Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [81]
it read. A sign which could mean almost anything.
Craig hurried across to the door, casting nervous looks back over his shoulder as he went, and tried it. As with the door to Airport Security, the knob would not turn but the door opened when he pushed on it. Craig took one final look over his shoulder, saw no one, and closed the door behind him.
Utter, total dark swallowed him; in here, he was as blind as the little girl he had stabbed. Craig didn't mind. He was not afraid of the dark; in fact, he rather liked it. Unless you were with a woman, no one expected you to do anything significant in the dark. In the dark, performance ceased to be a factor.
Even better, the chewing sound of the langoliers was muffled.
Craig felt his way slowly forward, hands outstretched, feet shuffling. After three of these shuffling steps, his thigh came in contact with a hard object that felt like the edge of a desk. He reached forward and down. Yes. A desk. He let his hands flutter over it for a moment, taking comfort in the familiar accoutrements of white-collar America: a stack of papers, an IN/OUT basket, the edge of a blotter, a caddy filled with paperclips, a pencil-and-pen set. He worked his way around the desk to the far side, where his hip bumped the arm of a chair. Craig maneuvered himself between the chair and the desk and then sat down. Being behind a desk made him feel better still. It made him feel like himself - calm, in control. He fumbled for the top drawer and pulled it open. Felt inside for a weapon - something sharp. His hand happened almost immediately upon a letter-opener.
He took it out, shut the drawer, and put it on the desk by his right hand.
He just sat there for a moment, listening to the muffled whisk-thud of his heartbeat and the dim sound of the jet engines, then sent his hands fluttering delicately over the surface of the desk again until they reencountered the stack of papers. He took the top sheet and brought it toward him, but there wasn't a glimmer of white ... not even when he held it right in front of his eyes.
That's all right, Craiggy-weggy. You just sit here in the dark. Sit here and wait until it's time to move. When the time comes
I'll tell you, his father finished grimly.
'That's right,' Craig said. His fingers spidered up the unseen sheet of paper to the righthand corner. He tore smoothly downward.
Riii-ip.
Calm filled his mind like cool blue water. He dropped the unseen strip on the unseen desk and returned his fingers to the top of the sheet. Everything was going to be fine. just fine. He began to sing under his breath in a tuneless little whisper.
'Just call me angel ... of the morn-ing, ba-by -'
Riii-ip.
'Just touch my cheek before you leave me ... ba-by .
Calm now, at peace, Craig sat and waited for his father to tell him what he should do next, just as he had done so many times as a child.
4
'Listen carefully, Albert,' Nick said. 'We have to take her on board the plane, but we'll need a litter to do it. There won't be one on board, but there must be one in here. Where?'
'Gee, Mr Hopewell, Captain Engle would know better than -'
'But Captain Engle isn't here,' Nick said patiently. 'We shall have to manage on our own.'
Albert frowned ... then thought of a sign he had seen on the lower level. 'Airport Services?' he asked. 'Does that sound right?'
'It bloody well does,' Nick said. 'Where did you see that?'
'On the lower level. Next to the rent-a-car counters.'
'All right,' Nick said. 'Here's how we're going to handle this. You and Mr Gaffney are designated litterfinders and litter-bearers. Mr Gaffney, I suggest you check by the grill behind the counter. I expect you'll find some sharp knives. I'm sure that's where our unpleasant friend found his. Get one for you and one for Albert.'
Don went behind the counter without a word. Rudy Warwick returned from The Red Baron Bar with an armload of red-and-white checked tablecloths.
'I'm really sorry -' he began again, but Nick cut him off. He was still looking at Albert, his face