The Shining

(Aw, just forget it, man. That homburg ain't comin down until it gets to Arizona.)

On the heels of that thought:

(If it's this bad in Denver, what's it going to be like west of Boulder?)

Best not to think about that, maybe.

“Can I help you, sir?” a girl in Hertz yellow asked him.

“If you got a car, you can help me,” he said with a big grin.

For a heavier-than-average charge he was able to get a heavier-than-average car, a silver and black Buick Electra. He was thinking of the winding mountain roads rather than style; he would still have to stop somewhere along the way and get chains put on. He wouldn't get far without them.

“How bad is it?” he asked as she handed him the rental agreement to sign.

“They say it's the worst storm since 1969,” she answered brightly. “Do you have far to drive, sir?”

“Farther than I'd like.”

“If you'd like, sir, I can phone ahead to the Texaco station at the Route 270 junction. They'll put chains on for you. '

“That would be a great blessing, dear.”

She picked up the phone and made the call. “They'll be expecting you.”

“Thank you much.”

Leaving the desk, he saw the sharp-faced woman standing on one of the queues that had formed in front of the luggage carousel. She was still reading her book. Hallora

(shine)

He turned up his overcoat collar, smiling, and shifted his flight bag to the other hand. Only a little one, but it made him feel better. He was sorry he'd told her that fish story about having a steel plate in his head. He mentally wished her well and as he went out into the howling wind and snow, he thought she wished him the same in return

The charge for putting on the chains at the service station was a modest one, but Hallora

The turnpike was a mess. Even with the chains he could go no faster than thirty. Cars had gone off the road at crazy angles, and on several of the grades traffic was barely struggling along, summer tires spi

(Dashing through the snow…)

coming up in the left-hand lane to cream his black ass.

There was more bad luck waiting for him at the Route 36 entrance ramp. Route 36, the Denver-Boulder turnpike, also goes west to Estes Park, where it co

The entrance ramp had been blocked by an overturned semi. Bright-burning flares had been scattered around it like birthday candles on some idiot child's cake.

He came to a stop and rolled his window down. A cop with a fur Cossack hat jammed down over his ears gestured with one gloved hand toward the flow of traffic moving north on I-25.

“You can't get up herel” he bawled to Hallora

“I think I could get around him on the left!” Hallora

“I'll rap your friggin head!” the cop shouted back. “This ramp's closed!”

Hallora

He inched his speed up to thirty-five but dared no more; already snow was threatening to clog his wiper blades and the traffic patterns were decidedly crazy. Twenty-mile detour. He cursed, and the feeling that time was growing shorter for the boy welled up in him again, nearly suffocating with its urgency. And at the same time he felt a fatalistic certainty that he would not be coming back from this trip.

He turned on the radio, dialed past Christmas ads, and found a weather forecast.

“-six inches already, and another foot is expected in the Denver metro area by nightfall. Local and state police urge you not to take your car out of the garage unless it's absolutely necessary, and warn that most mountain passes have already been closed. So stay home and wax up your boards and keep tuned to-”

“Thanks, mother,” Hallora

46. Wendy

Around noon, after Da

“Da

“What?”

“I'm going down to make us some lunch. 'Kay?”

“Okay. Do you want me to come down?”

“No, I'll bring it up. How about a cheese omelet and some soup?”

“Sure.”

She hesitated outside the closed door a moment longer, “Da

“Yeah,” he said. “Just be careful.”

“Where's your father? Do you know?”

His voice came back, curiously flat: “No. But it's okay.” She stifled an urge to keep asking, to keep picking around the edges of the thing. The thing was there, they knew what it was, picking at it was only going to frighten Da

She went down the short hall, turned into the main first floor corridor, and went to the stairs. She stood on the firstfloor landing looking down into the lobby. It appeared deserted, but the gray and snowy day had left much of the long room in shadow. Da

She wet her lips. “Jack?”

No answer.

Her hand found the handle of the knife and she began to go down. She had seen the end of her marriage many times, in divorce, in Jack's death at the scene of a drunken car accident (a regular vision in the dark two o'clock of Stovington mornings), and occasionally in daydreams of being discovered by another man, a soap opera Galahad who would sweep Da

A wave of despair struck through her at the thought and she had to stop halfway down the stairs and hold the railing, afraid her knees would buckle.

(Admit it. It isn't just Jack, he's just the one solid thing in all of this you can hang the other things on, the things you can't believe and yet are being forced to believe, that thing about the hedges, the party favor in the elevator, the mask)