The Man with the Red Bag
Read The Man with the Red Bag Online
Authors: Eve Bunting
Eve Bunting
For Ed, who travels with me all the way
âE.B.
I held the bag tight against me. If there wasâ¦
As soon as we were moving, I opened my mysteryâ¦
The next day, day three, we got on the bus,â¦
I decided to make Geneva my partner, or actually myâ¦
“Hurry!” Geneva urged. “If we're going to see anything inâ¦
Grandma and I had adjoining rooms on the ground floor.
I'd checked at 5:30 A.M. The paper scrap was stillâ¦
Before we left the bus that had brought us backâ¦
A small crowd had gathered around Geneva. I could hearâ¦
The next morning, in the bus on the way toâ¦
We would be staying at the Old Faithful Inn inâ¦
Before long it will all be over.
Grandma and I walked out to watch Old Faithful blowâ¦
Geneva and I crouched behind the pickle barrel. She'd grabbedâ¦
“Bring your warmest duds,” Declan had drawled.
In the morning I was woozy and fuzzy. Not enoughâ¦
We walked along a wide pathway, lined on both sidesâ¦
He went that night.
We left the next day for Rapid City, South Dakota.
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I
held the bag tight against me. If there was a bomb in here, it wouldn't be too smart to jiggle it.
Running, running.
Stavros's boots pounded on the path behind me.
“Hey! You've got my bag!” he yelled.
My heart thumped with fear.
And then he was beside me.
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Right from the beginning I was suspicious of the man. Right from the minute he got on the bus. Maybe it was because he acted so strangely about the bag. But
mostly it was because of the way he looked. And because my ears started tingling at the sight of himâan ancient warning of danger, not to be ignored.
Of course, at that time, at the beginning, my suspicions were just gut level. Well, it was June 20, 2002, not even a year after 9/11. That's a date no one will ever forget. September 11, 2001, when terrorists hijacked four planes and flew them into the towers of the World Trade Center in New York and into the Pentagon and that field somewhere in Pennsylvania. This guy looked like he might be Saudi Arabian or even Iraqian, if there is such a word. He was dark skinned, with bushy black eyebrows and a bushier mustache. So maybe it was natural for me to be on the alert. We were supposed to be. Even President Bush had said that on TV.
I could tell that I wasn't the only watchful one. There was a kind of rustling, a whispering from the other tour passengers, as he came through the bus door. I think that little 9/11 alarm bell was ringing for all of us. Of course, a bus isn't an airplane. But still, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? And then there was the bag.
He was holding one of the dorky red carry-ons
the Star Tours Company had sent to each of us before the trip. It was awkward for him to carry because his right hand was bandaged, all the way from his fingertips to his wrist. Declan Taylor, our tour director, immediately reached for the bag as the man stepped up into the coach.
“Hi!” Declan said. “Let me get this for you.”
But the man pulled the bag close to his chest and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “I'll keep it.” The words were forceful. But the intense way he clutched the bag was really strange. As if he was afraid someone would try to take it from him.
Weird, I thought. What could he have in there? Maybe a bunch of money or stolen jewels? My ears tingled ferociously.
I hadn't seen the man before. He hadn't been at last night's “get-acquainted” dinner. Maybe he didn't want to get acquainted.
He scared me, and I decided I'd keep a wary eye on him.
I was actually glad to have something to think about during this trip, besides the passing scenery. Grandma and I were starting out on a “nostalgic journey.”
Nostalgic for her, that is. We were going to see the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone Park in Wyoming and Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. My grandma had done this trip by car with my grandpa when they were first married. But Grandpa died last year, when I was only eleven, and we were all missing him so much. Especially Grandma.
“I want to go back and see it all again, Kevin,” Grandma had told me. “Come with me,” she'd said.
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To be honest, I hadn't really wanted to go. It was the beginning of summer vacation. I could have been home in Los Angeles, skateboarding, shooting hoops, playing catch with the guys. My best buddy, Justin, and I had planned to camp out in my backyard. But I was here instead. There'd be a lot of sightseeing on this tour. I'm not much into sightseeing.
But my mom and dad had been all for it.
“You'll see parts of the country you've never seen before,” Mom said.
“There'll be all kinds of wildlife, too,” Dad added. “Moose and elk and deer and bears.”
“Gnarly,” I said, faking up my enthusiasm.
Mom stroked my hand. “It will be such a wonderful bonding experience for you and your grandma.”
“We're already bonded,” I told her. Not to be soppy, but I love my grandma a lot. She's fun. She listens when I talk to her. We both like old movies. She loves me a whole lot, too. And that's basically why I was here now.
“You'll bond even more,” Mom said firmly.
Grandma had booked the ten-day trip way before 9/11. For a while after that we weren't sure if we should go. But one afternoon Gran had a long, serious talk with my parents. “I don't blame you for being worried,” she told them. She offered to go alone.
“We think it's okay for him to go,” Mom said. “But it's up to you, Kev.”
I have to admit that for a couple minutes I was really tempted to use the big excuse Grandma had just given me and bail. But then I looked at her and I knew I wouldn't.
“Let's do it,” I said.
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We'd flown from L.A. to Salt Lake City.
In my Star Tours bag I'd brought my Walkman
and a bunch of CDs, my new Joan Lowery Nixon novel, my much-read how-to-write-a-mystery book, and my trusty notebook, in which I planned to write my very first mystery novel following the guidelines and instructions that I would read carefully as we tooled along in our big tour bus. Tucked in the bottom of my red bag was my square of blue blanket. That's all that's left of what was once in my baby crib. I know I'm twelve years old. I know I'm a boy. So what? I still sleep with it under my head at night. I'd definitely croak, of course, if any of my friends knew about it. They'd call me a wuss and worse. All of which makes it hard when I go on sleepovers, but I manage okay. I'm very dexterous, which means skillful.
So on day two of the tour, when the man got on the bus, things started looking up. Suddenly I had a project. I'd watch him, take notes, maybe get my whole book done, first draft, before we got home. Well, at least the first few chapters. And besides that, I'd be an anonymous, unpaid security guard for the tour. I'd be a bodyguard for Grandma.
I eyeballed him closely.
He was about my dad's age. His jeans had a neat
crease down each leg. His shirt was checked blue and white and he wore shiny leather cowboy boots. A windbreaker was draped over his right arm.
He sat in the first aisle seat, leaving the place by the window vacant except for the bag beside him. He wedged his windbreaker in at his side. I took a good look at the bandage on his right hand. It was white and bulky. He wouldn't be able to do much with that hand. With the other he clutched the handle of the red bag. He stared straight ahead. Every time I glanced across the aisle at him, my ears vibrated gently.
Our coach was more than half empty. Declan had told us last night that there'd been “several cancellations” on recent trips. More than several, I suspected. He'd explained it was because of 9/11. Lots of people were still scared to get on a plane. Declan said almost all of Star Tours' passengers had to fly to Salt Lake City, where the tour began, and the flying part had stopped them. “I have to congratulate those of you who decided to follow through on your plans,” he added. “We can't let terrorists ruin our lives.”
That's more or less what Mom and Dad and Grandma had said, too.
When Declan made that pronouncement, I felt incredibly brave.
I looked behind me at the other brave travelers. Some of them were studying the maps and itineraries that Declan had handed out last night. Most still wore their name tags. “There are just eighteen of us,” he'd said. “We're going to be one big family for the next nine days. So let's get pally.”
The reflection in my window showed me the guy right behind usâa tall, giraffe shapeâand the girl with him, whose name was Geneva Jenson. She was thirteen. I knew because Grandma had asked last night. The man was her dad, though he was older than my dad or the dads of my friends.
“Hi,” I'd said at the get-acquainted dinner, stoked that there was someone semi my age on the trip. I'd peered again at her name tag. “Geneva. That's really different.”
“It's a town in Switzerland,” she'd said.
“I know that.” I'd managed not to sound irritated. Did she think I was that dumb?
“And don't ever call me Genny,” she'd said. “I hate Genny.”
“Okay, Genny. I'll remember. And my name's Kevin, but you can call me Mr. Saunders if you like.” I grinned.
She'd grinned back. “Cool!”
We'd talked a bit more. She and her dad were from Washington, the state, not the D.C. one. I thought she was kind of pretty, with her tufty yellow hair and navy blue eyes. But I'm not much of a judge of “pretty.”
Now I waved to her reflection in the window, and she waved back. Then I held my hand to the side of my mouth and whispered the way James Cagney does in old movies on TV. “That guy over there? With the bag?” I nodded in his direction. “Check him out!”
She glanced across, then raised her shoulders in a “what
about
him?” gesture.
“Later,” I Cagney-whispered.
Declan had jumped off the bus to check that the luggage was properly stowed, but here he was, back again.
“And how is everyone this morning?” he asked. Declan was shrimp-small, young, and thin. He wore a great wide-brimmed cowboy hat, jeans, and a shirt
that had red, white, and blue stripes, so bright they made you blink. I blinked. If we got off the coach for any reason we'd be able to find him pretty easily.
His voice boomed through the mike. “I have one introduction to make. The gentleman sitting behind Scotty, our driver, arrived last night from New York. His flight was late, so he missed the party. His name is Charles Stavros.” Declan windmilled his arms and ordered, “Everyone: âGood morning, Charles.'”
There was an enthusiastic response of “Good morning, Charles.”
Charles took his good hand from the bagâreluctantly, I thought, but that was probably just my imagination at work. He waved.
“Stavros,” Grandma whispered. “I think that's a Greek name.” She smiled at me. “Can you hear the unanimous sigh of relief? They were half expecting Osama or Saddam. It's sad. People are so quick to jump to conclusions now. If someone looks like thatâ”
“No kidding,” I said. But I knew I was disappointed. There went my mystery-adventure novel. On the other handâ¦I sat up straight and stared at
him. How did we know that was his
real
name? He could
be
Osama, or Saddam. I wouldn't let myself be lulled into a false sense of security, no matter what Grandma said.
“Everybody ready to get under way?” Declan asked.
“Yes.”
“Definitely.”
“Let's bounce!” someone called.
“We's a-goin', we's a movin',” Declan chanted in a singsong voice.
I nonchalantly glanced again at Mr. Charles Stavrosâjust in time to see him lift his left hand, kiss his fingertips, and then make the sign of the cross over the red bag.
A shiver ran up my spine and my ears vibrated.
What on earth was
in
there?