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 more 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
Brian crossed himself as he thumped back the black plastic shield which covered the screen of the 767’s INS video-display terminal, half-expecting it to be smooth and blank. He looked at it closely... and let out a deep sigh of relief.
LAST PROGRAM
COMPLETE,
it informed him in cool blue-green letters, and below that:
NEW PROGRAM? Y N
Brian typed Y, then:
REVERSE
AP29:LAX/LOGAN
The screen went dark for a moment. Then:
INCLUDE DIVERSION IN AP 29? Y N
Brian typed Y.
REVERSE
the screen informed him, and, less than five seconds later:
PROGRAM
COMPLETE
“Captain Engle?”
He turned around. Bethany was standing in the cockpit doorway. She looked pale and haggard in the cabin lights.
“I’m a little busy right now, Bethany.”
“Why aren’t they back?”
“I can’t say.”
“I asked Bob — Mr Jenkins — if he could see anyone moving around inside the terminal, and he said he couldn’t. What if they’re all dead?”
“I’m sure they’re not. If it will make you feel better, why don’t you join him at the bottom of the ladder? I’ve got some more work to do here. At least I hope I do.”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Yes. I sure am.”
She smiled a little. “I’m sort of glad. It’s bad to be scared all by yourself — totally bogus. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Thanks. I’m sure they’ll be out soon.”
She left. Brian turned back to the INS monitor and typed:
ARE THERE PROBLEMS WITH THIS PROGRAM?
He hit EXECUTE.
NO PROBLEMS. THANK YOU FOR FLYING AMERICAN PRIDE.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” Brian murmured, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Now, he thought, if only the fuel will burn.
14
Bob heard footsteps on the ladder and turned quickly. It was only Bethany, descending slowly and carefully, but he still felt jumpy. The sound coming out of the cast was gradually growing louder.
Closer.
“Hi, Bethany. May I borrow another of your cigarettes?”
She offered the depleted pack to him, then took one herself. She had tucked Albert’s book of experimental matches into the cellophane covering the pack, and when she tried one it lit easily.
“Any sign of them?”
“Well, it all depends on what you mean by ‘any sign,’ I guess,” Bob said cautiously. “I think I heard some shouting just before you came down.”
“What he had heard actually sounded like screaming — shrieking, not to put too fine a point on it — but he saw no reason to tell the girl that.” She looked as frightened as Bob felt, and he had an idea she’d taken a liking to Albert.
“I hope Dinah’s going to be all right,” she said, “but I don’t know. He cut her really bad.”
“Did you see the captain?”
Bethany nodded. “He sort of kicked me out. I guess he’s programming his instruments, or something.”
Bob Jenkins nodded soberly. “I hope so.”
Conversation lapsed. They both looked east. A new and even more ominous sound now underlay the crunching, chewing noise: a high, inanimate screaming. It was a strangely mechanical sound, one that made Bob think of an automatic transmission low on fluid.
“It’s a lot closer now, isn’t it?”
Bob nodded reluctantly. He drew on his cigarette and the glowing ember momentarily illuminated a pair of tired, terrified eyes.
“What do you suppose it is, Mr Jenkins?”
He shook his head slowly. “Dear girl, I hope we never have to find out.”
15
Halfway down the escalator, Nick saw a bent-over figure standing in front of the useless bank of pay telephones. It was impossible to tell if it was Albert or Craig Toomy. The Englishman reached into his right front pocket, holding his left hand against it to prevent any jingling, and by touch selected a pair of quarters from his change. He closed his right hand into a fist and slipped the quarters between his fingers, creating a makeshift set of brass knuckles. Then he continued down to the lobby.
The figure by the telephones looked up as Nick appeared. It was Albert. “Don’t step in the puke,” he said dully.
Nick dropped the quarters back into his pocket and hurried to where the boy was standing with his hands propped above his knees like an old man who has badly overestimated his capacity for exercise. He could smell the high, sour stench of vomit. That and the sweaty stink of fear coming off the boy were smells with which he was all too familiar. He knew them from the Falklands, and even more intimately from Northern Ireland. He put his left arm around the boy’s shoulders and Albert straightened very slowly.
“Where are they, Ace?” Nick asked quietly. “Gaffney and Toomy — where are they?”
“Mr Toomy’s there.” He pointed toward a crumpled shape on the floor. “Mr Gaffney’s in the Airport Services office. I think they’re both dead. Mr Toomy was in the Airport Services office. Behind the door, I guess. He killed Mr Gaffney because Mr Gaffney walked in first. If I’d walked in first, he would have killed me instead.”
Albert swallowed hard.
“Then I killed Mr Toomy. I had to. He came after me, see? He found another knife someplace and he came after me.” He spoke in a tone which could have been mistaken for indifference, but Nick knew better. And it was not indifference he saw on the white blur of Albert’s face.
“Can you get hold of yourself, Ace?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know. I never k-k-killed anyone before, and—” Albert uttered a strangled, miserable sob.
“I know,” Nick said. “It’s a horrible thing, but it can be gotten over. I know. And you must get over it, Ace. We have miles to go before we sleep, and there’s no time for therapy. The sound is louder.”
He left Albert and went over to the crumpled form on the floor. Craig Toomy was lying on his side with one upraised arm partially obscuring his face. Nick rolled him onto his back, looked, whistled softly. Toomy was still alive — he could hear the harsh rasp of his breath — but Nick would have bet his bank account that the man was not shamming this time. His nose hadn’t just been broken; it looked vaporized. His mouth was a bloody socket ringed with the shattered remains of his teeth. And the deep, troubled dent in the center of Toomy’s forehead suggested that Albert had done some creative retooling of the man’s skull-plate.
“He did all this with a toaster?” Nick muttered. “Jesus and Mary, Tom, Dick and Harry.” He got up and raised his voice. “He’s not dead, Ace.”
Albert had bent over again when Nick left him. Now he straightened slowly and took a step toward him. “He’s not?”
“Listen for yourself. Out for the count, but still in the game.” Not for long, though; not by the sound of him. “Let’s check on Mr Gaffney — maybe he got off lucky, too. And what about the stretcher?”