering just behind that ridge of bone？）
and found it warm； but not overly so。 And he was sleeping peacefully again。
Queer。
He got back into bed and tried to sleep。 It eluded him。
It was so unfair that things should turn out this way — bad luck seemed to
stalk them。 They hadn't been able to shake it by ing up here after all。 By
the time they arrived in Sidewinder tomorrow afternoon； the golden opportunity
would have evaporated — gone the way of the blue suede shoe； as an old roommate
of his had been wont to say。 Consider the difference if they didn't go down； if
they could somehow stick it out。 The play would get finished。 One way or the
other； he would tack an ending onto it。 His own uncertainty about his characters
might add an appealing touch of ambiguity to his original ending。 Perhaps it
would even make him some money； it wasn't impossible。 Even lacking that； Al
might well convince the Stovington Board to rehire him。 He would be on pro of
course； maybe for as long as three years； but if he could stay sober and keep
writing； he might not have to stay at Stovington for three years。 Of course he
hadn't cared much for Stovington before； he had felt stifled； buried alive； but
that had been an immature reaction。 Furthermore； how much could a man enjoy
teaching when he went through his first three classes with a skull…busting
hangover every second or third day？ It wouldn't be that way again。 He would be
able to handle his responsibilities much better。 He was sure of it。
Somewhere in the midst of that thought； things began to break up and he
drifted down into sleep。 His last thought followed him down like a sounding
bell：
It seemed that he might be able to find peace here。 At last。 If they would
only let him。
* * *
When he woke up he was standing in the bathroom of 217。
（been walking in my sleep again — why？ — no radios to break up here）
The bathroom light was on； the room behind him in darkness。 The shower curtain
was drawn around the long claw…footed tub。 The bathmat beside it was wrinkled
and wet。
He began to feel afraid； but the very dreamlike quality of his fear told him
this was not real。 Yet that could not contain the fear。 So many things at the
Overlook seemed like dreams。
He moved across the floor to the tub； not wanting to be helpless to turn his
feet back。
He flung the curtain open。
Lying in the tub； naked； lolling almost weightless in the water； was George
Hatfield； a knife stuck in his chest。 The water around him was stained a bright
pink。 George's eyes were clo