Stirred (30 page)

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

T
he 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.

But he drives on, and still no one questions their course.

• • •

Four hours have elapsed since they left the oasis, and night has fallen, and no dinner or hotel rooms have been procured, and finally, on the east side of Lancing, Luther watches a man rise from the back and work his way down the aisle toward the front of the bus.

He stops behind Luther.

“Um, excuse me, sir.”

Luther briefly cuts his attention from the giant steering wheel and glances up and over his shoulder at the old man looming above him—bald, thick glasses, fanny-packed. Then he turns his focus back to the pavement streaming under the bus in a long, endless trail of reflective paint.

“Some of us were just curious about where we are exactly.”

“Michigan.”

“Yeah, see, um…we thought that we’d be in Chicago by now. It’s late and we’re hungry, and our itinerary tomorrow involves a number of famous Chicago landmarks.”

“I’ll make an announcement explaining the course change,” Luther says.

“That’d be great. People are just anxious to know what’s going on.”

As the man waddles back to his seat, Luther grabs the microphone off the dash and addresses his passengers.

“Folks, I got word back in Indy that there had been a terrible accident on I-65 outside of Gary, Indiana, so we’re on to plan B. I know it’s been a long day, but we’ll be pulling into the hotel shortly.”

“What about Chicago?” some old bag whines from the back of the bus.

“That’ll be day after tomorrow, ma’am.”

“What’s there to see in Michigan?”

Fair question, but it still annoys the hell out of him.

“We’re going to tour an old auto factory,” he says.

“I don’t want to tour an auto factory,” says another woman. “I want to see the Sears Tower and the Hancock Building. That’s what I paid for.”

“Me, too.”

Worse than driving a bunch of kids to school. Luther doesn’t even bother to correct them that Sears no longer owns the skyscraper.

He exited the interstate five miles back, and they’re closing in now, moving through the outskirts of the city, the buildings taking a turn toward abject dilapidation, and with a greater frequency of abandonment.

Luther speaks into the mike again.

“Please trust me, gang. We’re staying someplace special. It’s going to be very memorable.”

He brings the bus to a full stop and digs the remote control out of the duffle bag in the floorboard, watching his passengers closely now, most staring through their windows, trying to glean some level of detail beyond the glass.

Good luck with that.
This urban ghost town hasn’t seen a spark of electricity in years, except for Luther’s personal generators, which are currently off.

“Where are we?” someone asks.

He lets the question hang unanswered as he pulls past the gate into a vast, empty parking lot, riddled with broken concrete and toppled light poles.

“Is this even a road?” a man sitting directly behind him asks.

The first warehouse appears in the distance, the lights of the motor coach striking the door as it slowly lifts.

Luther pulls the bus inside, brings it to a halt, and finally kills the engine.

Reaching down once more into the duffle, he grabs his Glock, two extra, non-factory clips, a plastic bag, and a canvas bag. He tucks the gun into the back of his waistband, stuffs the clips and plastic bag into his pockets, and climbs out of the driver’s seat.

He stands, faces his bleary-eyed passengers, half of whom are now openly glaring at him. The other half stare through the glass into the low-lit gloom of the warehouse, bewildered.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your patience,” he says.

A man six rows back is struggling to his feet—short, red-faced, with tufts of platinum hair between his ears and the bald, pink dome of a scalp riddled with irregular, black patches of skin cancer. He says, “Well, mine’s at an end.”

“Take your seat, sir,” Luther says.

“You go to hell. I want off this bus right now. And I want a refund from Charter Bus USA.”

“Where have you brought us?” someone asks.

“Sit down, sir,” Luther warns again.

Other passengers have begun to stir, a few toward the back also rising to their feet.

The man’s insolence is catching fire, and as he marches up the aisle, Luther estimates that he’ll have a full-blown mutiny on his hands within the minute. He has a gasmask and aerosol canister of QNB—an incapacitating agent—but that’s only for use as a last resort.

Making an example is definitely the smarter, and easier, play.

When the man is three feet away, Luther draws the Glock and shoots him in the face.

As he topples back into the aisle, dousing the first three rows in blood, the noise of the gunshot is instantly surpassed by the screams inside the bus.

Luther steps back, takes the microphone, and speaks in a purposely calm voice he thinks sounds quite similar to the crazed computer, HAL, from that Kubrick film.

“Please stop screaming, everyone, and return to your seats.”

The screaming doesn’t stop.

“Please stop screaming, everyone, and return to your seats.”

A cluster of people toward the back of the bus are forcing their way down the aisle, and a man several rows back is in the throes of a heart attack.

Luther asks nicely for a third time for everyone to return to their seats, and then he shoots a man fumbling for the side window exit lever, and three others for good measure.

Then he calmly repeats his orders.

Through the wisp of gun smoke, he watches everyone scramble back to their seats, frantic to comply as if engaged in a horrific game of musical chairs.

“Very good,” he says. “Very good.”

Luther aims his Glock at a large, mustached man sitting two rows back. He and the obese woman across the aisle from him, at forty-five or fifty, appear to be the youngest of the group.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Steve.”

Luther tugs the plastic bag out of his pocket and hands it to Steve.

“Collect everyone’s cell phone right now, starting with yours. Ladies and gentlemen, our friend Steve will be coming by to get your cellular devices. In the meantime, I want to see both hands on the seat in front of you. This means everyone. You fail to do it, I shoot you.”

Luther reaches into the driver’s seat and grabs the heavy canvas bag brimming with handcuffs.

He gives it to the nearest passenger, a stern-looking man, completely bald, wearing a Cubs T-shirt.

“Start passing these out. Quickly.” Into the mike, Luther says, “Anyone not wearing handcuffs gets shot.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” a woman cries.

He levels the Glock on her, says, “Come here. Yes, you, right now.” She steps out into the aisle. “Closer.” When she’s six feet away, he orders her to stop. “What’s your name?”

“Lillian. Lillian Slusar.”

“Do you know what a double-tap is, Miss Slusar?”

She shakes her head.

He shows her, the two rapid-fire shots puncturing her heart in less than a second.

No one screams this time, the expressions of horror voiced only as gasps and muffled cries.

“Does anyone else have any more questions for me?” Luther gazes out at the silent, horrified stares. “Excellent.” He still has three rounds in the clip, but he goes ahead and swaps it out for a freshie. “How we coming, Steve-o?”

The burly man has reached the back of the bus.

“I’ve got them all.”

The woman with the bag of handcuffs is halfway to the back.

“Handcuff queen, how we doing?”

“Fine,” she weeps.

“Anyone gives you an ounce of trouble, you just let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

An eerie silence falls upon the tour bus, no sound but the clink of steel bracelets clamping over wrists.

Steve returns and drops the grocery bag filled with phones of every make and model at Luther’s feet. Then he locks a pair of handcuffs around his own wrists and returns to his seat.

Luther brings the mike to his mouth.

“We have to unload now. We’re going to go two at a time starting at the front of the bus. I’ve prepared some rooms for you. Some even have cots. I don’t want to hurt anyone else, but I hope you understand that I won’t hesitate. There will be no warnings. I won’t ask nicely a second time for you to do what I tell you. If you deviate, in the slightest degree, from my commands, I’ll simply kill you where you stand. Now I know this isn’t exactly the bus tour of America you all signed up for, but I can promise you this…” He smiles wide. “This one is going to be a helluva lot more exciting.”