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He
walked
over
to
them
,
stepping
over
an
old
eight
-
cell
battery
(
which
had
once
sat
beneath
the
hood
of
the
hotel
truck
,
no
doubt
)
and
a
battery
charger
and
a
pair
of
J
.
C
.
Penney
jumper
cables
coiled
between
them
.
He
slipped
one
of
the
short
-
handled
mallets
out
of
the
front
rack
and
held
it
up
in
front
of
his
face
,
like
a
knight
bound
for
battle
saluting
his
king
.
Fragments
of
his
dream
(
it
was
all
jumbled
now
,
fading
)
recurred
,
something
about
George
Hatfield
and
his
father
’
s
cane
,
just
enough
to
make
him
uneasy
and
,
absurdly
enough
,
a
trifle
guilty
about
holding
a
plain
old
garden
-
variety
roque
mallet
.
Not
that
roque
was
such
a
common
garden
-
variety
game
anymore
;
its
more
modern
cousin
,
croquet
,
was
much
more
popular
now
…
and
a
child
’
s
version
of
the
game
at
that
.
Roque
,
however
…
that
must
have
been
quite
a
game
.
Jack
had
found
a
mildewed
rule
book
down
in
the
basement
,
from
one
of
the
years
in
the
early
twenties
when
a
North
American
Roque
Tournament
had
been
held
at
the
Overlook
.
Quite
a
game
.
(
schizo
)
He
frowned
a
little
,
then
smiled
.
Yes
,
it
was
a
schizo
sort
of
game
at
that
.
The
mallet
expressed
that
perfectly
.
A
soft
end
and
a
hard
end
.
A
game
of
finesse
and
aim
,
and
a
game
of
raw
,
bludgeoning
power
.
He
swung
the
mallet
through
the
air
…
whhhoooop
.
He
smiled
a
little
at
the
powerful
,
whistling
sound
it
made
.
Then
he
replaced
it
in
the
rack
and
turned
to
his
left
.
What
he
saw
there
made
him
frown
again
.
The
snowmobile
sat
almost
in
the
middle
of
the
equipment
shed
,
a
fairly
new
one
,
and
Jack
didn
’
t
care
for
its
looks
at
all
.
Bombardier
Skidoo
was
written
on
the
side
of
the
engine
cowling
facing
him
in
black
letters
which
had
been
raked
backward
,
presumably
to
connote
speed
.
The
protruding
skis
were
also
black
.
There
was
black
piping
to
the
right
and
left
of
the
cowling
,
what
they
would
call
racing
stripes
on
a
sports
car
.
But
the
actual
paintjob
was
a
bright
,
sneering
yellow
,
and
that
was
what
he
didn
’
t
like
about
it
.
Sitting
there
in
its
shaft
of
morning
sun
,
yellow
body
and
black
piping
,
black
skis
and
black
upholstered
open
cockpit
,
it
looked
like
a
monstrous
mechanized
wasp
.
When
it
was
running
it
would
sound
like
that
too
.
Whining
and
buzzing
and
ready
to
sting
.
But
then
,
what
else
should
it
look
like
?
It
wasn
’
t
flying
under
false
colors
,
at
least
.
Because
after
it
had
done
its
job
,
they
were
going
to
be
hurting
plenty
.
All
of
them
.
By
spring
the
Torrance
family
would
be
hurting
so
badly
that
what
those
wasps
had
done
to
Danny
’
s
hand
would
look
like
a
mother
’
s
kisses
.
He
pulled
his
handkerchief
from
his
back
pocket
,
wiped
his
mouth
with
it
,
and
walked
over
to
the
Skidoo
.
He
stood
looking
down
at
it
,
the
frown
very
deep
now
,
and
stuffed
his
handkerchief
back
into
his
pocket
.
Outside
a
sudden
gust
of
wind
slammed
against
the
equipment
shed
,
making
it
rock
and
creak
.
He
looked
out
the
window
and
saw
the
gust
carrying
a
sheet
of
sparkling
snow
crystals
toward
the
drifted
-
in
rear
of
the
hotel
,
whirling
them
high
into
the
hard
blue
sky
.
The
wind
dropped
and
be
went
back
to
looking
at
the
machine
.
It
was
a
disgusting
thing
,
really
.
You
almost
expected
to
see
a
long
,
limber
stinger
protruding
from
the
rear
of
it
.
He
had
always
disliked
the
goddam
snowmobiles
.
They
shivered
the
cathedral
silence
of
winter
into
a
million
rattling
fragments
.
They
startled
the
wildlife
.
They
sent
out
huge
and
pollutive
clouds
of
blue
and
billowing
oilsmoke
behind
them
-
cough
,
cough
,
gag
,
gag
,
let
me
breathe
.
They
were
perhaps
the
final
grotesque
toy
of
the
unwinding
fossil
fuel
age
,
given
to
ten
-
year
-
olds
for
Christmas
.
He
remembered
a
newspaper
article
he
had
read
in
Stovington
,
a
story
datelined
someplace
in
Maine
.
A
kid
on
a
snowmobile
,
barrel
-
assing
up
a
road
he
’
d
never
traveled
before
at
better
than
thirty
miles
an
hour
.
Night
.
His
headlight
off
.
There
had
been
a
heavy
chain
strung
between
two
posts
with
a
NO
TRESPASSING
sign
hung
from
the
middle
.
They
said
that
in
all
probability
the
kid
never
saw
it
.
The
moon
might
have
gone
behind
a
cloud
.
The
chain
had
decapitated
him
.
Reading
the
story
Jack
had
been
almost
glad
,
and
now
,
looking
down
at
this
machine
,
the
feeling
recurred
.
