fine snowmobile battery？ Yes； that might e in handy。 Toss it in the sack。
White…collar crime； Baby。 Everybody has sticky fingers。 Under…the…jacket
discount； we used to call it when we were kids。
He walked back to the snowmobile and gave the side of it a good healthy kick
as he went by。 Well； that was the end of it。 He would just have to tell Wendy
sorry； baby； but —
There was a box sitting in the corner by the door。 The stool bad been right
over it。 Written on the top； in pencil； was the abbreviation Skid。
He looked at it； the smile drying up on his lips。 Look； sir； it's the cavalry。
Looks like your smoke signals must have worked after all。
It wasn't fair。
Goddammit； it just wasn't fair。
Something — luck； fate； providence — had been trying to save him。 Some other
luck； white luck。 And at the last moment bad old Jack Torrance luck had stepped
back in。 The lousy run of cards wasn't over yet。
Resentment； a gray； sullen wave of it； pushed up his throat。 His hands had
clenched into fists again。
（Not fair； goddammit； not fair！）
Why couldn't he have looked someplace else？ Anyplace！ Why hadn't he had a
crick in his neck or an itch in his nose or the need to blink？ Just one of those
little things。 He never would have seen it。
Well； he hadn't。 That was all。 It was an hallucination； no different from what
had happened yesterday outside that room on the second floor or the goddam hedge
menagerie。 A momentary strain； that was all。 Fancy； I thought I saw a snowmobile
battery in that corner。 Nothing there now。 bat fatigue； I guess； sir。 Sorry。
Keep your pecker up； son。 It happens to all of us sooner or later。
He yanked the door open almost hard enough to snap the hinges and pulled his
snowshoes inside。 They were clotted with snow and he slapped them down hard
enough on the floor to raise a cloud of it。 He put his left foot on the left
shoe 。。。 and paused。
Danny was out there； by the milk platform。 Trying to make a snowman； by the
looks。 Not much luck； the snow was too cold to stick together。 Still； he was
giving it the old college try； out there in the flashing morning； a speck of a
bundled…up boy above the brilliant snow and below the brilliant sky。 Wearing his
hat turned around backward like Carlton Fiske。
（What in the name of God were you thinking of？）
The answer came back with no pause。
（Me。 I was thinking of me。）
He suddenly remembered lying in bed the night before； lying there and suddenly
he had been contemplating the murder of his wife。
In that instant； kneeling there； everything came clear to him。 It was not just
Danny the Overlook was working on。 It was working on him； too。 It wasn't Danny
who was the weak link； it was him。 He was the vulnerable one； the one who could
be bent and twisted until something snapped。
（until i let go and sleep 。。。 and when i do that if i do that）
He looked up at the banks of windows and the sun threw back an almost blinding
glare from their many…paned surfaces but he looked anyway。 For the first time he
noticed how much they seemed like eyes。 They reflected away the sun and held
their own darkness within。 It was not Danny they were looking at。 It was him。
In those few seconds he understood everything。 There was a certain black…and…
white picture he remembered seeing as a child； in catechism class。 The nun had
presented it to them on an easel and called it a miracle of God。 The class had
looked at it blankly； seeing nothing but a jumble of whites and blacks；
senseless and patternless Then one of the children in the third row had gasped；
〃It's Jesus！〃 and that child had gone home with a brand…new Testament and also a
calendar because he had been first。 The others stared even harder； Jacky
Torrance among them。 One by one the other kids had given a similar gasp； one
little girl transported in near…ecstasy； crying out shrilly： 〃I see Him！ I see
Him！〃 She had also been rewarded with a Testament。 At last everyone had seen the
face of Jesus in the jumble of blacks and whites except Jacky。 He strained
harder and harder； scared now； part of him cynically thinking that everyone else
was simply putting on to please Sister Beatrice； part of him secretly convinced
that he wasn't seeing it because God had decided he was the worst sinner in the
class。 〃Don't you see it； Jacky？〃 Sister Beatrice had asked him in her sad；
sweet manner。 I see your tits； he had thought in vicious desperation。 He began
to shake his head； then faked excitement and said： 〃Yes； I do！ Wow！ It is Jesus！ 〃
And everyone in class had laughed and applauded him； making him feel
triumphant； ashamed； and scared。 Later； when everyone else had tumbled their way
up from the church basement and out onto the street he had lingered behind；
looking at the meaningless black…and…white jumble that Sister Beatrice had left
on the easel。 He hated it。 They had all made it up the way he had； even Sister
herself。 It was a big fake。 〃Shitfire…hellfire…shitfire；〃 he had whispered under
his breath； and as he turned to go he bad seen the face of Jesus from the corner
of his eye； sad and。 wise。 He turned back； his heart in his throat。 Everything
had suddenly clicked into place and he had stared at the picture with fearful
wonder； unable to believe he had missed it。 The eyes； the zigzag of shadow
across the care…worn brow； the fine nose； the passionate lips。 Looking at
Jack Torrance。 What had only been a meaningless sprawl had suddenly been
transformed into a stark black…and…white etching of the face of Christ Our Lord。
Fearful wonder became terror。 He had cussed in front of a picture of Jesus。 He
would be damned。 He would be in hell with the sinners。 The face of Christ had
been in the picture all along。 All along。
Now； kneeling in the sun and watching his son playing in the shadow of the
hotel； he knew that it was all true。 The hotel wanted Danny； maybe all of them
but Danny for sure。 The hedges had really walked。 There was a dead woman in 217；
a woman that was perhaps only a spirit and harmless under most circumstances；
but a woman who was now an active danger。 Like some malevolent clockwork toy she
had been wound up and set in motion by Danny's own odd mind 。。。 and his own。
Had it been Watson who had told him a man had dropped dead of a stroke one day
on the roque court？ Or had it been Ullman？ It didn't matter。 There had been an
assassination on the third floor。 How many old quarrels； suicides； strokes？ How
many murders？ Was Grady lurking somewhere in the west wing with his ax； just
waiting for Danny to start him up so he could e back out of the woodwork？
The puffed circle of bruises around Danny's neck。
The twinkling； half…seen bottles in the deserted lounge。
The radio。
The dreams。
The scrapbook he had found in the cellar。
（Medoc； are you here？ I've been sleepwalking again； my dear。。。）
He got up suddenly； thrusting the snowshoes back out the door。 He was shaking
all over。 He slammed the door and picked up the box with the battery in it。 It
slipped through his shaking fingers
（oh ch