Stephen King – The Night Flier

Stephen King – The Night Flier

The Night Flier

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In spite of his pilot’s license, Dees didn’t really get interested until the murders at the airport in Maryland — the third and fourth murders in the series. Then he smelled that special combination of blood and guts which readers of Inside View had come to expect. Coupled with a good dimestore mystery like this one, you were looking at the likelihood of an explosive circulation boost, and in the tabloid business, increased circulation was more than the name of the game; it was the Holy Grail.

For Dees, however, there was bad news as well as good. The good news was that he had gotten to the story ahead of the rest of the pack; he was still undefeated, still champeen, still top hog in the sty. The bad news was that the roses really belonged to Morrison . . . so far, at least.

Morrison, the freshman editor, had gone on picking away at the damned thing even after Dees, the veteran reporter, had assured him there was nothing there but smoke and echoes. Dees didn’t like the idea that Morrison had smelled blood first – hated it, in fact – and this left him with a completely understandable urge to piss the man off. And he knew just how to do it.

‘Duffrey, Maryland, huh?’

Morrison nodded.

‘Anyone in the straight press pick up on it yet?’ Dees asked, and was gratified to see Morrison bristle at once.

‘If you mean has anyone suggested there’s a serial killer out there, the

answer is no,’ he said stiffly.

But it won’t be long, Dees thought.

‘But it won’t be long,’ Morrison said. ‘If there’s another one — ‘

‘Gimme the file,’ Dees said, pointing to the buff-colored folder lying on Morrison’s eerily neat desk.

The balding editor put a hand on it instead, and Dees understood two things: Morrison was going to give it to him, but not until he had been made to pay a little for his initial unbelief . . .

and his lofty I’m-the-veteran-around-here attitude. Well, maybe that was all right. Maybe even the top hog in the sty needed to have his curly little tail twisted every now and then, just to refresh his memory on his place in the scheme of things.

‘I thought you were supposed to be over at the Museum of Natural History, talking to the penguin guy,’ Morrison said. The corners of his mouth curved up in a small but undeniably evil smile. ‘The one who thinks they’re smarter than people and dolphins.’

Dees pointed to the only other thing on Morrison’s desk besides the folder and the pictures of his nerdy-looking wife and three nerdy-looking kids: a large wire basket labelled DAILY BREAD.

It currently contained a single thin sheaf of manuscript, six or eight pages held together with one of Dees’s distinctive magenta paper-clips, and an envelope marked CONTACT SHEETS DO NOT

BEND.

Morrison took his hand off the folder (looking ready to slap it back on if Dees so much as twitched), opened the envelope, and shook out two sheets covered with black-and-white photos not much bigger than postage stamps. Each photo showed long files of penguins staring silently out at the viewer. There was something undeniably creepy about them — to Merton Morrison they looked like George Romero zombies in tuxedos. He nodded and slipped them back into the envelope. Dees disliked all editors on principle, but he had to admit that this one at least gave credit where credit was due. It was a rare attribute, one Dees suspected would cause the man all sorts of medical problems in later life. Or maybe the problems had already started. There he sat, surely not thirty-five yet, with at least seventy per cent of his skull exposed.

‘Not bad,’ Morrison said. ‘Who took them?’

‘ I did,’ Dees said. ‘I always take the pix that go with my stories. Don’t you ever look at the photo credits?’

‘Not usually, no,’ Morrison said, and glanced at the temp headline Dees had slugged at the top of his penguin story. Libby Grannit in Comp would come up with a punchier, more colorful one, of course — that was, after all, her job — but Dees’s instincts were good all the way up to headlines, and he usually found the right street, if not often the actual address and apartment number. ALIEN INTELLIGENCE AT NORTH POLE, this one read. Penguins weren’t aliens, of course, and Morrison had an idea that they actually lived at the South Pole, but those things hardly mattered. Inside View readers were crazy about both Aliens and Intelligence (perhaps because a majority of them felt like the former and sensed in themselves a deep deficiency of the latter), and that was what mattered.

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