Four Past Midnight (18 page)

“What—” Brian began, and Dinah said
“Shhh!”
in an abrupt, inarguable sibilant.

She turned slightly to the left, paused, then turned in the other direction until the white light coming through the windows fell directly on her, turning her already pale face into something which was ghostlike and eerie. She took off her dark glasses. The eyes beneath were wide, brown, and not quite blank.

“There,” she said in a low, dreaming voice, and Laurel felt terror begin to stroke at her heart with chilly fingers. Nor was she alone. Bethany was crowding close to her on one side, and Don Gaffney moved in against her other side. “There—I can feel the light. They said that's how they know I can see again. I can always feel the light. It's like heat inside my head.”

“Dinah, what—” Brian began.

Nick elbowed him. The Englishman's face was long and drawn, his forehead ribbed with lines. “Be quiet, mate.”

“The light is ... here.”

She walked slowly away from them, her hands still fanned out by her ears, her elbows held out before her to encounter any object which might stand in her way. She advanced until she was less than two feet from the window. Then she slowly reached out until her fingers touched the glass. They looked like black starfish outlined against the white sky. She let out a small, unhappy murmur.

“The glass is wrong, too,” she said in that dreaming voice.

“Dinah—” Laurel began.

“Shhh ...” she whispered without turning around. She stood at the window like a little girl waiting for her father to come home from work.
“I hear something.
”

These whispered words sent a wordless, thoughtless horror through Albert Kaussner's mind. He felt pressure on his shoulders and looked down to see he had crossed his arms across his chest and was clutching himself hard.

Brian listened with all his concentration. He heard his own breathing, and the breathing of the others ... but he heard nothing else.
It's her imagination,
he thought.
That's all it is.

But he wondered.

“What?” Laurel asked urgently. “What do you hear, Dinah?”

“I don't know,” she said without turning from the window. “It's very faint. I thought I heard it when we got off the airplane, and then I decided it was just my imagination. Now I can hear it better. I can hear it even through the glass. It sounds ... a little like Rice Krispies after you pour in the milk.”

Brian turned to Nick and spoke in a low voice. “Do you hear anything?”

“Not a bloody thing,” Nick said, matching Brian's tone. “But she's blind. She's used to making her ears do double duty.”

“I think it's hysteria,” Brian said. He was whispering now, his lips almost touching Nick's ear.

Dinah turned from the window.

“ ‘Do you hear anything?' ” she mimicked. “ ‘Not a bloody thing. But she's blind. She's used to making her ears do double duty.' ” She paused, then added: “ ‘I think it's hysteria.' ”

“Dinah, what are you talking about?” Laurel asked, perplexed and frightened. She had not heard Brian and Nick's muttered conversation, although she had been standing much closer to them than Dinah was.

“Ask
them,”
Dinah said. Her voice was trembling. “I'm not crazy! I'm blind, but I'm
not
crazy!”

“All right,” Brian said, shaken. “All right, Dinah.” And to Laurel he said: “I was talking to Nick. She heard us. From over there by the windows, she heard us.”

“You've got great ears, hon,” Bethany said.

“I hear what I hear,” Dinah said. “And I hear something out there. In that direction.” She pointed due east through the glass. Her unseeing eyes swept them. “And it's
bad.
It's an awful sound, a scary sound.”

Don Gaffney said hesitantly: “If you knew what it was, little miss, that would help, maybe.”

“I don't,” Dinah said. “But I know that it's closer than it was.” She put her dark glasses back on with a hand that was trembling. “We have to get out of here. And we have to get out soon. Because something is coming. The bad something making the cereal noise.”

“Dinah,” Brian said, “the plane we came in is almost out of fuel.”

“Then you have to put some more in it!”
Dinah screamed shrilly at him.
“It's coming,
don't you understand? It's
coming
, and if we haven't gone when it gets here, we're going to die!
We're all going to die!”

Her voice cracked and she began to sob. She was not a sibyl or a medium but only a little girl forced to live her terror in a darkness which was almost complete. She staggered toward them, her self-possession utterly gone. Laurel grabbed her before she could stumble over one of the guide-ropes which marked the way to the security checkpoint and hugged her tight. She tried to soothe the girl, but those last words echoed and rang in Laurel's confused, shocked mind:
If we haven't gone when it gets here, we're going to die.

Craig Toomy heard the brat begin to caterwaul back there someplace and ignored it. He had found what he was looking for in the third locker he opened, the one with the name MARKEY Dymotaped to the front. Mr. Markey's lunch—a sub sandwich poking out of a brown paper bag—was on the top shelf. Mr. Markey's street shoes were placed neatly side by side on the bottom shelf. Hanging in between, from the same hook, were a plain white shirt and a gunbelt. Protruding from the holster was the butt of Mr. Markey's service revolver.

Craig unsnapped the safety strap and took the gun out. He didn't know much about guns—this could have been a .32, a .38, or even a .45, for all of him—but he was not stupid, and after a few moments of fumbling he was able to roll the cylinder. All six chambers were loaded. He pushed the cylinder back in, nodding slightly when he heard it click home, and then inspected the hammer area and both sides of the grip. He was looking for a safety catch, but there didn't appear to be one. He put his finger on the trigger and tightened until he saw both the hammer and the cylinder move slightly. Craig nodded, satisfied.

He turned around and without warning the most intense loneliness of his adult life struck him. The gun seemed to take on weight and the hand holding it sagged. Now he stood with his shoulders slumped, the briefcase dangling from his right hand, the security guard's pistol dangling from his left. On his face was an expression of utter, abject misery. And suddenly a memory recurred to him, something he hadn't thought of in years: Craig Toomy, twelve years old, lying in bed and shivering as hot tears ran down his face. In the other room the stereo was turned up loud and his mother was singing along with Merrilee Rush in her droning off-key drunk's voice: “Just call me
angel ...
of the
morn-
ing,
bay-bee ...
just touch my cheek ... before you leave me,
bay-bee
...”

Lying there in bed. Shaking. Crying. Not making a sound. And thinking:
Why can't you love me and leave me alone, Momma? Why can't you just love me and leave me alone?

“I don't want to hurt anyone,” Craig Toomy muttered through his tears. “I don't want to, but this ... this is intolerable.”

Across the room was a bank of TV monitors, all blank. For a moment, as he looked at them, the truth of what had happened, what was
still
happening, tried to crowd in on him. For a moment it almost broke through his complex system of neurotic shields and into the air-raid shelter where he lived his life.

“No,” he moaned, and collapsed into one of the chairs standing around the Formica-topped kitchen table in the center of the room. “No, that's not so. That's just not so. I refute that idea. I refute it
utterly.”

The langoliers were here, and they will be back,
his father said. It overrode the voice of his mother, as it. always had.
You better be gone when they get here ... or you know what will happen.

He knew, all right. They would eat him. The langoliers would eat him up.

“But I don't want to hurt anyone,” he repeated in a dreary, distraught voice. There was a mimeographed duty roster lying on the table. Craig let go of his briefcase and laid the gun on the table beside him. Then he picked up the duty roster, looked at it for a moment with unseeing eyes, and began to tear a long strip from the lefthand side.

Soon he was hypnotized as a pile of thin strips—maybe the thinnest ever!—began to flutter down onto the table. But even then the cold voice of his father would not entirely leave him:

The frozen silence following Dinah's warning was finally broken by Robert Jenkins. “We have some problems,” he said in a dry lecture-hall voice. “If Dinah hears something—and following the remarkable demonstration she's just given us, I'm inclined to think she does—it would be helpful if we knew what it is. We don't. That's one problem. The plane's lack of fuel is another problem.”

“There's a 727 out there,” Nick said, “all cozied up to a jetway. Can you fly one of those, Brian?”

“Yes,” Brian said.

Nick spread his hands in Bob's direction and shrugged, as if to say
There you are; one knot untied already.

“Assuming we do take off again, where should we go?” Bob Jenkins went on. “A third problem.”

“Away,” Dinah said immediately. “Away from that sound. We have to get away from that sound, and what's making it.”

“How long do you think we have?” Bob asked her gently. “How long before it gets here, Dinah? Do you have any idea at all?”

“No,” she said from the safe circle of Laurel's arms. “I think it's still far. I think there's still time. But ...”

“Then I suggest we do exactly as Mr. Warwick has suggested,” Bob said. “Let's step over to the restaurant, have a bite to eat, and discuss what happens next. Food does have a beneficial effect on what Monsieur Poirot liked to call the little gray cells.”

“We shouldn't
wait,”
Dinah said fretfully.

“Fifteen minutes,” Bob said. “No more than that. And even at your age, Dinah, you should know that useful thinking must always precede useful action.”

Albert suddenly realized that the mystery writer had his own reasons for wanting to go to the restaurant. Mr. Jenkins's little gray cells were all in apple-pie working order—or at least he believed they were—and following his eerily sharp assessment of their situation on board the plane, Albert was willing at least to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He wants to show us something, or prove something to us,
he thought.

“Surely we have fifteen minutes?” he coaxed.

“Well ...” Dinah said unwillingly. “I guess so ...”

“Fine,” Bob said briskly. “It's decided.” And he struck off across the room toward the restaurant, as if taking it for granted that the others would follow him.

Brian and Nick looked at each other.

“We better go along,” Albert said quietly. “I think he knows stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Brian asked.

“I don't know, exactly, but I think it might be stuff worth finding out.”

Albert followed Bob; Bethany followed Albert; the others fell in behind them, Laurel leading Dinah by the hand. The little girl was very pale.

The Cloud Nine Restaurant was really a cafeteria with a cold-case full of drinks and sandwiches at the rear and a stainless-steel counter running beside a long, compartmentalized steam-table. All the compartments were empty, all sparkling clean. There wasn't a speck of grease on the grill. Glasses—those tough cafeteria glasses with the ripply sides—were stacked in neat pyramids on rear shelves, along with a wide selection of even tougher cafeteria crockery.

Robert Jenkins was standing by the cash register. As Albert and Bethany came in, he said: “May I have another cigarette, Bethany?”

“Gee, you're a real mooch,” she said, but her tone was good-natured. She produced her box of Marlboros and shook one out. He took it, then touched her hand as she also produced her book of matches.

“I'll just use one of these, shall I?” There was a bowl filled with paper matches advertising LaSalle Business School by the cash register. FOR OUR MATCHLESS FRIENDS, a little sign beside the bowl read. Bob took a book of these matches, opened it, and pulled one of the matches free.

“Sure,” Bethany said, “but why?”

“That's what we're going to find out,” he said. He glanced at the others. They were standing around in a semicircle, watching—all except Rudy Warwick, who had drifted to the rear of the serving area and was closely inspecting the contents of the cold-case.

Bob struck the match. It left a little smear of white stuff on the striker, but didn't light. He struck it again with the same result. On the third try, the paper match bent. Most of the flammable head was gone, anyway.

“My, my,” he said in an utterly unsurprised tone. “I suppose they must be wet. Let's try a book from the bottom, shall we?
They
should be dry.”

He dug to the bottom of the bowl, spilling a number of matchbooks off the top and onto the counter as he did so. They all looked perfectly dry to Albert. Behind him, Nick and Brian exchanged another glance.