Four Past Midnight (23 page)

But Nick knew.

“Don't you see?” he asked quietly. “Don't you see, mate? If batteries don't work, if matches don't light—”

“—then jet-fuel won't burn,” Brian finished. “It will be as used up and worn out as everything else in this world.” He looked at each one of them in turn. “I might as well fill up the fuel tanks with molasses.”

“Have either of you fine young ladies ever heard of the langoliers?” Craig asked suddenly. His tone was light, almost vivacious.

Laurel jumped and looked nervously toward the others, who were still standing by the windows and talking. Dinah only turned toward Craig's voice, apparently not surprised at all.

“No,” she said calmly. “What are those?”

“Don't talk to him, Dinah,” Laurel whispered.

“I heard that,” Craig said in the same pleasant tone of voice. “Dinah's not the only one with sharp ears, you know.”

Laurel felt her face grow warm.

“I wouldn't hurt the child, anyway,” Craig went on. “No more than I would have hurt that girl. I'm just frightened. Aren't you?”

“Yes,” Laurel snapped, “but I don't take hostages and then try to shoot teenage boys when I'm frightened.”

“You didn't have what looked like the whole front line of the Los Angeles Rams caving in on you at once,” Craig said. “And that English fellow ...” He laughed. The sound of his laughter in this quiet place was disturbingly merry, disturbingly
normal.
“Well, all I can say is that if you think
I'm
crazy, you haven't been watching
him
at all. That man's got a chainsaw for a mind.”

Laurel didn't know what to say. She knew it hadn't been the way Craig Toomy was presenting it, but when he spoke it seemed as though it
should
have been that way ... and what he said about the Englishman was too close to the truth. The man's eyes ... and the kick he had chopped into Mr. Toomy's ribs after he had been tied up ... Laurel shivered.

“What are the langoliers, Mr. Toomy?” Dinah asked.

“Well, I always used to think they were just make-believe,” Craig said in that same good-humored voice. “Now I'm beginning to wonder ... because I hear it, too, young lady. Yes I do.”

“The sound?” Dinah asked softly. “That sound is the langoliers?”

Laurel put one hand on Dinah's shoulder. “I really wish you wouldn't talk to him anymore, honey. He makes me nervous.”

“Why? He's tied up, isn't he?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you could always call for the others, couldn't you?”

“Well, I think—”

“I want to know about the langoliers.”

With some effort, Craig turned his head to look at them ... and now Laurel felt some of the charm and force of personality which had kept Craig firmly on the fast track as he worked out the high-pressure script his parents had written for him. She felt this even though he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind him and his own blood drying on his forehead and left cheek.

“My father said the langoliers were little creatures that lived in closets and sewers and other dark places.”

“Like elves?” Dinah wanted to know.

Craig laughed and shook his head. “Nothing so pleasant, I'm afraid. He said that all they really were was hair and teeth and fast little legs—their little legs were fast, he said, so they could catch up with bad boys and girls no matter how quickly they scampered.”

“Stop it,” Laurel said coldly. “You're scaring the child.”

“No, he's not,” Dinah said. “I know make-believe when I hear it. It's interesting, that's all.” Her face said it was something more than interesting, however. She was intent, fascinated.

“It
is,
isn't it?” Craig said, apparently pleased by her interest. “I think what Laurel means is that I'm scaring
her.
Do I win the cigar, Laurel? If so, I'd like an El Producto, please. None of those cheap White Owls for me.” He laughed again.

Laurel didn't reply, and after a moment Craig resumed.

“My dad said there were thousands of langoliers. He said there had to be, because there were
millions
of bad boys and girls scampering about the world. That's how he always put it. My father never saw a child run in his entire life. They always scampered. I think he liked that word because it implies senseless, directionless, nonproductive motion. But the langoliers ...
they
run.
They
have purpose. In fact, you could say that the langoliers are purpose personified.”

“What did the kids do that was so bad?” Dinah asked. “What did they do that was so bad the langoliers had to run after them?”

“You know, I'm glad you asked that question,” Craig said. “Because when my father said someone was bad, Dinah, what he meant was lazy. A lazy person couldn't be part of THE BIG PICTURE. No way. In my house, you were either part of THE BIG PICTURE or you were LYING DOWN ON THE JOB, and that was the worst kind of bad you could be. Throat-cutting was a venial sin compared to LYING DOWN ON THE JOB. He said that if you weren't part of THE BIG PICTURE, the langoliers would come and take you out of the picture completely. He said you'd be in your bed one night and then you'd hear them coming ... crunching and smacking their way toward you ... and even if you tried to scamper off, they'd get you. Because of their fast little—”

“That's enough,”
Laurel said. Her voice was flat and dry.

“The sound is out there, though,” Craig said. His eyes regarded her brightly, almost roguishly. “You can't deny that. The sound really is out th—”

“Stop it or I'll hit you with something myself.”

“Okay,” Craig said. He rolled over on his back, grimaced, and then rolled further, onto his other side and away from them. “A man gets tired of being hit when he's down and hog-tied.”

Laurel's face grew not just warm but hot this time. She bit her lip and said nothing. She felt like crying. How was she supposed to handle someone like this?
How?
First the man seemed as crazy as a bedbug, and then he seemed as sane as could be. And meanwhile, the whole world—Mr. Toomy's BIG PICTURE—had gone to hell.

“I bet you were scared of your dad, weren't you, Mr. Toomy?”

Craig looked back over his shoulder at Dinah, startled. He smiled again, but this smile was different. It was a rueful, hurt smile with no public relations in it. “This time you win the cigar, miss,” he said. “I was terrified of him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Was he LYING DOWN ON THE JOB? Did the langoliers get him?”

Craig thought for a long time. He remembered being told that his father had had his heart attack while in his office. When his secretary buzzed him for his ten o'clock staff meeting and there was no answer, she had come in to find him dead on the carpet, eyes bulging, foam drying on his mouth.

Did someone tell you that?
he wondered suddenly.
That his eyes were bugging out, that there was foam on his mouth? Did someone actually tell you that
—
Mother, perhaps, when she was drunk—or was it just wishful thinking?

“Mr. Toomy? Did they?”

“Yes,” Craig said thoughtfully. “I guess he was, and I guess they did.”

“Mr. Toomy?”

“What?”

“I'm not the way you see me. I'm not ugly. None of us are.”

He looked at her, startled. “How would you know how you look to me, little blind miss?”

“You might be surprised,” Dinah said.

Laurel turned toward her, suddenly more uneasy than ever ... but of course there was nothing to see. Dinah's dark glasses defeated curiosity.

The other passengers stood on the far side of the waiting room, listening to that low rattling sound and saying nothing. It seemed there was nothing left to say.

“What do we do now?” Don asked. He seemed to have wilted inside his red lumberjack's shirt. Albert thought the shirt itself had lost some of its cheerfully macho vibrancy.

“I don't know,” Brian said. He felt a horrible impotence toiling away in his belly. He looked out at the plane, which had been
his
plane for a little while, and was struck by its clean lines and smooth beauty. The Delta 727 sitting to its left at the jetway looked like a dowdy matron by comparison.
It looks good to you because it's never going to fly again, that's all. It's like glimpsing a beautiful woman for just a moment in the back seat of a limousine—she looks even more beautiful than she really is because you know she's not yours, can never be yours.

“How much fuel is left, Brian?” Nick asked suddenly. “Maybe the burn-rate isn't the same over here. Maybe there's more than you realize.”

“All the gauges are in apple-pie working order,” Brian said. “When we landed, I had less than 600 pounds. To get back to where this happened, we'd need at least 50,000.”

Bethany took out her cigarettes and offered the pack to Bob. He shook his head. She stuck one in her mouth, took out her matches, and struck one.

It didn't light.

“Oh-oh,” she said.

Albert glanced over. She struck the match again ... and again ... and again. There was nothing. She looked at him, frightened.

“Here,” Albert said. “Let me.”

He took the matches from her hand and tore another one loose. He struck it across the strip on the back. There was nothing.

“Whatever it is, it seems to be catching,” Rudy Warwick observed.

Bethany burst into tears, and Bob offered her his handkerchief.

“Wait a minute,” Albert said, and struck the match again. This time it lit ... but the flame was low, guttering, unenthusiastic. He applied it to the quivering tip of Bethany's cigarette and a clear image suddenly filled his mind: a sign he had passed as he rode his ten-speed to Pasadena High School every day for the last three years. CAUTION, this sign said. TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD.

He didn't know ... at least not yet. All he knew for sure was that some idea wanted out but was, at least for the time being, stuck in the gears.

Albert shook the match out. It didn't take much shaking.

Bethany drew on her cigarette, then grimaced. “Blick! It tastes like a Carlton, or something.”

“Blow smoke in my face,” Albert said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Blow some in my face.”

She did as he asked, and Albert sniffed at the smoke. Its former sweet fragrance was now muted.

“I'm going back to the restaurant,” Nick said. He looked depressed. “Yon Cassius has a lean and slippery feel. I don't like leaving him with the ladies for too long.”

Brian started after him and the others followed. Albert thought there was something a little amusing about these tidal flows—they were behaving like cows which sense thunder in the air.

“Come on,” Bethany said. “Let's go.” She dropped her half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and used Bob's handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Then she took Albert's hand.

They were halfway across the waiting room and Albert was looking at the back of Mr. Gaffney's red shirt when it struck him again, more forcibly this time:
TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD.

“Wait a minute!” he yelled. He suddenly slipped an arm around Bethany's waist, pulled her to him, put his face into the hollow of her throat, and breathed in deeply.

“Oh my! We hardly know each other!” Bethany cried. Then she began to giggle helplessly and put her arms around Albert's neck. Albert, a boy whose natural shyness usually disappeared only in his daydreams, paid no notice. He took another deep breath through his nose. The smells of her hair, sweat, and perfume were still there, but they were faint; very faint.

They all looked around, but Albert had already let Bethany go and was hurrying back to the windows.

“Wow!” Bethany said. She was still giggling a little, and blushing brightly. “Strange dude!”

Albert looked at Flight 29 and saw what Brian had noticed a few minutes earlier: it was clean and smooth and almost impossibly white. It seemed to vibrate in the dull stillness outside.

Suddenly the idea came up for him. It seemed to burst behind his eyes like a firework. The central concept was a bright, burning ball; implications radiated out from it like fiery spangles and for a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe.

“Albert?” Bob asked. “Albert, what's wro—”

“Captain Engle!”
Albert screamed. In the restaurant, Laurel sat bolt upright and Dinah clasped her arm with hands like talons. Craig Toomy craned his neck to look.
“Captain Engle, come here!”

Outside, the sound was louder.

To Brian it was the sound of radio static. Nick Hopewell thought it sounded like a strong wind rattling dry tropical grasses. Albert, who had worked at McDonald's the summer before, was reminded of the sound of french fries in a deep-fat fryer, and to Bob Jenkins it was the sound of paper being crumpled in a distant room.

The four of them crawled through the hanging rubber strips and then stepped down into the luggage-unloading area, listening to the sound of what Craig Toomy called the langoliers.

“How much closer is it?” Brian asked Nick.

“Can't tell. It
sounds
closer, but of course we were inside before.”

“Come on,” Albert said impatiently. “How do we get back aboard? Climb the slide?”