There was nothing to see but the empty concrete and the moveless white sky, but his eyes began to widen nonetheless and he felt fear begin to steal into his heart.
They’re coming, a dead voice suddenly told him. It was the voice of his father, and it spoke from a small, haunted mausoleum tucked away in a gloomy corner of Craig Toomy’s heart.
“No,” he whispered, and the word spun a little blossom of fog on the window in front of his lips. “No one is coming.”
You’ve been bad. Worse, you’ve been lazy.
“No!”
Yes. You had an appointment and you skipped it. You ran away. You ran away to Bangor, Maine, of all the silly places.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he muttered. He was gripping the handle of the briefcase with almost painful tightness now. “I was taken against my will. I... I was shanghaied!”
No reply from that interior voice. Only waves of disapproval. And once again Craig intuited the pressure he was under, the terrible never-ending pressure, the weight of the fathoms. The interior voice did not have to tell him there were no excuses; Craig knew that. He knew it of old.
THEY were here... and they will be back. You know that, don’t you?
He knew. The langoliers would be back. They would be back for him. He could sense them. He had never seen them, but he knew how horrible they would be. And was he alone in his knowledge? He thought not.
He thought perhaps the little blind girl knew something about the langoliers as well.
But that didn’t matter. The only thing which did was getting to Boston, getting to Boston before the langoliers could arrive in Bangor from their terrible, doomish lair to eat him alive and screaming. He had to get to that meeting at the Pru, had to let them know what he had done, and then he would be...
Free.
He would be free.
Craig pulled himself away from the window, away from the emptiness and the stillness, and plunged into the corridor beneath the sign. He passed the empty shops without a glance. Beyond them he came to the door he was looking for. There was a small rectangular plaque mounted on it, just above a bullseye peephole. AIRPORT SECURITY, it said.
He had to get in there. One way or another, he had to get in there.
All of this... this craziness... it doesn’t have to belong to me. I don’t have to own it. Not anymore.
Craig reached out and touched the doorknob of the Airport Security office. The blank look in his eyes had been replaced by an expression of clear determination.
I have been under stress for a long, a very long, time. Since I was seven? No — I think it started even before that. The fact is, I’ve been under stress for as long as I can remember. This latest piece of craziness is just a new variation. It’s probably just what the man in the ratty sport-coat said it was: a test. Agents of some secret government agency or sinister foreign power running a test. But I choose not to participate in any more tests. I don’t care if it’s my father in charge, or my mother, or the dean of the Graduate School of Management, or the Desert Sun Banking Corporation’s Board of Directors. I choose not to participate. I choose to escape. I choose to get to Boston and finish what I set out to do when I presented the Argentinian bond-buy in the first place. If I don’t...
But he knew what would happen if he didn’t.
He would go mad.
Craig tried the doorknob. It did not move beneath his hand, but when he gave it a small, frustrated push, the door swung open. Either it had been left slightly unlatched, or it had unlocked when the power went off and the security systems went dead. Craig didn’t care which. The important thing was that he wouldn’t need to muss his clothes trying to crawl through an air-conditioning duct or something. He still had every intention of showing up at his meeting before the end of the day, and he didn’t want his clothes smeared with dirt and grease when he got there. One of the simple, unexceptional truths of life was this: guys with dirt on their suits have no credibility.
He pushed the door open and went inside.
11
Brian and Nick reached the top of the escalator first, and the others gathered around them. This was BIA’s central waiting room, a large square box filled with contour plastic seats (some with coin-op TVs bolted to the arms) and dominated by a wall of polarized floor-to-ceiling windows. To their immediate left was the airport newsstand and the security checkpoint which served Gate I; to their right and all the way across the room was The Red Baron Bar and The Cloud Nine Restaurant. Beyond the restaurant was the corridor leading to the Airport Security Office and the International Arrivals Annex.
“Come on—” Nick began, and Dinah said, “Wait.”
She spoke in a strong, urgent voice and they all turned toward her curiously.
Dinah dropped Laurel’s hand and raised both of her own. She cupped the thumbs behind her ears and splayed her fingers out like fans. Then she simply stood there, still as a post, in this odd and rather weird listening posture.
“What—” Brian began, and Dinah said “Shhh!” in an abrupt, inarguable sibilant.
She turned slightly to the left, paused, then turned in the other direction until the white light coming through the windows fell directly on her, turning her already pale face into something which was ghostlike and eerie. She took off her dark glasses. The eyes beneath were wide, brown, and not quite blank.
“There,” she said in a low, dreaming voice, and Laurel felt terror begin to stroke at her heart with chilly fingers. Nor was she alone. Bethany was crowding close to her on one side, and Don Gaffney moved in against her other side. “There — I can feel the light. They said that’s how they know I can see again. I can always feel the light. It’s like heat inside my head.”
“Dinah, what—” Brian began.
Nick elbowed him. The Englishman’s face was long and drawn, his forehead ribbed with lines. “Be quiet, mate.”
“The fight is... here.”
She walked slowly away from them, her hands still fanned out by her ears, her elbows held out before her to encounter any object which might stand in her way. She advanced until she was less than two feet from the window. Then she slowly reached out until her fingers touched the glass. They looked like black starfish outlined against the white sky. She let out a small, unhappy murmur.
“The glass is wrong, too,” she said in that dreaming voice.
“Dinah—” Laurel began.
“Shhh...” she whispered without turning round. She stood at the window like a little girl waiting for her father to come home from work. “I hear something.”
These whispered words sent a wordless, thoughtless horror through Albert Kaussner’s mind. He felt pressure on his shoulders and looked down to see he had crossed his arms across his chest and was clutching himself hard.
Brian listened with all his concentration. He heard his own breathing, and the breathing of the others... but he heard nothing else. It’s her imagination, he thought. That’s all it is.
But he wondered.
“What?” Laurel asked urgently. “What do you hear, Dinah?”
“I don’t know,” she said without turning from the window. “It’s very faint. I thought I heard it when we got off the airplane, and then I decided it was just my imagination. Now I can hear it better. I can hear it even through the glass. It sounds... a little like Rice Krispies after you pour in the milk.”
Brian turned to Nick and spoke in a low voice. “Do you hear anything?”
“Not a bloody thing,” Nick said, matching Brian’s tone. “But she’s blind. She’s used to making her ears do double duty.”
“I think it’s hysteria,” Brian said. He was whispering now, his lips almost touching Nick’s ear.