The Langoliers Page 19

  Dinah made a reply none of them could hear.

  Nick swallowed, armed sweat off his forehead in a quick gesture, and turned to Laurel. “Fold two of those tablecloths into square pads. Thick as you can. Kneel beside me. Close as you can get. Warwick, take off your belt.”

  Rudy began to comply at once.

  Nick looked back at Laurel. She was again struck, and not unpleasantly this time, by the power of his gaze. “I’m going to grasp the handle of the knife and draw it out. If it’s not caught on one of her ribs—and judging from its position, I don’t think it is—the blade should come out in one slow, smooth pull. The moment it’s out, I will draw back, giving you clear access to the girl’s chest area. You will place one of your pads over the wound and press. Press hard. You’re not to worry about hurting her, or compressing her chest so much she can’t breathe. She’s got at least one perforation in her lung, and I’m betting there’s a pair of them. Those are what we’ve got to worry about. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you’ve placed the pad, I’m going to lift her against the pressure you’re putting on. Mr. Warwick here will then slip the other pad beneath her if we see blood on the back of her dress. Then we’re going to tie the compresses in place with Mr. Warwick’s belt.” He glanced up at Rudy. “When I call for it, my friend, give it to me. Don’t make me ask you twice.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Can you see well enough to do this, Nick?” Laurel asked.

  “I think so,” Nick replied. “I hope so.” He looked at Dinah again. “Ready?”

  Dinah muttered something.

  “All right,” Nick said. He drew in a long breath and then let it out. “Jesus help me.”

  He wrapped his slim, long-fingered hands around the handle of the knife like a man gripping a baseball bat. He pulled. Dinah shrieked. A great gout of blood spewed from her mouth. Laurel had been leaning tensely forward, and her face was suddenly bathed in Dinah’s blood. She recoiled.

  “No!” Nick spat at her without looking around. “Don’t you dare go weak-sister on me! Don’t you dare!”

  Laurel leaned forward again, gagging and shuddering. The blade, a dully gleaming triangle of silver in the deep gloom, emerged from Dinah’s chest and glimmered in the air. The little blind girl’s chest heaved and there was a high, unearthly whistling sound as the wound sucked inward.

  “Now!” Nick grunted. “Press down! Hard as you can!”

  Laurel leaned forward. For just a moment she saw blood pouring out of the hole in Dinah’s chest, and then the wound was covered. The tablecloth pad grew warm and wet under her hands almost immediately.

  “Harder!” Nick snarled at her. “Press harder! Seal it! Seal the wound!”

  Laurel now understood what people meant when they talked about coming completely unstrung, because she felt on the verge of it herself. “I can’t! I’ll break her ribs if—”

  “Fuck her ribs! You have to make a seal!”

  Laurel rocked forward on her knees and brought her entire weight down on her hands. Now she could feel liquid seeping slowly between her fingers, although she had folded the tablecloth thick.

  The Englishman tossed the knife aside and leaned forward until his face was almost touching Dinah’s. Her eyes were closed. He rolled one of the lids. “I think she’s finally out,” he said. “Can’t tell for sure because her eyes are so odd, but I hope to heaven she is.” Hair had fallen over his brow. He tossed it back impatiently with a jerk of his head and looked at Laurel. “You’re doing well. Stay with it, all right? I’m rolling her now. Keep the pressure on as I do.”

  “There’s so much blood,” Laurel groaned. “Will she drown?”

  “I don’t know. Keep the pressure on. Ready, Mr. Warwick?”

  “Oh Christ I guess so,” Rudy Warwick croaked.

  “Right. Here we go.” Nick slipped his hands beneath Dinah’s right shoulderblade and grimaced. “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Far worse. She’s soaked.” He began to pull Dinah slowly upward against the pressure Laurel was putting on. Dinah uttered a thick, croaking moan. A gout of half-congealed blood flew from her mouth and spattered across the floor. And now Laurel could hear a rain of blood pattering down on the carpet from beneath the girl.

  Suddenly the world began to swim away from her.

  “Keep that pressure on!” Nick cried. “Don’t let up!”

  But she was fainting.

  It was her understanding of what Nick Hopewell would think of her if she did faint which caused her to do what she did next. Laurel stuck her tongue out between her teeth like a child making a face and bit down on it as hard as she could. The pain was bright and exquisite, the salty taste of her own blood immediately filled her mouth… but that sensation that the world was swimming away from her like a big lazy fish in an aquarium passed. She was here again.

  Downstairs, there was a sudden shriek of pain and surprise. It was followed by a hoarse shout. On the heels of the shout came a loud, drilling scream.

  Rudy and Laurel both turned in that direction. “The boy!” Rudy said. “Him and Gaffney! They—”

  “They’ve found Mr. Toomy after all,” Nick said. His face was a complicated mask of effort. The tendons on his neck stood out like steel pulleys. “We’ll just have to hope—”

  There was a thud from downstairs, followed by a terrible howl of agony. Then a whole series of muffled thumps.

  “—that they’re on top of the situation. We can’t do anything about it now. If we stop in the middle of what we’re doing, this little girl is going to die for sure.”

  “But that sounded like the kid !”

  “Can’t be helped, can it? Slide the pad under her, Warwick. Do it right now, or I’ll kick your bloody arse square.”

  6

  Don led the way down the escalator, then stopped briefly at the bottom to fumble in his pocket. He brought out a square object that gleamed faintly in the dark. “It’s my Zippo,” he said. “Do you think it’ll still work?”

  “I don’t know,” Albert said. “It might… for awhile. You better not try it until you have to. I sure hope it does. We won’t be able to see a thing without it.”

  “Where’s this Airport Services place?”

  Albert pointed to the door Craig Toomy had gone through less than five minutes before. “Right over there.”

  “Do you think it’s unlocked?”

  “Well,” Albert said, “there’s only one way to find out.”

  They crossed the terminal, Don still leading the way with his lighter in his right hand.

  7

  Craig heard them coming—more servants of the langoliers, no doubt. But he wasn’t worried. He had taken care of the thing which had been masquerading as a little girl, and he would take care of these other things, as well. He curled his hand around the letter-opener, got up, and sidled back around the desk.

  “Do you think it’s unlocked?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

  You’re going to find out something, anyway, Craig thought. He reached the wall beside the door. It was lined with paper-stacked shelves. He reached out and felt doorhinges. Good. The opening door would block him off from them… not that they were likely to see him, anyway. It was as black as an elephant’s asshole in here. He raised the letter-opener to shoulder height.

  “The knob doesn’t move.” Craig relaxed… but only for a moment.

  “Try pushing it.” That was the smart-ass kid.

  The door began to open.

  8

  Don stepped in, blinking at the gloom. He thumbed the cover of his lighter back, held it up, and flicked the wheel. There was a spark and the wick caught at once, producing a low flame. They saw what was apparently a combined office and storeroom. There was an untidy stack of luggage in one corner and a Xerox machine in another. The back wall was lined with shelves and the shelves were stacked with what looked like forms of various kinds.

  Don stepped
further into the office, lifting his lighter like a spelunker holding up a guttering candle in a dark cave. He pointed to the right wall. “Hey, kid! Ace! Look!”

  A poster mounted there showed a tipsy guy in a business suit staggering out of a bar and looking at his watch. WORK IS THE CURSE OF THE DRINKING CLASS, the poster advised. Mounted on the wall beside it was a white plastic box with a large red cross on it. And leaning below it was a folded stretcher… the kind with wheels.

  Albert wasn’t looking at the poster or the first-aid kit or the stretcher, however. His eyes were fixed on the desk in the center of the room.

  On it he saw a heaped tangle of paper strips.

  “Look out!” he shouted. “Look out, he’s in h—”

  Craig Toomy stepped out from behind the door and struck.

  9

  “Belt,” Nick said.

  Rudy didn’t move or reply. His head was turned toward the door of the restaurant. The sounds from downstairs had ceased. There was only the rattling noise and the steady, throbbing rumble of the jet engine in the dark outside.

  Nick kicked backward like a mule, connecting with Rudy’s shin.

  “Ow!”

  “Belt! Now!”

  Rudy dropped clumsily to his knees and moved next to Nick, who was holding Dinah up with one hand and pressing a second tablecloth pad against her back with the other.

  “Slip it under the pad,” Nick said. He was panting, and sweat was running down his face in wide streams. “Quick! I can’t hold her up forever!”

  Rudy slid the belt under the pad. Nick lowered Dinah, reached across the girl’s small body, and lifted her left shoulder long enough to pull the belt out the other side. Then he looped it over her chest and cinched it tight. He put the belt’s free end in Laurel’s hand. “Keep the pressure on,” he said, standing up. “You can’t use the buckle—she’s much too small.”

  “Are you going downstairs?” Laurel asked.

  “Yes. That seems indicated.”

  “Be careful. Please be careful.”

  He grinned at her, and all those white teeth suddenly shining out in the gloom were startling… but not frightening, she discovered. Quite the opposite.

  “Of course. It’s how I get along.” He reached down and squeezed her shoulder. His hand was warm, and at his touch a little shiver chased through her. “You did very well, Laurel. Thank you.”

  He began to turn away, and then a small hand groped out and caught the cuff of his blue-jeans. He looked down and saw that Dinah’s blind eyes were open again.

  “Don’t…” she began, and then a choked sneezing fit shook her. Blood flew from her nose in a spray of fine droplets.

  “Dinah, you mustn’t—”

  “Don’t… you… kill him!” she said, and even in the dark Laurel could sense the fantastic effort she was making to speak at all.

  Nick looked down at her thoughtfully. “The bugger stabbed you, you know. Why are you so insistent on keeping him whole?”

  Her narrow chest strained against the belt. The bloodstained tablecloth pad heaved. She struggled and managed to say one thing more. They all heard it; Dinah was at great pains to speak clearly. “All… I know… is that we need him,” she whispered, and then her eyes closed again.

  10

  Craig buried the letter-opener fist-deep in the nape of Don Gaffney’s neck. Don screamed and dropped the lighter. It struck the floor and lay there, guttering sickishly. Albert shouted in surprise as he saw Craig step toward Don, who was now staggering in the direction of the desk and clawing weakly behind him for the protruding object.

  Craig grabbed the opener with one hand and planted his other against Don’s back. As he simultaneously pushed and pulled, Albert heard the sound of a hungry man pulling a drumstick off a well-done turkey. Don screamed again, louder this time, and went sprawling over the desk. His arms flew out ahead of him, knocking to the floor an IN/OUT box and the stack of lost-luggage forms Craig had been ripping.

  Craig turned toward Albert, flicking a spray of blood-droplets from the blade of the letter-opener as he did so. “You’re one of them, too,” he breathed. “Well, fuck you. I’m going to Boston and you can’t stop me. None of you can stop me.” Then the lighter on the floor went out and they were in darkness.

  Albert took a step backward and felt a warm swoop of air in his face as Craig swung the blade through the spot where he had been only a second before. He flailed behind him with his free hand, terrified of backing into a corner where Craig could use the knife (in the Zippo’s pallid, fading light, that was what he had thought it was) on him at will and his own weapon would be useless as well as stupid. His fingers found only empty space, and he backed through the door into the lobby. He did not feel cool; he did not feel like the fastest Hebrew on any side of the Mississippi; he did not feel faster than blue blazes. He felt like a scared kid who had foolishly chosen a childhood playtoy instead of a real weapon because he had been unable to believe—really, really believe—that it could come to this in spite of what the lunatic asshole had done to the little girl upstairs. He could smell himself. Even in the dead air he could smell himself. It was the rancid monkeypiss aroma of fear.

  Craig came gliding out through the door with the letter-opener raised. He moved like a dancing shadow in the dark. “I see you, sonny,” he breathed. “I see you just like a cat.”

  He began to slide forward. Albert backed away from him. At the same time he began to pendulum the toaster back and forth, reminding himself that he would have only one good shot before Toomy moved in and planted the blade in his throat or chest.

  And if the toaster goes flying out of the goddam pocket before it hits him, I’m a goner.

  11

  Craig closed in, weaving the top half of his body from side to side like a snake coming out of a basket. An absent little smile touched the corners of his lips and made small dimples there. That’s right, Craig’s father said grimly from his undying stronghold inside Craig’s head. If you have to pick them off one by one, you can do that. EPO, Craig, remember? EPO. Effort Pays Off.

  That’s right, Craiggy-weggy, his mother chimed in. You can do it, and you have to do it.

  “I’m sorry,” Craig murmured to the white-faced boy through his smile. “I’m really, really sorry, but I have to do it. If you could see things from my perspective, you’d understand.”

  12

  Albert shot a quick glance behind him and saw he was backing toward the United Airlines ticket desk. If he retreated much further, the backward arc of his swing would be restricted. It had to be soon. He began to pendulum the toaster more rapidly, his sweaty hand clutching the twist of tablecloth.

  Craig caught the movement in the dark, but couldn’t tell what it was the kid was swinging. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter. He gathered himself, then sprang forward.

  “I’M GOING TO BOSTON!” he shrieked. “I’M GOING TO—”

  Albert’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he saw Craig make his move. The toaster was on the rearward half of its arc. Instead of snapping his wrist forward to reverse its direction, Albert let his arm go with the weight of the toaster, swinging it up and over his head in an exaggerated pitching gesture. At the same time he stepped to the left. The lump at the end of the tablecloth made a short, hard circlet in the air, held firmly in its pocket by centripetal force. Craig cooperated by stepping forward into the toaster’s descending arc. It met his forehead and the bridge of his nose with a hard, toneless crunch.

  Craig wailed with agony and dropped the letter-opener. His hands went to his face and he staggered backward. Blood from his broken nose poured between his fingers like water from a busted hydrant. Albert was terrified of what he had done but even more terrified of letting up now that Toomy was hurt. Albert took another step to the left and swung the tablecloth sidearm. It whipped through the air and smashed into the center of Craig’s chest with a hard thump. Craig fell over backward, still howling.

  For Albert “Ace” Kaus
sner, only one thought remained; all else was a tumbling, fragmented swirl of color, image, and emotion.

  I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me. I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me.

  At least Toomy had dropped his weapon; it lay glinting on the lobby carpet. Albert planted one of his loafers on it and unloaded with the toaster again. As it came down, Albert bowed from the waist like an old-fashioned butler greeting a member of the royal family. The lump at the end of the tablecloth smashed into Craig Toomy’s gasping mouth. There was a sound like glass being crushed inside of a handkerchief.

  Oh God, Albert thought. That was his teeth.

  Craig flopped and squirmed on the floor. It was terrible to watch him, perhaps more terrible because of the poor light. There was something monstrous and unkillable and insectile about his horrible vitality.

  His hand closed upon Albert’s loafer. Albert stepped away from the letter-opener with a little cry of revulsion, and Craig tried to grasp it when he did. Between his eyes, his nose was a burst bulb of flesh. He could hardly see Albert at all; his vision was eaten up by a vast white corona of light. A steady high keening note rang in his head, the sound of a TV test-pattern turned up to full volume.

  He was beyond doing any damage, but Albert didn’t know it. In a panic, he brought the toaster down on Craig’s head again. There was a metallic crunch-rattle as the heating elements inside it broke free.

  Craig stopped moving.

  Albert stood over him, sobbing for breath, the weighted tablecloth dangling from one hand. Then he took two long, shambling steps toward the escalator, bowed deeply again, and vomited on the floor.

  13