“I don’t give a fuck if she flies stuffed down the front of Superman’s Jockies,” McDonald said. “She the last?”
Jane darted past them, glanced at the seats in business class, then poked her head into the main cabin. It was deserted.
She came back and reported the plane empty.
McDonald turned to the jetway and saw two uniformed Customs agents fighting their way through the crowd, excusing themselves but not bothering to look back at the people they jostled aside. The last of these was the old lady, who dropped her ticket-folder. Papers flew and fluttered everywhere and she shrilled after them like an angry crow.
“Okay,” McDonald said, “you guys stop right there.”
“Sir, we’re Federal Customs officers—”
“That’s right, and I requested you, and I’m glad you came so fast. Now you just stand right there because this is my plane and that guy in there is one of my geese. Once he’s off the plane and into the jetway, he’s your goose and you can cook him any way you want.” He nodded to Deere. “I’m going to give the son of a bitch one more chance and then we’re going to break the door in.”
“Okay by me,” Deere said.
McDonald whacked on the bathroom door with the heel of his hand and yelled, “Come on out, my friend! I’m done asking!”
There was no answer.
“Okay,” McDonald said. “Let’s do it.”
17
Dimly, Eddie heard an old woman say: “Well, pardon me for living! I guess I just fell off the hearse!”
He had parted half the strapping tape. When the old woman spoke his hand jerked a little and he saw a trickle of blood run down his belly.
“Shit,” Eddie said.
“It can’t be helped now,” the gunslinger said in his hoarse voice. “Finish the job. Or does the sight of blood make you sick?”
“Only when it’s my own,” Eddie said. The tape had started just above his belly. The higher he cut the harder it got to see. He got another three inches or so, and almost cut himself again when he heard McDonald speaking to the Customs agents: “Okay, you guys stop right there.”
“I can finish and maybe cut myself wide open or you can try,” Eddie said. “I can’t see what I’m doing. My fucking chin’s in the way.”
The gunslinger took the knife in his left hand. The hand was shaking. Watching that blade, honed to a suicidal sharpness, shaking like that made Eddie extremely nervous.
“Maybe I better chance it mys—”
“Wait.”
The gunslinger stared fixedly at his left hand. Eddie didn’t exactly disbelieve in telepathy, but he had never exactly believed in it, either. Nevertheless, he felt something now, something as real and palpable as heat baking out of an oven. After a few seconds he realized what it was: the gathering of this strange man’s will.
How the hell can he be dying if I can feel the force of him that strongly?
The shaking hand began to steady down. Soon it was barely shivering. After no more than ten seconds it was as solid as a rock.
“Now,” the gunslinger said. He took a step forward, raised the knife, and Eddie felt something else baking off him—rancid fever.
“Are you left-handed?” Eddie asked.
“No,” the gunslinger said.
“Oh Jesus,” Eddie said, and decided he might feel better if he closed his eyes for a moment. He heard the harsh whisper of the masking tape parting.
“There,” the gunslinger said, stepping back. “Now pull it off as far as you can. I’ll get the back.”