His hands curled helplessly into fists； he had to restrain himself from
battering at the door with them。 The party had begun again。 The liquor would be
flowing freely。 Somewhere； dancing with someone else； would be the girl who had
felt so maddeningly nude under her white silk gown。
〃You'll pay for this！〃 he howled。 〃Goddam you two； you'll pay！ You'll take
your goddam medicine for this； I promise you！ You — 〃
〃Here； here； now；〃 a mild voice said just outside the door； 〃No need to shout；
old fellow。 I can hear you perfectly well。〃
Jack lurched to his feet
〃Grady？ Is that you？〃
〃Yes； sir。 Indeed it is。 You appear to have been locked in。〃
〃Let me out； Grady。 Quickly。〃
〃I see you can hardly have taken care of the business we discussed； sir。 The
correction of your wife and son。〃
〃They're the ones who locked me in。 Pull the bolt； for God's sake！〃
〃You let them lock you in？〃 Grady's voice registered well…bred surprise。 〃Oh；
dear。 A woman half your size and a little boy？ Hardly sets you off as being of
top managerial timber； does it？〃
A pulse began to beat in the clockspring of veins at Jack's right temple。 〃Let
me out； Grady。 I'll take care of them。〃
〃Will you indeed； sir？ I wonder。〃 Well…bred surprise was replaced by well…bred
regret。 〃I'm pained to say that I doubt it。 I — and others — have really e to
believe that your heart is not in this； sir。 That you haven't the 。。。 the
belly for it〃
〃I do！〃 Jack shouted。 〃I do； I swear it！〃
〃You would bring us your son？〃
〃Yes！ Yes！〃
〃Your wife would object to that very strongly； Mr。 Torrance。 And she appears
to be 。。。 somewhat stronger than we had imagined。 Somewhat more resourceful。
She certainly seems to have gotten the better of you。〃
Grady tittered。
〃Perhaps； Mr。 Torrance； we should have been dealing with her all along。〃
〃I'll bring him； I swear it；〃 Jack said。 His face was against the door now。 He
was sweating。 〃She won't object。 I swear she won't。 She won't be able to。〃
〃You would have to kill her； I fear；〃 Grady said coldly。
〃I'll do what I have to do。 Just let me out。〃
〃You'll give your word on it； sir？〃 Grady persisted。
〃My word； my promise； my sacred vow； whatever in hell you want。 If you — 〃
There was a flat snap as the bolt was drawn back。 The door shivered open a
quarter of an inch。 Jack's words and breath halted。 For a moment he felt that
death itself was outside that door。
The feeling passed。
He whispered： 〃Thank you； Grady。 I swear you won't regret it。 I swear you
won't。〃
There was no answer。 He became aware that all sounds had stopped except for
the cold swooping of the wind outside。
He pushed the pantry door open； the hinges squealed faintly。
The kitchen was empty。 Grady was gone。 Everything was still and frozen beneath
the cold white glare of the fluorescent bars。 His eyes caught on the large
chopping block where the three of them had eaten their meals。
Standing on top of it was a martini glass； a fifth of gin； and a plastic dish
filled with olives。
Leaning against it was one of the roque mallets from the equipment shed。
He looked at it for a long time。
Then a voice much deeper and much more powerful than Grady's； spoke from
somewhere； everywhere 。。。 from inside him。
（Keep your promise； Mr。 Torrance。）
〃I will；〃 he said。 He heard the fawning servility in his own voice but was
unable to control it。 〃I will。〃
He walked to the chopping block and put his hand on the handle of the mallet。
He hefted it。
Swung it。
It hissed viciously through the air。
Jack Torrance began to smile。
》
HALLORANN；
GOING UP THE COUNTRY
It was quarter of two in the afternoon and according to the snow…clotted signs
and the Hertz Buick's odometer； he was less than three miles from Estes Park
when he finally went off the road。
In the hills； the snow was falling faster and more furiously than Hallorann
had ever seen （which was； perhaps； not to say a great deal； since Hallorann had
seen as little snow as he could manage in his lifetime）； and the wind was
blowing a capricious gale — now from the west； now backing around to the north；
sending clouds of powdery snow across his field of vision； making him coldly
aware again and again that if he missed a turn he might well plunge two hundred
feet off the road； the Electra cartwheeling ass over teapot as it went down。
Making it worse was his own amateur status as a winter driver。 It scared him to
have the yellow center line buried under swirling； drifting snow； and it scared
him when the heavy gusts of wind came unimpeded through the notches in the hills
and actually made the heavy Buick slew around。 It scared him that the road
information signs were mostly masked with snow and you could flip a coin as to
whether the road was going to break right or left up ahead in the white drive…in
movie screen he seemed to be driving through。 He was scared； all right。 He had
driven in a cold sweat since climbing into the hills west of Boulder and Lyons；
handling the accelerator and brake as if they were Ming vases。 Between rock 'n'
roll tunes on the radio； the disc jockey constantly adjured motorists to stay
off the main highways and under no conditions to go into the mountains； because
many roads were impassable and all of them were dangerous。 Scores of minor
accidents had been reported； and two serious ones： a party of skiers in a VW
microbus and a family that had been bound for Albuquerque through the Sangre de
Cristo Mountains。 The bined score on both was four dead and five wounded。 〃So
stay off those roads and get into the good music here at KTLK；〃 the jock
concluded cheerily； and then pounded Hallorann's misery by playing 〃Seasons
in the Sun。〃 〃We had joy； we had fun； we had — 〃 Terry Jacks gibbered happily； and
Hallorann snapped the radio off viciously； knowing he would have it back on in
five minutes。 No matter how bad it was； it was better than riding alone through
this white madness。
（Admit it。 Dis heah black boy has got at least one long stripe of yaller 。。。
and it runs rant up his ebberlubbin back！）
It wasn't even funny。 He would have backed off before he even cleared Boulder
if it hadn't been for his pulsion that the boy was in terrible trouble。 Even
now a small voice in the back of his skull — more the voice of reason than of
cowardice； he thought — was telling him to hole up in an Estes Park motel for the
night and wait for the plows to at least expose the center stripe again。 That
voice kept reminding him of the jet's shaky landing at Stapleton； of that
sinking feeling that it was going to e in nose…first； delivering its
passengers to the gates of hell rather than at Gate 39； Concourse B。 But reason
would not stand against the pulsion。 It had to be today。 The snowstorm was
his own bad luck。 He would have to cope with it。 He was afraid that if he
didn't； he might have something much worse to cope with in his dreams。
The wind gusted again； this time from the northeast； a little English on the
ball if you please； and he was again cut off from the vague shapes of the hills
and even from the embankments on either side of the road。 He was driving through
white null。
And then the high sodium lights of the snowplow loomed out of the soup；
bearing down； and to his horror he saw that instead of being to one side； the
Buick's nose was pointed directly between those headlamps。 The plow was being
none too choosy about keeping its own side of the road； and Hallorann had
allowed the Buick to drift。
The grinding roar of the plow's diesel engine intruded over the bellow of the
wind； and then the sound of its airhorn； hard； long； almost deafening。
Hallorann's testicles turned into two small wrinkled sacs filled with shaved
ice。 His guts seemed to have been transformed into a large mass of Silly Putty。
Color was materializing out of the white now； snow…clotted orange。 He could
see the high cab； even the gesticulating figure of the driver behind the single
long wiper blade。 He could see the V shape of the plow's wing blades； spewing
more snow up onto the road's left…hand embankment like pallid； smoking exhaust。
WHAAAAAAAAA！ the airhorn bellowed indignantly。
He squeezed the accelerator like the breast of a muchloved woman and the Buick
scooted forward and toward the right。 There was no embankment over here； the
plows headed up instead of down had only to push the snow directly over the
drop。
（The drop； ah yes； the drop — ）
The wingblades on Hallorann's left； fully four feet higher than the Electra's
roof； flirted by with no more than an inch or two to spare。 Until the plow had
actually cleared him； Hallorann had thought a crash inevitable。 A prayer which
was half an inarticulate apology to the boy flitted through his mind like a torn
rag。
Then the plow was past； its revolving blue lights glinting and flashing in
Hallorann's rearview mirror。
He jockeyed the Buick's steering wheel back to the left； but nothing doing。
The scoot had turned into a skid； and the Buick was floating dreamily toward the
lip of the drop； spurning snow from under its mudguards。
He flicked the wheel back the other way； in the skid's direction； and the
car's front and rear began to s places。 Panicked now； he pumped the brake
hard； and then felt a hard bump。 In front of him the road was gone 。。。 he was
looking into a bottomless chasm of swirling snow and vague greenish…gray pines
far away and far below。
（I'm going holy mother of Jesus I'm going off）
And that was where the car stopped； canting forward at a thirty…degree angle；
the left fender jammed against a guardrail； the rear wheels nearly off the
ground。 When Hallorann tried reverse； the wheels only spun helplessly。 His heart
was doing a Gene Krupa drumroll。
He got out — very carefully he got out — and went around to the Buick's back
deck。
He was standing there； looking at the back wheels helplessly； when a cheerful
voice behind him said： 〃Hello there； fella。 Yo