Сияние

The Snowmobile

           Therewasadeadwomanin217,awomanthatwasperhapsonlyaspiritandharmlessundermostcircumstances,butawomanwhowasnowanactivedanger.LikesomemalevolentclockworktoyshehadbeenwoundupandsetinmotionbyDanny’sownoddmind…andhisown.HaditbeenWatsonwhohadtoldhimamanhaddroppeddeadofastrokeonedayontheroquecourt?OrhaditbeenUllman?Itdidn’tmatter.Therehadbeenanassassinationonthethirdfloor.Howmanyoldquarrels,suicides,strokes?Howmanymurders?WasGradylurkingsomewhereinthewestwingwithhisax,justwaitingforDannytostarthimupsohecouldcomebackoutofthewoodwork?

           ThepuffedcircleofbruisesaroundDanny’sneck.

           Thetwinkling,half-seenbottlesinthedesertedlounge.

           Theradio.

           Thedreams.

           Thescrapbookhehadfoundinthecellar.

           (Medoc,areyouhere?I’vebeensleepwalkingagain,mydear…)

           Hegotupsuddenly,thrustingthesnowshoesbackoutthedoor.Hewasshakingallover.Heslammedthedoorandpickeduptheboxwiththebatteryinit.Itslippedthroughhisshakingfingers

           (ohchristwhatificrackedit)

           andthumpedoveronitsside.Hepulledtheflapsofthecartonopenandyankedthebatteryout,heedlessoftheacidthatmightbeleakingthroughthebattery’scasingifithadcracked.Butithadn’t.Itwaswhole.Alittlesighescapedhislips.

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