Big Trouble (31 page)

 

 

 

“You see what it is?” asked Leonard. They were at the edge of the now huge mob in front of the Delta counter.

“Nope,” said Henry, craning his neck. “All's I see is people tryin' to see.”

“Well, fuck it,” said Leonard. “I say we go to the counter.”

“Worth a try,” said Henry. He led the way, pushing through the crowd, which was shouting in several languages. From what snatches of English they picked up, they gathered that there were police ahead, and somebody hurt, and something crawling. As the crowd got denser, they struggled forward, Henry shoving people aside, each labored step strengthening their resolve to
get . . . out . . . o f . . . this . . . crazy . . . fucking . . . place.

As they approached the Delta counter, the crowd became almost impenetrably dense, squeezed from behind by people trying to see what was going on, and from in front by people pushing back, apparently trying to get away from something. There was a lot of shouting, the loudest coming from an area directly ahead of Henry and Leonard. Suddenly, the volume of the shouting intensified, accompanied by terrified shrieks; the crowd lunged backward violently just as Henry and Leonard pushed forward. They stumbled ahead and were suddenly in the clear, alone, surrounded by a vast ring of shouting and screaming faces. Henry caught his balance, but Leonard kept going, tripping over the pet transporter containing Pinky and Enid, who yipped and yelped in terror. Leonard pitched forward onto the floor. He groaned, then raised his head slightly and saw, on the floor two inches from his eyes . . . a
really long tongue
.

 

 

 

Snake was going nuts. The minutes were ticking past, and the two zitface pilots were still up there farting around, talking into their headset microphones, and the plane was
not moving
. Snake kept glancing out the window toward the door to the terminal, expecting it to open. Finally, he couldn't stand it. He stood in the aisle of the plane.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Start the fuckin' motors!”

Justin, Frank, and the retirees turned, all of them glaring, until they saw the gun pointed at the cockpit.

The retirees gasped and pulled back in their seats, out of the line of fire. Justin and Frank stared at the hole in the end of the barrel, their brains frozen. Frank wet his new pilot pants.

“Start the fuckin' motors NOW,” said Snake.

“We . . . we . . .” stammered Justin. “I mean, the door. We have to close the door.”

“I'll close the fuckin' door, zitface,” said Snake. He wasn't letting anybody else get away. “Now START THE FUCKIN' MOTORS AND FLY TO THE FUCKIN' BAHAMAS OR I BLOW BOTH YOUR FUCKIN' HEADS OFF.”

This caused three of the four retirees to wet their pants. Justin and Frank began working furiously on starting the motors. The propeller on the right side of the plane started to turn, very slowly.

“Snake,” said Eddie. He was looking out the window.

“What?” said Snake. He bent down and looked where Eddie was looking, then said, “Shit.
SHIT
.”

The terminal door was open. The little punk—that mother
fucker
—was coming out of the building pointing the plane out to . . .
the lady cop
. That fucking
bitch
.

Snake screamed at Justin and Frank, “GET THIS FUCKIN' PLANE MOVIN' RIGHT NOW.” He whirled and gimped back to the airplane doorway, aimed his gun toward the lady cop, and fired a shot.

Instantly, she ducked back into the building, yanking the punk with her and closing the door.

“WHY THE FUCK AREN'T WE MOVING?” shouted Snake.

“We gotta start the other engine,” Justin shouted back. The right-side engine, after a few coughs and sputters, was roaring. The left-hand propeller was starting to turn. Snake looked back toward the terminal door; it was open a crack now, but he couldn't see inside. He turned toward the front of the plane, where he saw Justin speaking into his headset microphone.

“WHO'RE YOU TALKIN' TO?” he screamed.

“NOBODY,” said Justin, talking loud over the sound of the engines. “JUST HIM.” He pointed at Frank.

“TAKE THOSE THINGS OFF,” said Snake.

“WE NEED THEM TO TALK TO THE TOWER,” said Justin.

“TAKE 'EM OFF, ZITFACE,” said Snake, pointing the gun at the cockpit. Justin and Frank removed their headsets.

“NOW,” said Snake, “GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”

“WHAT ABOUT THE DOOR?” asked Justin.

“I'LL WORRY ABOUT THE DOOR,” said Snake. He was going to leave it open, for now, in case he had to shoot again.

Justin, shaking his head, released the brake and gently advanced the throttles. Very slowly, the plane started to move.

 

 

 

She did not appear to be in any hurry, but it took Daphne only a few seconds to coil herself several times around Leonard. Leonard knew exactly what was happening, but found that there was nothing he could do to stop it: No matter how he moved his body, or where he put his arms, Daphne oozed effortlessly,
casually,
around him. Leonard sensed her astonishing strength, but only barely; she never seemed to need it. Leonard was terrified, but even with his terror, and the screaming around him, and the visceral revulsion he felt at being embraced by this
thing,
his brain found room and time to speculate on an unexpected phenomenon: He did not feel any great pressure; did not feel really
squeezed
. Instead, he noticed that, each time he exhaled, it became more difficult, and then impossible, to inhale, as Daphne calmly, relentlessly, took up the slack. Leonard was blacking out; he was dying, he could tell.
Just like that, it's over
, he thought.
I'll never see New Jersey again
. And then, in his last moment of consciousness, he

And then, in his last moment of consciousness, he thought:
Fucking snakes
.

 

 

 

The stairwell was empty except for Monica and Matt. After Snake had fired the wild shot, Monica had told Eliot and Anna to take Puggy back to the main concourse and do whatever they had to do—“set something on fire if you have to” was how she put it—to get police attention and tell them what was going on. Anna had wanted to stay near the plane, but Monica told her that the best thing she could do for her daughter was to get help.

“What about Matt?” Eliot had asked.

“I need him here, in case I need a messenger,” Monica had answered. “He'll be OK.”

Eliot and Anna raced back up the stairs, followed by Puggy and Nina, who were holding hands. Monica opened the door a crack and peered out at the Air Impact! plane. It was parked so that the plane's fuselage was parallel to the terminal building. To taxi toward the runway, it would have to turn perpendicular to the terminal, meaning that the plane's occupants would no longer be able to see the doorway. The plane's right engine was roaring, its propeller a blur; the left engine was almost there.

“You stay here,” Monica told Matt. “You watch through this crack, but you don't go out there. When your dad gets back here with help, you tell them what happened.”

The plane had started to move, making a slow turn toward the right. When its windows were no longer visible, Monica opened the door.

“What're you gonna do?” asked Matt.

“Try and stop the plane,” said Monica.

“How?” asked Matt.

“I have no idea,” said Monica. And then she was sprinting across the tarmac. She did not look back.

 

 

 

Agent Greer led the way through the crowd, shunting people to either side, like a V-bladed snowplow. Those who didn't get out of his way quickly enough got picked up and tossed like hay bales. Still, it took Greer, Seitz, and Baker a good five minutes from the time they reached the edge of the mob until they could actually see the Delta counter. They heard shouts and screams; they saw uniformed officers, some trying to hold back the crowd, some yelling instructions to each other and pointing toward . . .
something
going on down on the floor, out of sight.

“OK,” said Greer, over his shoulder, as he drove his body forward, through the last few feet of crowd. “Remember,
we get the suitcase
.”

 

 

 

The Air Impact! plane was starting to pick up speed, but it was still moving slowly enough that Monica—who, until sixth grade, when she developed breasts, had been the fastest runner of any gender in her school—was able to close on it. She angled to the left, where she could see the door at the rear of the plane, still open, with a little folding stairway hanging down. She tried not to think about the gun. She would worry about the gun when she caught the plane.

 

 

 

Henry had never killed a snake, large or small, in his life. But he was a professional, and he gave careful thought—quick, but careful—to how he would handle this situation. He had to shoot the snake's head, that much was obvious; the problem was that the bullet would keep going. Henry didn't want it to hit Leonard, of course, but he also didn't want it to go into the crowd. He didn't want to shoot down, because the bullet would ricochet off the floor, which would be concrete, under the carpeting. Henry decided his best bet was to shoot up, toward the ceiling.

Henry knelt and pulled his revolver from his ankle holster. Then he stood and circled Leonard, whose eyes were bulging sightlessly and whose face was turning maroon. Two brave cops had their hands on Daphne's neck and were pulling with all their strength, with no noticeable effect on Daphne. As Henry approached them, another cop ran toward him, yelling something that Henry couldn't make out in the general din; seeing the gun in Henry's hand, he backed off. Henry showed the gun to the two brave cops; they looked at each other, then let go of Daphne and stood. As they did, Henry dropped to his stomach, rolled onto his back directly next to Leonard. As Daphne, who was never in a hurry, gracefully turned her head to see what was happening, he stuck the barrel of the gun into the underside of her jaw, pulled the trigger, and blew out her brains, not that she had many.

One second later, Greer burst through the crowd, drawing his own gun as he heard the shot and the ensuing screams. He ran forward, and then stopped, gun in hand, staring down at the scene on the floor—first at the unconscious Leonard, then at the now headless Daphne, and finally at Henry, who was on his back, gun still pointing straight up.

The two men studied each other for a moment. Then Henry spoke.

“Agent Greer,” he said. “What brings you to Miami?”

 

 

 

The plane was moving faster now. Monica, tiring fast, was not sure she'd catch it. She was not entirely sure she
wanted
to catch it. But she found some reserve energy somewhere and got to within a few feet of the hanging stairs. She reached her left hand out, and for a second, caught hold of the plastic-covered steel cable that served as the stair's railing, but the effort of reaching forward slowed her slightly, and the railing was yanked away. Straining, her lungs burning, she lunged forward again, and this time she had the railing, but she was starting to stumble and
shit she was going down and the plane was going to get away and
. . .

. . . and Matt, sprinting next to her now, pulled her upright and gave her a push forward, and she grabbed the other railing and swung on to the ladder. She moved up to the second step and turned and held out her hand to Matt, and he grabbed it and she pulled, and in a second Matt was on the lower step, and in the next second the plane suddenly accelerated, and the fastest runner on earth would not have caught it.

 

Eliot, drenched in sweat, with the others trailing behind him, ran back toward the security checkpoint.

“POLICE!” he shouted. “POLICE!”

In front of him, a herd of returning cruise-ship passengers watched his approach, openmouthed.

“CALL 911,” Eliot shouted at them as he went past. “PLEASE. THERE'S A MAN SHOOTING BACK THERE.”

The passengers stared as Eliot disappeared down the concourse, with Anna, Puggy, and Nina behind him. One passenger went to a pay phone, dialed 911, and told the operator what Eliot had said. The 911 operator said the police were aware of the shooting at the airport and had the situation under control. The passenger reported this news, and the herd relaxed.

 

 

 

Monica hauled herself to the top of the folding stairs and wriggled past the heavy suitcase partially blocking the doorway, keeping low. She peered around the last row of seats on the left and saw Snake standing in the middle of the plane, his back—
thank God
—to her. He was watching the pilots.

The pilot on the left yelled something to Snake, which Monica thought was about the door. Snake yelled something that Monica couldn't make out, and he pointed his gun at the pilot. The pilot shrugged and turned back to the controls.

Monica crawled across the aisle and into the last row of seats on the right side of the plane. Matt crawled in and went to the left side. He gave her a look that said,
Now what?
Monica held up her hand in a gesture that said,
Wait
. She had no idea what for.