“I told you, I don’t know—”
“Will you cut the shit, please? I can smell it a mile away. I could turn you in, you know. But all I want is a little puff.”
Russ sighed. “Hang on.”
He stood and removed the stupid chauffeur’s hat and vest his employer required him to wear at all times behind the wheel, which not only bore his name but also the Charter Bus USA insignia.
These, he hid behind the toilet.
“You letting me in, or what?” the man said through the door.
Russ turned the lock, pulled it open.
The man who stood before him was tall and pale with a cascade of long, black hair that hung to his shoulders.
“Get in here,” Russ whispered, “before someone sees you.”
It was a roomy stall, with plenty of floor space for both of them to stand without crowding each other.
Russ took the lighter and the half-smoked J out of his pocket, figuring the best course of action was to expedite the proceedings, just let this guy get his toke and get the hell on his way, out of his life. Count himself lucky that an employee of the oasis, or worse, a cop, hadn’t caught him.
“So how many passengers you carrying?” the man asked.
Russ had been on the verge of striking a flame, but this stopped him cold.
He stared into the man’s coal-black eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Your bus out there…how many people are on the trip?”
How the hell did this guy know he was driving the motor coach? Had he seen him pull up to the pump? Then followed him in here?
“Forty-two,” he said, opting to play it cool, hide the agitation. “Now when I light this, you’ve got to take a quick, deep hit, and that’s it. I don’t want to smoke this place up. And be warned…this is good shit. I don’t know what your supply is like but this—”
“Forty-two…that’s perfect. Now your company monitors your progress in real time with a GPS tracker, correct?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your bus. The employer tracks where you go. To make sure you’re keeping to your schedule and predetermined route. Am I right in this assumption?”
These questions were beginning to harsh Russ’s mellow.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I’m going to have to disable it. Do you know where the GPS unit is?”
Russ felt a sudden coldness spreading through him. It was good pot, he’d taken a big hit, and there was a chance he was just stoned already, had missed the playful, joking tone in the stranger’s voice.
But this seemed unlikely. The higher probability was that this man standing in his stall was completely off his rocker.
“That’s a good one,” Russ said, forcing a smile, trying to just push through the moment, get back to saner ground. “So you ready to hit this?”
The man with long, black hair turned his back to Russ.
He heard the door to the stall lock back into place.
When the man turned back to face him, he held a knife, the blade sharply curved and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Fear slashed through Russ’s high.
“Look, man, you want my wallet, that’s cool. Just…don’t hurt me. Please.”
“Do me a favor,” the man said.
“Anything.”
“Pick up the vest and that cap that’s stuffed back behind the toilet.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
Russ turned and knelt down, grabbed the burgundy Charter Bus USA vest and cap.
“Here.” He offered them to the stranger.
“No, just set them on top of the toilet tank.”
“Okay.”
Russ did as he was told.
“Many thanks,” the man said. “Didn’t want to get your blood all over my new clothes.”
Russ only caught a fleeting glimmer as the blade streaked across the stall in a broad, fast arc. When it hit his windpipe, there was no resistance, just a brilliant burn, followed by the sharp stench of rust. He saw blood pouring down his chest in shiraz-colored eddies, tried to breathe, but the effort only produced a burbling in his throat, the burn getting more intense with every second, specks of incandescent black beginning to blossom and fade across his field of vision like demon fireflies.
The man with long, black hair wiped Russ’s blood off the blade with several plies of that executive toilet paper, and then folded the knife and slid it back into the side pocket of his jeans.
He put both hands on Russ’s shoulders and eased him down onto the toilet seat.
“Don’t fight it, brother,” the man said. “It’ll only make the pain worse. Just close your eyes and let the darkness come.”
March 14, Nineteen Days Ago
The Bus Incident
The vest fits more snugly than he would have liked, and the chauffeur’s hat is a few sizes too large, but nothing he can’t cope with.
He pays the astronomical gas bill with Russell Bilg’s company credit card and heads back outside.
A raw March day spitting drops of freezing rain.
Sky overcast and dismal.
Not a trace of discernible blue.
It takes him five minutes to locate the GPS tracker—a metal device the size of a deck of cards, mounted to the inside of the tour bus’s back bumper. It’s attached by a strong magnet, and he tugs it off and relocates the unit to the undercarriage of a minivan parked on the other side of the gas pumps. Then he jams two screwdrivers into the hinges of the rear emergency exit. There are two window exits on either side of the bus, but he should be able to cover those.
At last, he boards the coach and stands facing the passengers, getting a good first look at his cast.
An AARP crowd for the most part.
Plenty of gray and white hair, but he anticipated this. In fact, he’d hoped for it.
Senior citizens are, by definition, way ahead of the curve when it comes to experience. Experience means living. Living, without exception, means sins.
Sins of every caliber.
It warms his heart to consider the possibilities.
“Good afternoon, folks,” he says with a big, toothy smile.
They look tired and bored, scarcely refreshed from the snack and bathroom break.
“My name is Rob Siders, and I’ll be taking over for Russell Bilg. I know you probably couldn’t tell, because Mr. Bilg is such a consummate professional, but he was becoming very ill today and requested a fill-in. That’s the reason for the delay here at the oasis, and I apologize for that on behalf of Charter Bus USA. But now we’re back on track, and we’re going to keep pushing on for a few more hours. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
An older woman, a third of the way back, raises her hand.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Hi, Patricia Reid here.”
“Hi, Patricia.”
“How much longer until we get to the hotel?”
“About three hours, assuming no traffic snafus.” Luther smiles again. “So what do you all say? Ready to hit the open road?”
He receives back only a few half-hearted nods.
“Oh, come on, we can do better than that, can’t we? I’m not going to start the engine until you all convince me you’re ready to have some real fun. So…I said…” He cups a hand to his ear. “Are we ready to hit the open road?”
This time, a dozen people respond with unenthusiastic Yeahs.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
Luther pumps a fist and turns to hide the malicious grin that’s creeping across his face.
This is possibly the most fun he’s ever had, and it’s only getting started.
• • •
He drives north out of Indy on I-69, keeps anticipating that first question about their route change, why they’re no longer heading toward Chicago, but two hours into the trip, it still hasn’t surfaced. Only as they cross the border does he register the first curious rumblings from the passengers, sees faces glancing out the big, tinted windows at the bleak Michigan farmland scrolling past, draped in the deep blues and grays of a cold, spring evening.