Four Past Midnight by Stephen King Page B

Mr.—”
    He looked questioningly at the man in the red shirt.
    â€œGaffney,” the man in the red shirt repeated.
    â€œGaffney, right. Sorry. I expect you to leave with Mr. Gaffney. You will not remonstrate. You will not indulge in rebuttal. In fact, if you say so much as a single word, you will find yourself investigating hitherto unexplored realms of pain. Give me a thumbs-up if you understand this.”
    Crew-Neck waved his thumb so enthusiastically that for a moment he looked like a hitchhiker with diarrhea.
    â€œRight, then!” Nick said, and let go of Crew-Neck’s nose.
    Crew-Neck stepped back, staring at Nick Hopewell with angry, perplexed eyes—he looked like a cat which had just been doused with a bucket of cold water. By itself, anger would have left Brian unmoved. It was the perplexity that made him feel a little sorry for Crew-Neck. He felt mightily perplexed himself.
    Crew-Neck raised a hand to his nose, verifying that it was still there. A narrow ribbon of blood, no wider than the pull-strip on a pack of cigarettes, ran from each nostril. The tips of his fingers came away bloody, and he looked at them unbelievingly. He opened his mouth.
    â€œI wouldn’t, mister,” Don Gaffney said. “Guy means it. You better come along with me.”
    He took Crew-Neck’s arm. For a moment Crew-Neck resisted Gaffney’s gentle tug. He opened his mouth again.
    â€œBad idea,” the girl who looked stoned told him.
    Crew-Neck closed his mouth and allowed Gaffney to lead him back toward the rear of first class. He looked over his shoulder once, his eyes wide and stunned, and then dabbed his fingers under his nose again.
    Nick, meanwhile, had lost all interest in the man. He was peering out one of the windows. “We appear to be over the Rockies,” he said, “and we seem to be at a safe enough altitude.”
    Brian looked out himself for a moment. It was the Rockies, all right, and near the center of the range, by the look. He put their altitude at about 35,000 feet. Just about what Melanie Trevor had told him. So they were fine ... at least, so far.
    â€œCome on,” he said. “Help me break down this door.”
    Nick joined him in front of the door. “Shall I captain this part of the operation, Brian? I have some experience.”
    â€œBe my guest.” Brian found himself wondering exactly how Nick Hopewell had come by his experience in twisting noses and breaking down doors. He had an idea it was probably a long story.
    â€œIt would be helpful to know how strong the lock is,” Nick said. “If we hit it too hard, we’re apt to go catapulting straight into the cockpit. I wouldn’t want to run into something that won’t bear running into.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Brian said truthfully. “I don’t think it’s tremendously strong, though.”
    â€œAll right,” Nick said. “Turn and face me—your right shoulder pointing at the door, my left.”
    Brian did.
    â€œI’ll count off. We’re going to shoulder it together on three. Dip your legs as we go in; we’re more apt to pop the lock if we hit the door lower down. Don’t hit it as hard as you can. About half. If that isn’t enough, we can always go again. Got it?”
    â€œI’ve got it.”
    The girl, who looked a little more awake and with it now, said: “I don’t suppose they leave a key under the doormat or anything, huh?”
    Nick looked at her, startled, then back at Brian. “Do they by any chance leave a key someplace?”
    Brian shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s an anti-terrorist precaution.”
    â€œOf course,” Nick said. “Of course it is.” He glanced at the girl and winked. “But that’s using your head, just the same.”
    The girl smiled at him uncertainly.
    Nick turned back to Brian. “Ready,