him from beneath one raised eyebrow. "First, the name is Rudy Warwick, not mister," he replied. "Second, people think better when their stomachs are full." He shrugged. "It's just a law of nature."
"I think Mr Warwick is quite right," Jenkins said. "We all could use something to eat... and if we go upstairs, we may find some other clues pointing toward what has happened. In fact, I rather think we will."
Nick shrugged. He looked suddenly tired and confused. "Why not?" he said. "I'm starting to feel like Mr Robinson Bloody Crusoe."
They started toward the escalator, which was also dead, in a straggling little group. Albert, Bethany, and Bob Jenkins walked together, toward the rear.
"You know something, don't you?" Albert asked abruptly. "What is it?"
"I might know something," Jenkins corrected. "I might not. For the time being I'm going to hold my peace... except for one suggestion."
"What?"
"It's not for you; it's for the young lady." He turned to Bethany. "Save your matches. That's my suggestion."
"What?" Bethany frowned at him.
"You heard me."
"Yeah, I guess I did, but I don't get what you mean. There's probably a newsstand upstairs, Mr Jenkins. They'll have lots of matches. Cigarettes and disposable lighters, too."
"I agree," Jenkins said. "I still advise you to save your matches."
He's playing Philo Christie or whoever it was again, Albert thought.
He was about to point this out and ask Jenkins to please remember that this wasn't one of his novels when Brian Engle stopped at the foot of the escalator, so suddenly that Laurel had to jerk sharply on Dinah's hand to keep the blind girl from running into him.
"Watch where you're going, okay?" Laurel asked. "In case you didn't notice, the kid here can't see."
Brian ignored her. He was looking around at the little group of refugees. "Where's Mr Toomy?"
"Who?" the bald man - Warwick - asked.
"The guy with the pressing appointment in Boston."
"Who cares?" Gaffney asked. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."
But Brian was uneasy. He didn't like the idea that Toomy had slipped away and gone off on his own. He didn't know why, but he didn't like that idea at all. He glanced at Nick. Nick shrugged, then shook his head. "Didn't see him go, mate. I was fooling with the phones. Sorry."
"Toomy!" Brian shouted. "Craig Toomy! Where are you?"
There was no response. Only that queer, oppressive silence. And Laurel noticed something then, something that made her skin cold. Brian had cupped his hands and shouted up the escalator. In a high-ceilinged place like this one, there should have been at least some echo.
But there had been none. No echo at all.
10
While the others were occupied downstairs - the two teenagers and the old geezer standing by one of the car-rental desks, the others watching the British thug as he tried the phones - Craig Toomy had crept up the stalled escalator as quietly as a mouse. He knew exactly where he wanted to go; he knew exactly what to look for when he got there.
He strode briskly across the large waiting room with his briefcase swinging beside his right knee, ignoring both the empty chairs and an empty bar called The Red Baron. At the far end of the room was a sign hanging over the mouth of a wide, dark corridor. It read
GATE 5 INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS
DUTY FREE SHOPS
U.S. CUSTOMS
AIRPORT SECURITY
He had almost reached the head of this corridor when he glanced out one of the wide windows at the tarmac again... and his pace faltered. He approached the glass slowly and looked out.
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