Four Past Midnight (9 page)

“Could be there are, though,” Nick said softly. “Could be that radio and radar conditions are snafued, at least for the time being. You mentioned nuclear war, Brian. I think if there had been a nuclear exchange, we'd know. But that doesn't mean there hasn't been some sort of accident. Are you familiar with the phenomenon called the electromagnetic pulse?”

Brian thought briefly of Melanie Trevor.
Oh
,
and we've had reports of the aurora borealis over the Mojave Desert. You might want to stay awake for that.

Could that be it? Some freakish weather phenomenon?

He supposed it was just possible. But, if so, how come he heard no static on the radio? How come there was no wave interference across the radar screen? Why just this dead blankness? And he didn't think the aurora borealis had been responsible for the disappearance of a hundred and fifty to two hundred passengers.

“Well?” Nick asked.

“You're some mechanic, Nick,” Brian said at last, “but I don't think it's EMP. All on-board equipment—including the directional gear—seems to be working just fine.” He pointed to the digital compass readout. “If we'd experienced an electromagnetic pulse, that baby would be all over the place. But it's holding dead steady.”

“So. Do you intend to continue on to Boston?”

Do you intend
... ?

And with that, the last of Brian's panic drained away.
That's right, he thought. I'm the captain of this ship now ... and in the end, that's all it comes down to. You should have reminded me of that in the first place, my friend, and saved us both a lot of trouble.

“Logan at dawn, with no idea what's going on in the country below us, or the rest of the world? No way.”

“Then what is our destination? Or do you need time to consider the matter?”

Brian didn't. And now the other things he needed to do began to click into place.

“I know,” he said. “And I think it's time to talk to the passengers. The few that are left, anyway.”

He picked up the microphone, and that was when the bald man who had been sleeping in the business section poked his head into the cockpit. “Would one of you gentlemen be so kind as to tell me what's happened to all the service personnel on this craft?” he asked querulously. “I've had a very nice nap... but now I'd like my dinner.”

Dinah Bellman felt much better. It was good to have other people around her, to feel their comforting presence. She was sitting in a small group with Albert Kaussner, Laurel Stevenson, and the man in the ratty sport-coat, who had introduced himself as Robert Jenkins. He was, he said, the author of more than forty mystery novels, and had been on his way to Boston to address a convention of mystery fans.

“Now,” he said, “I find myself involved in a mystery a good deal more extravagant than any I would ever have dared to write.”

These four were sitting in the center section, near the head of the main cabin. The man in the crew-neck jersey sat in the starboard aisle, several rows down, holding a handkerchief to his nose (which had actually stopped bleeding several minutes ago) and fuming in solitary splendor. Don Gaffney sat nearby, keeping an uneasy watch on him. Gaffney had only spoken once, to ask Crew-Neck what his name was. Crew-Neck had not replied. He simply fixed Gaffney with a gaze of baleful intensity over the crumpled bouquet of his handkerchief.

Gaffney had not asked again.

“Does anyone have the
slightest
idea of what's going on here?” Laurel almost pleaded. “I'm supposed to be starting my first real vacation in ten years tomorrow, and now this happens.”

Albert happened to be looking directly at Miss Stevenson as she spoke. As she dropped the line about this being her first real vacation in ten years, he saw her eyes suddenly shift to the right and blink rapidly three or four times, as if a particle of dust had landed in one of them. An idea so strong it was a certainty rose in his mind: the lady was lying. For some reason, the lady was lying. He looked at her more closely and saw nothing really remarkable—a woman with a species of fading prettiness, a woman falling rapidly out of her twenties and toward middle age (and to Albert, thirty was definitely where middle age began), a woman who would soon become colorless and invisible. But she had color now; her cheeks flamed with it. He didn't know what the lie meant, but he could see that it had momentarily refreshed her prettiness and made her nearly beautiful.

There's a lady who should lie more often,
Albert thought. Then, before he or anyone else could. reply to her, Brian's voice came from the overhead speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain.”

“Captain my ass,” Crew-Neck snarled.

“Shut up!” Gaffney exclaimed from across the aisle.

Crew-Neck looked at him, startled, and subsided.

“As you undoubtedly know, we have an extremely odd situation on our hands here,” Brian continued. “You don't need me to explain it; you only have to look around yourselves to understand.”

“I don't understand anything,” Albert muttered.

“I know a few other things, as well. They won't exactly make your day, I'm afraid, but since we're in this together, I want to be as frank as I possibly can. I have no cockpit-to-ground communication. And about five minutes ago we should have been able to see the lights of Denver clearly from the airplane. We couldn't. The only conclusion I'm willing to draw right now is that somebody down there forgot to pay the electricity bill. And until we know a little more, I think that's the only conclusion
any
of us should draw.”

He paused. Laurel was holding Dinah's hand. Albert produced a low, awed whistle. Robert Jenkins, the mystery writer, was staring dreamily into space with his hands resting on his thighs.

“All of that is the bad news,” Brian went on. “The good news is this: the plane is undamaged, we have plenty of fuel, and I'm qualified to fly this make and model. Also to land it. I think we'll all agree that landing safely is our first priority. There isn't a thing we can do until we accomplish that, and I want you to rest assured that it will be done.

“The last thing I want to pass on to you is that our destination will now be Bangor, Maine.”

Crew-Neck sat up with a jerk.
“Whaaat?”
he bellowed.

“Our in-flight navigation equipment is in five-by-five working order, but I can't say the same for the navigational beams—VOR—which we also use. Under these circumstances, I have elected not to enter Logan airspace. I haven't been able to raise anyone, in air or on ground, by radio. The aircraft's radio equipment appears to be working, but I don't feel I can depend on appearances in the current circumstances. Bangor International Airport has the following advantages: the short approach is over land rather than water; air traffic at our ETA, about 8:30 A.M., will be much lighter—assuming there's any at all; and BIA, which used to be Dow Air Force Base, has the longest commercial runway on the East Coast of the United States. Our British and French friends land the Concorde there when they can't get into New York.”

Crew-Neck bawled: “
I have an important business meeting at the Pru this morning at nine o'clock AND I FORBID YOU TO FLY INTO SOME DIPSHIT MAINE AIRPORT!
”

Dinah jumped and then cringed away from the sound of Crew-Neck's voice, pressing her cheek against the side of Laurel Stevenson's breast. She was not crying—not yet, anyway—but Laurel felt her chest begin to hitch.

“
DO YOU HEAR ME?
” Crew-Neck was bellowing. “
I AM DUE IN BOSTON TO DISCUSS AN UNUSUALLY LARGE BOND TRANSACTION, AND I HAVE EVERY INTENTION OF ARRIVING AT THAT MEETING ON TIME!
” He unlatched his seatbelt and began to stand up. His cheeks were red, his brow waxy white. There was a blank look in his eyes which Laurel found extremely frightening. “
DO YOU UNDERSTA—
”

“Please,” Laurel said. “Please, mister, you're scaring the little girl.”

Crew-Neck turned his head and that unsettling blank gaze fell on her. Laurel could have waited. “
SCARING THE LITTLE GIRL? WE'RE DIVERTING TO SOME TINPOT, CHICKENSHIT AIRPORT IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, AND ALL YOU'VE GOT TO WORRY ABOUT IS—
”

“Sit down and shut up or I'll pop you one,” Gaffney said, standing up. He had at least twenty years on Crew-Neck, but he was heavier and much broader through the chest. He had rolled the sleeves of his red flannel shirt to the elbows, and when he clenched his hands into fists, the muscles in his forearms bunched. He looked like a lumberjack just starting to soften into retirement.

Crew-Neck's upper lip pulled back from his teeth. This doglike grimace scared Laurel, because she didn't believe the man in the crew-neck jersey knew he was making a face. She was the first of them to wonder if this man might not be crazy.

“I don't think you could do it alone, pops,” he said.

“He won't have to.” It was the bald man from the business section. “I'll take a swing at you myself, if you don't shut up.”

Albert Kaussner mustered all his courage and said, “So will I, you putz.” Saying it was a great relief. He felt like one of the guys at the Alamo, stepping over the line Colonel Travis had drawn in the dirt.

Crew-Neck looked around. His lip rose and fell again in that queer, doglike snarl. “I see. I see. You're all against me. Fine.” He sat down and stared at them truculently. “But if you knew anything about the market in South American bonds—” He didn't finish. There was a cocktail napkin sitting on the arm of the seat next to him. He picked it up, looked at it, and began to pluck at it.

“Doesn't have to be this way,” Gaffney said. “I wasn't born a hardass, mister, and I ain't one by inclination, either.” He was trying to sound pleasant, Laurel thought, but wariness showed through, perhaps anger as well. “You ought to just relax and take it easy. Look on the bright side! The airline'll probably refund your full ticket price on this trip.”

Crew-Neck cut his eyes briefly in Don Gaffney's direction, then looked back at the cocktail napkin. He quit plucking it and began to tear it into long strips.

“Anyone here know how to run that little oven in the galley?” Baldy asked, as if nothing had happened. “I want my dinner.”

No one answered.

“I didn't think so,” the bald man said sadly. “This is the era of specialization. A shameful time to be alive.” With this philosophical pronouncement, Baldy retreated once more to business class.

Laurel looked down and saw that, below the rims of the dark glasses with their jaunty red plastic frames, Dinah Bellman's cheeks were wet with tears. Laurel forgot some of her own fear and perplexity, at least temporarily, and hugged the little girl. “Don't cry, honey—that man was just upset. He's better now.”

If you call sitting here and looking hypnotized while you tear a paper napkin into teeny shreds better,
she thought.

“I'm scared,” Dinah whispered. “We all look like monsters to that man.”

“No, I don't think so,” Laurel said, surprised and a little taken aback. “Why would you think a thing like that?”

“I don't know,” Dinah said. She liked this woman—had liked her from the instant she heard her voice—but she had no intention of telling Laurel that for just a moment she had seen them all, herself included, looking back at the man with the loud voice. She had been
inside
the man with the loud voice—his name was Mr. Tooms or Mr. Tunney or something like that—and to him they looked like a bunch of evil, selfish trolls.

If she told Miss Lee something like that, Miss Lee would think she was crazy. Why would this woman, whom Dinah had just met, think any different?

So Dinah said nothing.

Laurel kissed the girl's cheek. The skin was hot beneath her lips. “Don't be scared, honey. We're going along just as smooth as can be—can't you feel it?—and in just a few hours we'll be safe on the ground again.”

“That's good. I want my Aunt Vicky, though. Where is she, do you think?”

“I don't know, hon,” Laurel said. “I wish I did.”

Dinah thought again of the faces the yelling man saw: evil faces, cruel faces. She thought of her own face as he perceived it, a piggish baby face with the eyes hidden behind huge black lenses. Her courage broke then, and she began to weep in hoarse racking sobs that hurt Laurel's heart. She held the girl, because it was the only thing she could think of to do, and soon she was crying herself. They cried together for nearly five minutes, and then Dinah began to calm again. Laurel looked over at the slim young boy, whose name was either Albert or Alvin, she could not remember which, and saw that his eyes were also wet. He caught her looking and glanced hastily down at his hands.

Dinah fetched one final gasping sob and then just lay with her head pillowed against Laurel's breast. “I guess crying won't help, huh?”

“No, I guess not,” Laurel agreed. “Why don't you try going to sleep, Dinah?”

Dinah sighed—a watery, unhappy sound. “I don't think I can. I
was
asleep.”

Tell me about it,
Laurel thought. And Flight 29 continued east at 36,000 feet, flying at over five hundred miles an hour above the dark midsection of America.

“That little girl said something interesting an hour or so ago,” Robert Jenkins said suddenly.