“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.
And if the toaster goes flying out of the goddam pocket before it hits him, I’m a goner.
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.”
He closed in on Albert, raising the letter-opener to his eyes.
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 are 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 are. 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 backwards. 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” Kaussner, 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.