He threw the lever, jumped out and down, staggered, almost fell, and caught his camera before it could strike the concrete of the taxiway. There was another growl of thunder, but only a growl this time, distant and unthreatening. A breeze touched him like the caressing touch of a kind hand on his face . . . but more icily below the belt. Dees grimaced. How he had pissed his pants when his Beech and the Piedmont jet had barely scraped by each other would also not be in the story.
Then a thin, drilling shriek came from the General Aviation Terminal — a scream of mingled agony and horror. It was as if someone had slapped Dees across the face. He came back to himself. He centered on his goal again. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t working. Either the concussion had broken it or it had stopped. It was one of those amusing antiques you had to wind up, and he couldn’t remember when he had last done it.
Was it sunset? It was fucking dark out, yes, but with all the thunderheads massed around the airport, it was hard to tell how much that meant. Was it?
Another scream came — no, not a scream, a screech — and the sound of breaking glass.
Dees decided sunset no longer mattered.
He ran, vaguely aware that the genny’s auxiliary tanks were still burning and that he could smell gas in the air. He tried to increase his speed but it seemed he was running in cement. The terminal was getting closer, but not very fast. Not fast enough.
‘Please, no! Please, no! PLEASE NO! OH PLEASE, PLEASE NO!’
This scream, spiraling up and up, was suddenly cut off by a terrible, inhuman howl. Yet there was something human in it, and that was perhaps the most terrible thing of all. In the chancy light of the emergency lamps mounted on the corners of the terminal, Dees saw something dark and flailing shatter more glass in the wall of the terminal that faced the parking area — that wall
was almost entirely glass — and come flying out. It landed on the ramp with a soggy thud, rolled, and Dees saw it was a man.
The storm was moving away but lightning still flickered fitfully, and as Dees ran into the parking area, panting now, he finally saw the Night Flier’s plane, N101BL painted boldly on the tail. The letters and numbers looked black in this light, but he knew they were red and it didn’t matter, anyway. The camera was loaded with fast black-and-white film and armed with a smart flash which would fire only when the light was too low for the film’s speed.
The Skymaster’s belly-hold hung open like the mouth of a corpse. Below it was a large pile of earth in which things squirmed and moved. Dees saw this, did a double-take, and skidded to a stop. Now his heart was filled not just with fright but with a wild, capering happiness. How good it was that everything had come together like this!
Yes, he thought, but don’t you call it luck — don’t you dare call it luck. Don’t you even call it hunch.
Correct. It wasn’t luck that had kept him holed up in that shitty little motel room with the clanky air-conditioner, not hunch — not precisely hunch, anyway — that had tied him to the phone hour after hour, calling flyspeck airports and giving the Night Flier’s tail-number over and over again. That was pure reporter’s instinct, and here was where it all started paying off. Except this was no ordinary payoff; this was the jackpot, El Dorado, that fabled Big Enchilada.
He skidded to a stop in front of the yawning belly-hold and tried to bring the camera up.
Almost strangled himself on the strap. Cursed. Unwound the strap. Aimed.
From the terminal came another scream — that of a woman or a child. Dees barely noticed.
The thought that there was a slaughter going on in there was followed by the thought that slaughter would only fatten the story, and then both thoughts were gone as he snapped three quick shots of the Cessna, making sure to get the gaping belly-hold and the number on the tail.