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 mon 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 he 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。
（If it wasn't for Danny； I would take great pleasure in grabbing one of those
mallets； opening the cowling； and just pounding until）
He let his pent…up breath escape him in a long slow sigh。 Wendy was right。
e hell； high water； or the welfare line； Wendy was right。 Pounding this
machine to death would be the height of folly； no matter how pleasant an aspect
that folly made。 It would almost be tantamount to pounding his own son to death。
〃Fucking Luddite；〃 he said aloud。
He went to the back of the machine and unscrewed the gascap。 He found a
dipstick on one of the shelves that ran at chest…height around the walls and
slipped it in。 The last eighth of an inch came out wet。 Not very much； but
enough to see if the damn thing would run。 Later he could siphon more from the
Volks and the hotel truck。
He screwed the cap back on and opened the cowling。 No sparkplugs； no battery。
He went to the shelf again and began to poke along it； pushing aside
screwdrivers and adjustable wrenches； a one…lung carburetor that had been taken
out of an old lawnmower； plastic boxes of screws and nails and bolts of varying
sizes。 The shelf was thick and dark with old grease； and the years' accumulation
of dust had stuck to it like fur。 He didn't like touching it。
He found a small； oil…stained box with the abbreviation Skid。 laconically
marked on it in pencil。 He shook it and something rattled inside。 Plugs。 He held
one of them up to the light； trying to estimate the gap without hunting around
for the gapping tool。 Fuck it； he thought resentfully； and dropped the plug back
into the box。 If the gap's wrong； that's just too damn bad。 Tough fucking titty。
There was a stool behind the door。 He dragged it over； sat down； and installed
the four sparkplugs； then fitted the small rubber caps over each。 That done； he
let his fingers play briefly over the magneto。 They laughed when I sat down at
the piano。
Back to the shelves。 This time he couldn't find what he wanted； a small
battery。 A three… or four…cell。 There were socket wrenches； a case filled with
drills and drillbits； bags of lawn fertilizer and Vigoro for the flower beds；
but no snowmobile battery。 It didn't bother him in the slightest。 In fact； it
made him feel glad。 He was relieved。 I did my best； Captain； but I could not get
through。 That's fine； son。 I'm going to put you in for the Silver Star and the
Purple Snowmobile。 You're a credit to your regiment。 Thank you； sir。 I did try。
He began to whistle 〃Red River Valley〃 uptempo as he poked along the last two
or three feet of shelf。 The notes came out in little puffs of white smoke。 He
had made a plete circuit of the shed and the thing wasn't there。 Maybe
somebody had lifted it。 Maybe Watson had。 He laughed aloud。 The old office
bootleg trick。 A few paperclips； a couple of reams of paper； nobody will miss
this tablecloth or this Golden Regal place setting 。。。 and what about this
fine snowmobile battery？ Yes； that might e in handy。 Toss it in the sack。
White…collar crime； Baby。 Everybody