Skyhammer (5 page)

But he unlocked his door and stepped inside and closed it behind him. Stood still again, blinking in the darkness at the stale,
sweet smell of rotten food.

Now the thumping came dully through the wall. It went right into his head.

“Countdown,” he said aloud and let go the handles of his kit. Then he shrugged off his overcoat, slid off the undone tie,
added it and the uniform jacket to the pile. He flicked on the light, then flicked it off again because the mess scared him.

He needed water. The high altitude air had parched him. From the kitchen tap he filled a glass and drank it down. Then he
went into the dark bathroom and peed and returned to the kitchen and drank another glass. A new song had started. The bass-thump
was the same, or maybe heavier, driving pegs into his skull. Sharp, prickling anger burned his chest, and he leaned against
the counter and breathed a few times, letting his lungs collapse entirely and stay that way even longer before he drew another
breath.
Breathe each other in,
he thought. Hearing his grandmother’s voice, mimicking Coyote. Calling out to Monster.
Let’s breathe each other in
, he thought quietly, knowing Monster would inhale him fast. To allow himself such defeat was stupid, but then again, what
if you had no choice? Pate turned to watch a streak of light, thrown from passing traffic, knife through the curtains at the
other end of the room, sliding, angling like a blade across the littered floor. And then, in the throbbing darkness, he felt
a presence, as if there were another person in the room. Crazy, he thought, but the sense remained. And he moved suddenly,
to the wall, which seemed to vibrate with each whomp of percussion. There was no respect for anything anymore, none. That
was the problem. With the heel of his hand, he hammered back, out of synch so the kid would hear it. Maybe. This one dealt
drugs, pumped iron. Parked his new Altima at an angle across two spaces. Once Pate had tried asking for quiet, some respect.
The stupid kid had come at him marble-eyed and mean, flexing macho. Expecting him to shrink. Pate hammered at the wall again,
but the beat went on as before. Or louder, it seemed.

He had merely asked the kid to keep quiet, that was the problem. Now the kid simply ignored him. What did it take to make
people listen?

Pate pounded again, thinking maybe he’d call the cops. But this time the thumping beat stopped abruptly.

“Hey, asshole!” the kid yelled through the wall. “Quit that fucking pounding, will ya?”

Pate heard muffled laughter. Then the thumping beat resumed, louder than ever. It vibrated his eye sockets. Heartbeat taking
off now, he drew back his fist, wanting to drive it right through the wall. Wouldn’t be smart, he thought. You had to think
of consequences. But who had told him that? The idea only made him tired, and suddenly he had a sensation of space opening
around him—flat, empty space. Horizonless space—and his anger seemed to spread out on it, getting thin and shallow. It wouldn’t
drown him, he thought.

The thumping surrounded him again. Battered him. He needed to call Katherine, or something bad was going to happen. But another
impulse moved him away from the wall. He went into the bedroom and slid open the bottom drawer of the dresser and got out
the Ruger.22 automatic he kept there.
I’ve owned this a long time
, he thought with mild surprise. It occurred to him to remove the clip, but he didn’t.
Don’t do this
, a voice inside him kept repeating, but he answered it, saying, “I’ve got it under control.”

Did he? He gulped air and doubted. But it had to be done. Give in once, they only wanted more. Didn’t he know this, after
three days? Boyd stealing his job—his whole
life
—and wanting him to forget it? Pate stepped into the hallway, the cold air attacking his damp, hot face. The kid’s door was
plastered over with posters—heavy-metal rockers holding guitars like machine guns. He pounded on it, then stood waiting, pistol
at his side, heavy now, like something of solid lead. He pounded again, and the throbbing music scaled down.

”Yeah?” a voice said through the door.

“Open up.” Pate stared at the spyhole.

The kid mumbled something. Bolts slid back. Then in a rush the door swung wide, noise swelling, and the kid filled the frame,
barefoot, in a sleeveless tee-shirt and old jeans. His blond square head was shaved bald on the sides and looked small on
his swollen shoulders. Steroid freak, Pate thought. Behind him, a girl’s bare feet tucked up suddenly. In the kid’s right
hand was a blue metal baseball bat, and his smirk said he thought this all too comical.

“Want some trouble?” he asked with mock innocence, acting tough for the girl, Pate knew.

“Just keep it down!” Pate shouted. He had to shout to be heard over the thunderous concussions of noise.

The kid rolled his eyes. “Fucking shit, man—” Then he saw the pistol, still at Pate’s side, pointing down. His smirk collapsed,
his eyes went stark.

“Oh, fuck,” he croaked. “Don’t—”

So that was all it took? Pate raised the gun. still not pointing it, as he backed the kid into the room. Had to be eighty
degrees in there, and stinking of pot smoke. Now the girl’s face appeared in his periphery, a stunned, blanching moon.

“Listen, man,” the kid said, trying to reason.

“Turn it down!” Pate shouted.

The kid stood still, eyes bugged. No clue.

“Turn the goddamn thing down, or I’ll do it for you!”

He caught on finally, stumbled backward to the stereo, his eyes never leaving the gun. The music subsided to a whisper.

“Pull the cord,” Pate said quietly in the silence.

The kid obeyed, then stood cowering, cord in hand.

And abruptly the bottom dropped out of Pate’s anger. What was he doing there? The girl was crying now, the kid close to tears.
They thought he would kill them over this? Without another word he turned and left.

Back in his own apartment, he felt the silence coat him at first. Then he heard it again, the same throbbing pulse, but this
time it wasn’t coming through the wall. It was inside his head. Heavy and relentless. Blood pounding. Something had happened
to him.
Call Katherine
, he thought. Then he laid the gun on the dinette and sank down into one of the chairs.
Call her or pour a drink
, he thought.

Except he knew he wasn’t going to trouble her anymore or booze himself unconscious. He knew all that was about to end. One
more time he thought through everything that had happened. He had only wanted back his captain status which he had spent his
whole life earning. He had only wanted what was rightfully his—the left-hand seat. But they had given it to Boyd. And they
had punished him for going back, cheated him, after all their promises. Jack Farraday had done all these terrible things,
ruined so many lives, and didn’t even see that it was bad. There had to be an end to it. What other choice was there? To forget
the whole mess? Or like some others had done, put a little hole in his own head and let it all leak out?

That thought made him sick to his stomach, sour bile coming up into his throat. So
damn stupid
, he thought, rage lifting him suddenly. To be scared like this. So scared it caused pain in his gut. But what was he scared
of? The terrible thing—that he’d gone back? It would never stop hounding him. Scaring the kid next door wouldn’t stop it.
Only one thing would. Silencing the goddamn throbbing! The heavy, constant thumping in his head. Now he knew what it was.
It was the Monster’s heart. The huge black heart of
Gi’mi’ta
. Pate remembered it all now—Coyote tying himself to a mountaintop, shouting, “Let’s breathe each other in!” Tricking Monster.
Hiding flint knives in his belt. Wanting Monster to swallow him.

The dense, throbbing silence was all around. Pate pushed himself up from the chair. His heart raced. A charge of excitement
tightened his muscles.
I’m
inside, he thought. Swallowed up alive in the belly of
Gi’mi’ta
. And something was beginning, not ending. A new direction had been taken. It seemed wrong, but it wasn’t. It was necessary.
The innocent ones? They weren’t innocent—they all stood by and did nothing, didn’t care. But they understood violence—the
threat of it. They would care, if you showed them they weren’t safe.

A final crucial question came to him. He knew he had to answer it the right way, or all he thought now wouldn’t wash. Everything
depended on it. The rest of it, even the hardest part, he could do. He would have no choice in fact. If he could only pull
the trigger.

Hopkins International Airport

Cleveland, Ohio

15:22 GMT/10:22 EST

Saturday Morning

A raw wind was blowing in off the lake. The morning had begun as cold and gray as the rest of the week, and it didn’t look
to improve. The runways were clear, though. The rush at Hopkins International had started two hours ago.

Kevin Boyd’s flight was scheduled to depart at 11:20. The sequence plan was identical to that of the week before: A four-hour
leg to Phoenix and then on to Los Angeles for a layover, then back through Phoenix to Albuquerque the second day, then Albuquerque-Phoenix-Albuquerque,
and back home to Cleveland. Boyd foresaw the trip as a kind of purgatory: The primary torture would be Emil Pate’s sneering
hatred, churning just below the surface, threatening to explode again; secondary would be the boredom. He dreaded that almost
as much. Just one more such trip, though, he had been telling himself for four days. He still needed to arrange the trip-trades.

He was actually fairly happy as he rode the employee shuttle to the terminal, even though he had caught a shift change and
the bus was packed in with mechanics and cabin service personnel. Thank God the thing went straight across the field to New
World’s operations on the ramp level—he wouldn’t have to drag his bags through security with the passengers up on the concourse.
Boyd checked his watch again. It seemed a small miracle he was only five minutes late.

He’d spent the night with a librarian he’d met a month ago, a copper-haired, green-eyed girl with a bit more brain power than
most of the girls he had been dating recently. They had actually talked
books
. At least she had, while Boyd had interested himself in her sweater, her bra strap, her breasts, and then the rest of her.
It had been fun. He thought he might even call her again.

She lived up in Mayfield, however, miles from Boyd’s midtown apartment, where he’d left his kit and uniform. And they’d overslept.
With the traffic on the freeway slowed by the weather, he’d expected to be running a half hour behind. Instead, he would make
the check-in with time to spare.

The shuttle lurched to a stop. Boyd clipped his company ID to his overcoat and stepped down to the curb, where he joined two
other New World pilots, another captain and a first officer. They walked to the building together, the other men griping about
the weather. Boyd told them he was going to Phoenix and then on out to Los Angeles. “Lucky dog,” said the first officer as
he punched the coded sequence into the lock above the security door’s handle.

“Interested in trading the trip?” Boyd asked the captain.

“Wish I could.” The man shook his head. “I commute out of Baltimore, though, and my wife’d kill me.”

As usual for midmorning, the operations room was bustling with activity. Most of the computer terminals in the center section
were in use. Thirty or more pilots milled about, reviewing flight plans and weather, revising manuals, chatting. Boyd spotted
Emil Pate on the far side, heading into the mailroom. Either Pate had not seen him or was pretending he hadn’t. Boyd’s good
mood faltered immediately. He realized he had convinced himself over the last four days that Pate, given time to think it
over, would realize how futile sulking was. Now, seeing Pate’s stiff stride, the way he averted his eyes from everyone’s glance,
Boyd had to admit that he hadn’t really expected any change.

Well, at least it would be good to get out of the cold, he thought as he found an open terminal at the far counter and signed
in for his trip. The weather report that morning had predicted sunny skies all over Arizona and southern California, eighty
degrees in Phoenix.

Another captain, one Boyd had flown with just before his own upgrade, stepped to the terminal beside him. Boyd couldn’t remember
his name.

“Interested in trading a line with me? Out to L.A. and back? A three-day for the rest of the month?”

“Maybe.” Concentrating on his terminal keyboard, the other man raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Boyd laughed. “Yeah, there might be. The first officer wants a divorce.”

The other captain finished using his terminal. “Why?”

“He’s ex-Westar,” Boyd admitted with a shrug.

The man nodded. “Name?”

“Emil Pate,” Boyd said reluctantly. “Know him?”

The man nodded again. “Yeah—’Redman,’ they call him. The other ex-Westar guys. No thanks, Kevin. I heard he’s a hard case.”

Boyd stood there for a minute, searching for someone else he could ask to trade with. Apparently, it wasn’t going to be easy,
but he’d find someone who hadn’t heard of Pate, or was desperate enough—but later, he decided as he saw Pate cross the room
to the operations counter. He didn’t want Pate to get too far ahead of him on the check-in.

Pate saw him coming. To Boyd’s surprise, he seemed startled. He turned away again quickly. “Say, pardner,” he called to the
agent behind the counter. “You got the papers for Five-fifty-five?”

“Five-fifty-five?” The agent looked up as Boyd stepped to the counter beside Pate.

“Yeah,” Pate said. “Triple Nickel.”

The agent rose from his chair, carrying a half-inch stack of papers. He slapped it down on the counter in front of Pate. “Just
now put ’em together.”

“Morning,” Boyd said.

“Morning.” Pate began to leaf through the pages. He glanced at Boyd, not with the look of disgust Boyd expected, but with
uncertainty. Had Pate decided to be good after all?