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 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.