Four Past Midnight (25 page)

That was a very interesting question indeed.

Wasn't it?

Nick looked from Albert to Bob. “So,” he said. “The matches work but the lager doesn't.” He turned to set the glass of beer on the counter. “What does that mea—”

All at once a small mushroom cloud of bubbles burst from nowhere in the bottom of the glass. They rose rapidly, spread, and burst into a thin head at the top. Nick's eyes widened.

“Apparently,” Bob said dryly, “it takes a moment or two for things to catch up.” He took the glass, drank it off and smacked his lips. “Excellent,” he said. They all looked at the complicated lace of white foam on the inside of the glass. “I can say without doubt that it's the best glass of beer I ever drank in my life.”

Albert poured more beer into the glass. This time it came out foaming; the head overspilled the rim and ran down the outside. Brian picked it up.

“Are you sure you want to do that, matey?” Nick asked, grinning. “Don't you fellows like to say ‘twenty-four hours from bottle to throttle'?”

“In cases of time-travel, the rule is suspended,” Brian said. “You could look it up.” He tilted the glass, drank, then laughed out loud. “You're right,” he said to Bob. “It's the best goddam beer there ever was. Try the Pepsi, Albert.”

Albert opened the can and they all heard the familiar pophisss of carbonation, mainstay of a hundred soft-drink commercials. He took a deep drink. When he lowered the can he was grinning ... but there were tears in his eyes.

“Gentlemen, the Pepsi-Cola is also very good today,” he said in plummy headwaiter's tones, and they all began to laugh.

Don Gaffney caught up with Laurel and Dinah just as they entered the restaurant. “I thought I'd better—” he began, and then stopped. He looked around. “Oh, shit. Where is he?”

“I don't—” Laurel began, and then, from beside her, Dinah Bellman said,
“Be quiet.”

Her head turned slowly, like the lamp of a dead searchlight. For a moment there was no sound at all in the restaurant ... at least no sound Laurel could hear.

“There,” Dinah said at last, and pointed toward the cash register. “He's hiding over there. Behind something.”

“How do you know that?” Don asked in a dry, nervous voice. “I don't hear—”

“
I
do,” Dinah said calmly. “I hear his fingernails on metal. And I hear his heart. It's beating very fast and very hard. He's scared to death. I feel so sorry for him.” She suddenly disengaged her hand from Laurel's and stepped forward.

“Dinah, no!
” Laurel screamed.

Dinah took no notice. She walked toward the cash register, arms out, fingers seeking possible obstacles. The shadows seemed to reach for her and enfold her.

“Mr. Toomy? Please come out. We don't want to hurt you. Please don't be afraid—”

A sound began to arise from behind the cash register. It was a high, keening scream. It was a word, or something which was trying to be a word, but there was no sanity in it.

Craig arose from his hiding place, eyes blazing, butcher knife upraised, suddenly understanding that it was
her,
she was one of
them,
behind those dark glasses she was one of
them,
she was not only a langolier but the
head
langolier, the one who was calling the others, calling them with her dead blind eyes.

He rushed at her, shrieking. Don Gaffney shoved Laurel out of his way, almost knocking her to the floor, and leaped forward. He was fast, but not fast enough. Craig Toomy was crazy, and he moved with the speed of a langolier himself. He approached Dinah at a dead-out run. No scampering for him.

Dinah made no effort to draw away. She looked up from her darkness and into his, and now she held her arms out, as if to enfold him and comfort him.

“It's all right, Mr. Toomy,” she said. “Don't be afr—” And then Craig buried the butcher knife in her chest and ran past Laurel into the terminal, still shrieking.

Dinah stood where she was for a moment. Her hands found the wooden handle jutting out of the front of her dress and her fingers fluttered over it, exploring it. Then she sank slowly, gracefully, to the floor, becoming just another shadow in the growing darkness.

Albert, Brian, Bob, and Nick passed the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich around. They each got two bites and then it was gone ... but while it lasted, Albert thought he had never sunk his teeth into such wonderful chow in his life. His belly awakened and immediately began clamoring for more.

“I think our bald friend Mr. Warwick is going to like this part best,” Nick said, swallowing. He looked at Albert. “You're a genius, Ace. You know that, don't you? Nothing but a pure genius.”

Albert flushed happily. “It wasn't much,” he said. “Just a little of what Mr. Jenkins calls the deductive method. If two streams flowing in different directions come together, they mix and make a whirlpool. I saw what was happening with Bethany's matches and thought something like that might be happening here. And there was Mr. Gaffney's bright-red shirt. It started to lose its color. So I thought, well, if stuff starts to fade when it's not on the plane anymore, maybe if you brought faded stuff
onto
the plane, it would—”

“I hate to interrupt,” Bob said softly, “but I think that if we intend to try and get back, we should start the process as soon as possible. The sounds we are hearing worry me, but there's something else that worries me more. This airplane is not a closed system. I think there's a good chance that before long it will begin to lose its ... its ...”

“Its temporal integrity?” Albert suggested.

“Yes. Well put. Any fuel we load into its tanks now may burn ... but a few hours from now, it may not.”

An unpleasant idea occurred to Brian: that the fuel might stop burning halfway across the country, with the 767 at 36,000 feet. He opened his mouth to tell them this ... and then closed it again. What good would it do to put the idea in their minds, when they could do nothing about it?

“How do we start, Brian?” Nick asked in clipped, businesslike tones.

Brian ran the process over in his mind. It would be a little awkward, especially working with men whose only experience with aircraft probably began and ended with model planes, but he thought it could be done.

“We start by turning on the engines and taxiing as close to that Delta 727 as we can get,” he said. “When we get there, I'll kill the starboard engine and leave the portside engine turning over. We're lucky. This 767 is equipped with wet-wing fuel tanks and an APU system that—”

A shrill, panicked scream drifted up to them, cutting across the low rattling background noise like a fork drawn across a slate blackboard. It was followed by running footfalls on the ladder. Nick turned in that direction and his hands came up in a gesture Albert recognized at once; he had seen some of the martial-arts freaks at school back home practicing the move. It was the classic Tae Kwan Do defensive position. A moment later Bethany's pallid, terrified face appeared in the doorway and Nick let his hands relax.

“
Come!
” Bethany screamed. “You've got to
come!
” She was panting, out of breath, and she reeled backward on the platform of the ladder. For a moment Albert and Brian were sure she was going to tumble back down the steep steps, breaking her neck on the way. Then Nick leaped forward, cupped a hand on the nape of her neck, and pulled her into the plane. Bethany did not even seem to realize she had had a close call. Her dark eyes blazed at them from the white circle of her face. “Please come! He's stabbed her! I think she's dying!”

Nick put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his face toward hers as if he intended to kiss her. “Who has stabbed whom?” he asked very quietly. “Who is dying?”

“I ... she ... Mr. T-T-Toomy—”

“Bethany, say teacup.”

She looked at him, eyes shocked and uncomprehending. Brian was looking at Nick as though he had gone insane.

Nick gave the girl's shoulders a little shake.

“Say teacup. Right now.”

“T-T-Teacup.”

“Teacup and saucer. Say it, Bethany.”

“Teacup and saucer.”

“All right. Better?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. If you feel yourself losing control again, say teacup at once and you'll come back. Now—who's been stabbed?”

“The blind girl. Dinah.”

“Bloody
shit.
All right, Bethany. Just—” Nick raised his voice sharply as he saw Brian move behind Bethany, headed for the ladder, with Albert right behind him. “
No!
” he shouted in a bright, hard tone that stopped both of them. “Stay fucking
put!
”

Brian, who had served two tours in Vietnam and knew the sound of unquestionable command when he heard it, stopped so suddenly that Albert ran face-first into the middle of his back.
I knew it
, he thought.
I knew he'd take over. It was just a matter of time and circumstance.

“Do you know how this happened or where our wretched travelling companion is now?” Nick asked Bethany.

“The guy ... the guy in the red shirt said—”

“All right. Never mind.” He glanced briefly up at Brian. His eyes were red with anger. “The bloody fools left him alone. I'd wager my pension on it. Well, it won't happen again. Our Mr. Toomy has cut his last caper.”

He looked back at the girl. Her head drooped; her hair hung dejectedly in her face; she was breathing in great, watery swoops of breath.

“Is she alive, Bethany?” he asked gently.

“I ... I ... I...”

“Teacup, Bethany.”

“
Teacup!
” Bethany shouted, and looked up at him from teary, red-rimmed eyes. “I don't know. She was alive when I ... you know, came for you. She might be dead now. He really got her. Jesus, why did we have to get stuck with a fucking psycho? Weren't things bad enough without that?”

“And none of you who were supposed to be minding this fellow have the slightest idea where he went following the attack, is that right?”

Bethany put her hands over her face and began to sob. It was all the answer any of them needed.

“Don't be so hard on her,” Albert said quietly, and slipped an arm around Bethany's waist. She put her head on his shoulder and began to sob more strenuously.

Nick moved the two of them gently aside. “If I was inclined to be hard on someone, it would be myself, Ace. I should have stayed behind.”

He turned to Brian.

“I'm going back into the terminal. You're not. Mr. Jenkins here is almost certainly right; our time here is short. I don't like to think just
how
short. Start the engines but don't move the aircraft yet. If the girl is alive, we'll need the stairs to bring her up. Bob, bottom of the stairs. Keep an eye out for that bugger Toomy. Albert, you come with me.”

Then he said something which chilled them all.

“I almost hope she's dead, God help me. It will save time if she is.”

Dinah was not dead, not even unconscious. Laurel had taken off her sunglasses to wipe away the sweat which had sprung up on the girl's face, and Dinah's eyes, deep brown and very wide, looked up unseeingly into Laurel's blue-green ones. Behind her, Don and Rudy stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down anxiously.

“I'm sorry,” Rudy said for the fifth time. “I really thought he was out. Out
cold.
”

Laurel ignored him. “How are you, Dinah?” she asked softly. She didn't want to look at the wooden handle growing out of the girl's dress, but couldn't take her eyes from it. There was very little blood, at least so far; a circle the size of a demitasse cup around the place where the blade had gone in, and that was all.

So far.

“It hurts,” Dinah said in a faint voice. “It's hard to breathe. And it's
hot.
”

“You're going to be all right,” Laurel said, but her eyes were drawn relentlessly back to the handle of the knife. The girl was very small, and she couldn't understand why the blade hadn't gone all the way through her. Couldn't understand why she wasn't dead already.

“... out of here,” Dinah said. She grimaced, and a thick, slow curdle of blood escaped from the comer of her mouth and ran down her cheek.

“Don't try to talk, honey,” Laurel said, and brushed damp curls back from Dinah's forehead.

“You have to get
out
of here,” Dinah insisted. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “And you shouldn't blame Mr. Toomy. He's ... he's scared, that's all. Of them.”

Don looked around balefully. “If I find that bastard,
I'll
scare him,” he said, and curled both hands into fists. A lodge ring gleamed above one knuckle in the growing gloom. “I'll make him wish he was born dead.”

Nick came into the restaurant then, followed by Albert. He pushed past Rudy Warwick without a word of apology and knelt next to Dinah. His bright gaze fixed upon the handle of the knife for a moment, then moved to the child's face.

“Hello, love.” He spoke cheerily, but his eyes had darkened. “I see you've been air-conditioned. Not to worry; you'll be right as a trivet in no time flat.”