“... out of here,” Dinah said. She grimaced, and a thick, slow curdle of blood escaped from the corner 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.”

Dinah smiled a little. “What’s a trivet?” she whispered. More blood ran out of her mouth as she spoke, and Laurel could see it on her teeth. Her stomach did a slow, lazy roll.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s something nice,” Nick replied. “I’m going to turn your head to one side. Be as still as you can.”

“Okay.”

Nick moved her head, very gently, until her cheek was almost resting on the carpet. “Hurt?”

“Yes,” Dinah whispered. “Hot. Hurts to... breathe.” Her whispery voice had taken on a hoarse, cracked quality. A thin stream of blood ran from her mouth and pooled on the carpet less than ten feet from the place where Craig Toomy’s blood was drying.

From outside came the sudden high-pressure whine of aircraft engines starting. Don, Rudy, and Albert looked in that direction. Nick never looked away from the girl. He spoke gently. “Do you feel like coughing, Dinah?”

“Yes... no... don’t know.”

“It’s better if you don’t,” he said. “If you get that tickly feeling, try to ignore it. And don’t talk anymore, right?”

“Don’t... hurt... Mr Toomy.” Her words, whispered though they were, conveyed great emphasis, great urgency.

“No, love, wouldn’t think of it. Take it from me.”

“... don’t... trust... you...”

He bent, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear: “But you can, you know — trust me, I mean. For now, all you’ve got to do is lie still and let us take care of things.”

He looked up at Laurel.

“You didn’t try to remove the knife?”

“I... no.” Laurel swallowed. There was a hot, harsh lump in her throat. The swallow didn’t move it. “Should I have?”

“If you had, there wouldn’t be much chance. Do you have any nursing experience?”

“No.”

“All right, I’m going to tell you what to do... but first I need to know if the sight of blood — quite a bit of it — is going to make you pass out. And I need the truth.”

Laurel said, “I haven’t really seen a lot of blood since my sister ran into a door and knocked out two of her teeth while we were playing hide-and-seek. But I didn’t faint then.”

“Good. And you’re not going to faint now. Mr Warwick, bring me half a dozen tablecloths from that grotty little pub around the corner.” He smiled down at the girl. “Give me a minute or two, Dinah, and I think you’ll feel much better. Young Dr Hopewell is ever so gentle with the ladies — especially the ones who are young and pretty.”

Laurel felt a sudden and absolutely absurd desire to reach out and touch Nick’s hair.

What’s the matter with you? This little girl is probably dying, and you’re wondering what his hair feels like! Quit it! How stupid can you be?

Well, let’s see... Stupid enough to have been flying across the country to meet a man I first contacted through the personals column of a so-called friendship magazine. Stupid enough to have been planning to sleep with him if he turned out to be reasonably presentable... and if he didn’t have bad breath, of course.

Oh, quit it! Quit it, Laurel!

Yes, the other voice in her mind agreed. You’re absolutely right, it’s crazy to be thinking things like that at a time like this, and I will quit it... but I wonder what young Dr Hopewell would be like in bed? I wonder if he would be gentle or Laurel shivered and wondered if this was the way your average nervous breakdown started.

“They’re closer,” Dinah said. “You really” She coughed, and a large bubble of blood appeared between her lips. It popped, splattering her cheeks. Don Gaffney muttered and turned away. “really have to hurry,” she finished.

Nick’s cheery smile didn’t change a bit. “I know,” he said.

3

Craig dashed across the terminal, nimbly vaulted the escalator’s handrail, and ran down the frozen metal steps with panic roaring and beating in his head like the sound of the ocean in a storm; it even drowned out that other sound, the relentless chewing, crunching sound of the langoliers. No one saw him go. He sprinted across the lower lobby toward the exit doors... and crashed into them. He had forgotten everything, including the fact that the electric-eye door-openers wouldn’t work with the power out.

He rebounded, the breath knocked out of him, and fell to the floor, gasping like a netted fish. He lay there for a moment, groping for whatever remained of his mind, and found himself gazing at his right hand. It was only a white blob in the growing darkness, but he could see the black splatters on it, and he knew what they were: the little girl’s blood.

Except she wasn’t a little girl, not really. She lust looked like a little girl. She was the head langolier, and with her gone the others won’t be able to... won’t be able to... to...

To what?

To find him?

But he could still hear the hungry sound of their approach: that maddening chewing sound, as if somewhere to the east a tribe of huge, hungry insects was on the march.

His mind whirled. Oh, he was so confused.

Craig saw a smaller door leading outside, got up, and started in that direction. Then he stopped. There was a road out there, and the road undoubtedly led to the town of Bangor, but so what? He didn’t care about Bangor; Bangor was most definitely not part of that fabled BIG PICTURE. It was Boston that he had to get to. If he could get there, everything would be all right. And what did that mean? His father would have known. It meant he had to STOP SCAMPERING AROUND and GET WITH THE PROGRAM.

His mind seized on this idea the way a shipwreck victim seizes upon a piece of wreckage — anything that still floats, even if it’s only the shithouse door, is a prize to be cherished. If he could get to Boston, this whole experience would be... would be...

“Set aside,” he muttered.

At the words, a bright beam of rational light seemed to shaft through the darkness inside his head, and a voice (it might have been his father’s) cried out YES!! in affirmation.

But how was he to do that? Boston was too far to walk and the others wouldn’t let him back on board the only plane that still worked. Not after what he had done to their little blind mascot.

“But they don’t know,” Craig whispered. “They don’t know I did them a favor, because they don’t know what she is.” He nodded his head sagely. His eyes, huge and wet in the dark, gleamed.

Stow away, his father’s voice whispered to him. Stow away on the plane.

Yes! his mother’s voice added. Stow away! That’s the ticket. Craiggy-weggy! Only if you do that, you won’t need a ticket, will you?

Craig looked doubtfully toward the luggage conveyor belt. He could use it to get to the tarmac, but suppose they had posted a guard by the plane? The pilot wouldn’t think of it — once out of his cockpit, the man was obviously an imbecile — but the Englishman almost surely would.

So what was he supposed to do?