Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [69]
'Because the rip may still be there. Don't you see? We might be able to fly back through it.'
Nick looked at Bob in sudden startled concentration, then turned to Brian. 'He might have something there, mate. He just might.'
Albert Kaussner's mind was diverted onto an irrelevant but fascinating side-track: if the rip were still there, and if Flight 29 had been on a frequently used altitude and heading - a kind of east-west avenue in the sky - then perhaps other planes had gone through it between 1:07 this morning and now (whenever now was). Perhaps there were other planes landing or landed at other deserted American airports, other crews and passengers wandering around, stunned ...
No, he thought. We happened to have a pilot on board. What are the chances of that happening twice?
He thought of what Mr Jenkins had said about Ted Williams's sixteen consecutive on-bases and shivered.
'He might or he might not,' Brian said. 'It doesn't really matter, because we're not going anyplace in that plane.'
'Why not?' Rudy asked. 'If you could refuel it, I don't see .
'Remember the matches? The ones from the bowl in the restaurant? The ones that wouldn't light?'
Rudy looked blank, but an expression of huge dismay dawned on Bob Jenkins's face. He put his hand to his forehead and took a step backwards. He actually seemed to shrink before them.
'What?' Don asked. He was looking at Brian from beneath drawn-together brows. It was a look which conveyed both confusion and suspicion. 'What does that have to -'
But Nick knew.
'Don't you see?' he asked quietly. 'Don't you see, mate? If batteries don't work, if matches don't light -'
'then jet-fuel won't burn,' Brian finished. 'It will be as used up and worn out as everything else in this world.' He looked at each one of them in turn. 'I might as well fill up the fuel tanks with molasses.'
2
'Have either of you fine ladies ever heard of the langoliers?' Craig asked suddenly. His tone was light, almost vivacious.
Laurel jumped and looked nervously toward the others, who were still standing by the windows and talking. Dinah only turned toward Craig's voice, apparently not surprised at all.
'No,' she said calmly. 'What are those?'
'Don't talk to him, Dinah,' Laurel whispered.
'I heard that,' Craig said in the same pleasant tone of voice. 'Dinah's not the only one with sharp ears, you know.'
Laurel felt her face grow warm.
'I wouldn't hurt the child, anyway,' Craig went on. 'No more than I would have hurt that girl. I'm just frightened. Aren't you?'
'Yes,' Laurel snapped, 'but I don't take hostages and then try to shoot teenage boys when I'm frightened.'
'You didn't have what looked like the whole front line of the Los Angeles Rams caving in on you at once,' Craig said. 'And that English fellow . . .' He laughed. The sound of his laughter in this quiet place was disturbingly merry, disturbingly normal. 'Well, all I can say is that if you think I'm crazy, you haven't been watching him at all. That man's got a chainsaw for a mind.'
Laurel didn't know what to say. She knew it hadn't been the way Craig Toomy was presenting it, but when he spoke it seemed as though it should have been that way ... and what he said about the Englishman was too close to the truth. The man's eyes . . . and the kick he had chopped into Mr Toomy's ribs after he had been tied up ... Laurel shivered.
'What are the langoliers, Mr Toomy?' Dinah asked.
'Well, I always used to think they were just make-believe,' Craig said in that same good-humored voice. 'Now I'm beginning to wonder ... because I hear