After the First Death (18 page)

“It’s hot in here,” she called out now to Miro.

He took his eyes from the rear window and looked in her direction.

Once before she had complained of the heat and he had only shrugged.

Now, Kate grew bolder: “Couldn’t you open the door for a while? It’s stifling in here.”

Miro came forward and Kate felt transparent, wondering if he were suspicious. Did he suspect she had a plot going? How could he unless he was a mind reader?

Miro kept his eyes averted from Kate as he stepped down to the door. He used his key to unlock the door. Kate then manipulated the lever that swung the two sections of the door open, allowing a small rush of air to enter.

“Isn’t that better?” Kate asked, her voice sounding too sharp, too shrill to her ears.

Miro did not answer. He looked out the doorway. Kate sucked in her breath. Her hands were loose on the wheel, ready for the sequence of events that must take place as soon as he stepped outside.

But he didn’t.

Suddenly, he squatted down and sat on the bottom step, his legs dangling outside, blocking any possibility of closing the door.

Damn it.

“Katie, Katie,” a child cried out.

Damn it. She couldn’t abandon the driver’s seat, not after having cajoled Miro into opening the door. This was probably her last chance.

“Katie …” A child calling.

She didn’t know who was calling her. They all
sounded the same when they cried out, emerging from the drugged sleep, stunned, reeling out of oblivion into the reality of the bus.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called back.

Miro stood up and looked toward the children.

“Be quiet,” he said.

His command brought silence.

He looked kindly at Kate. “The children. They never leave you alone.”

He remained standing there. Kate dared not move, felt as though she were standing on a tightrope. She smiled at him, what she knew must be a sickly smile, forced, strained.

He didn’t sit down. Stood there, craning his neck. Then miraculously, he stepped down. And out. Less than a foot away but outside the bus. His back to her.

Kate heard her own sharp intake of breath.

Now.

She reached down and took the key out of her sneaker, having already unloosened the shoestring. She checked to see if Miro had observed her: he was still facing away from her. Kate placed her hand on the door lever. And hesitated. She wondered whether she should shut the door and then start the motor. Or vice versa. Suppose she closed the door and the motor didn’t start? Miro would have time to sound an alarm. But suppose she started the motor without closing the door? He was only a foot or two away and could easily jump back into the bus. Her carefully planned sequence of events was disrupted, like jackstones spilling to the ground.

I’m no good at this kind of stuff, she thought. I’m not heroic, not brave. She glanced backward at the children. Maybe she was risking their lives unnecessarily.

For Christ’s sake, Kate, come on, she urged herself.
Do it if you’re going to do it. Don’t do so much thinking. Do it.

She slipped the key into the ignition slot. The key lodged itself with a satisfying click. She then did several things at once. Pushed down on the clutch pedal. Released the handbrake. Placed her right foot in position at the accelerator. Blew an errant lock of hair out of her vision.

She managed a swift glance at Miro: still outside, still a step or two away.

Now.

She eased the gear shift into reverse, carefully, delicately because sometimes it made a noise. Not this time, though; it locked into place quietly. She didn’t have to worry about more shifting. She was going to move in one direction only: reverse.

She turned the key in the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. The engine moaned, a lazy reluctant sound: like a yawn. And like a yawn, sleepy, languid. Jesus. She pumped the accelerator, aware of a movement now at the corner of her eye: Miro. She swiveled the lever that controlled the door. The door closed with a gratifying swish. She turned to confirm its closing—and saw Miro’s face, grotesque in the mask as usual but almost a caricature, his eyes and mouth forming ovals of astonishment. He might have been screaming at her; she didn’t know.

She didn’t know because the engine had come alive, pulsing and purring, sounding eager and confident, the way a motor sounds on a rainy night. She’d often thought of the bus as an animal, a plodding beast, elephant or rhinoceros. But the bus now sounded like a panther, a tiger, sleek, smooth. Or was she getting hysterical?

She jammed down the accelerator and let up the clutch, slowly, agonizingly, not wanting to stall the engine, conscious of Miro at the periphery of her vision and aware, too, that the children were stirring. But concentrating on the delicate balance of her feet on the accelerator and the clutch.

The bus lurched.

My God, the tape.

She ripped at the loose edge of the tape on the window and it came away like a Band-Aid from dry flesh. She pulled at another strip and another, uncovering the driver’s side of the windshield, letting the strands of tape dangle from the right side. She only needed enough clear windshield to see the rear-view mirror perched on the fender. And now she could see it: where she had to drive. She could also see the van, its own windshield taped except for a narrow strip in the middle of the window.

Miro’s shouts were audible now and he was pounding on the door. The children were calling out. The hell with being too cautious about stalling. She pushed down on the accelerator, jamming it to the floor. And she eased up on the clutch pedal. The motor raced, throbbing magnificently, its vibrations singing through her body, the bus itself shaking in response. Lurching again, the bus began to move backward, responding, not the sleek big cat anymore but a plodding beast—but moving, moving. Kate glanced at the rear-view mirror. She had to be certain the bus was on course. She adjusted the wheel. Let’s go.

The bus jerked backward in a shuddering leap. Kate darted a glance at the door: Miro was trotting alongside. The bus was bouncing over the railroad ties in a jolting burst of movement. The children began crying. One of
them fell with a thump to the floor. Kate continued to hold the accelerator to the floor.

Sirens sounded from somewhere. She saw Artkin erupt from the van, propelled awkwardly onto the tracks, off balance, like a skater out of control, careening wildly. Antibbe followed him, tripped as he emerged from the van, his huge body crashing to the tracks, his gun squirting from his hand like a bar of soap.

The bus gained momentum. Grinding, roaring, jouncing. Kate gripped the steering wheel tightly, holding on frantically as the bus staggered backward, the motor magnificent now in its power. She urged the bus on, pumping the accelerator. Miro continued to pound at the door. She could not see Artkin, but Antibbe had gotten to his feet and scrambled now toward the bus, moving fast for such a huge man. She saw, horrified, that he had jumped on the bumper and was now trying to get onto the hood, one leg seeking purchase there, the gun aimed directly at Kate. Would he fire at her point-blank to stop the bus?

“Kate!”

Miro’s voice reached her, a scream, an animal in the scream. His hand was prying between the accordion pleats of the door as he ran alongside the bus. Antibbe was now on the hood, on his hands and knees, balancing precariously, the gun somehow still pointing at her. The kids were crying, screaming. What about herself? Was she screaming, too?

She poured all the strength at her command into keeping the accelerator against the floor—and the bus stalled.

Whined and fell silent.

Stopped without warning as if it had crashed against a brick wall.

Kate pitched forward and had to clutch the wheel tightly to avoid hitting the windshield. Antibbe was flung helplessly from the hood, the gun in his hand like a wand waved by a mad conductor. The children’s screams seemed to rise an octave. She looked back at them. They had tumbled around the bus like loose change in a pocket.

Kate saw with dismay that the van was only thirty or forty yards away, not far at all, not far enough. She thought she had driven farther than that, might have almost made it to the end of the bridge. Slumping in the driver’s seat, she lowered her head. She was close to tears, tears of frustration and anger. Anger at her own ineptitude. Damn it. She had failed. Failed utterly, failed the children and herself, missed her best—maybe
only
—chance of escaping, getting out of here. Had done nothing but make things worse. May have brought on retaliation, doomed them all.

And she was oozing down there.

Her migraine returned.

These things she hated about herself.

Miro pounded at the door, each blow like a nail into her flesh.

Without looking up, she swung the lever that admitted Miro into the bus.

For a split second, she thought: This is it, I am going to die. She closed her eyes, waiting. Then she opened them again, the darkness somehow worse than Artkin’s fury: darkness too much like death itself.

Artkin’s eyes were flat and cold and black. The mask emphasized their coldness, their mercilessness. Anger would have been better. Instead, this cold fury was
directed at her, the eyes of a snake measuring the distance the fangs must travel to strike. She was also conscious for the first time of Artkin’s teeth. The thick sensuous lips had hidden them before, but now his teeth were bared. They were discolored, gray, uneven.

He had ignored her until this moment of confrontation. When the bus stopped, he had gone to Antibbe’s aid, helping the huge man hobble across the tracks to the van. Kate waited for sniper bullets, but none were fired. Miro stood at the doorway of the bus in answer to Artkin’s command: “Watch her. If she moves, kill her,” the words like doors slamming. Kate held on to the steering wheel for dear life. The children called to her, but she didn’t answer. Not daring to move. The innocence of the children’s voices filled her with sadness. More than sadness. Far beyond. She had let them down, betrayed them.

She felt Miro’s presence at the doorway. Only once since the abortive escape attempt had she looked at him. And he had turned away, refusing to meet her eyes. She knew that he was now her true enemy. She had drawn the line between them.

Within a few minutes, Artkin returned to the bus, darting swiftly from one vehicle to another, crouched, wary. And still no sniper fire. He handed Miro a wrinkled paper bag. “Give it to the children. This is the last one,” he said.

He turned to Kate.

“Stand,” he commanded.

She rose to her feet and stood tentatively near the doorway. Artkin turned the key in the ignition and drove the bus to its former position near the van. The motor ran smoothly and, as if to mock her, did not stall. Artkin slipped the key into his pocket. Standing up, he faced her.

“Do not move,” he said.

His hands reached out and gripped her shoulders. Hard. His touch repelled her. His hands began to move down both sides of her body, probing, inquiring.

“Turn out your pockets.”

She turned them out, removing her wallet and the pathetic, bunched-up panties. Artkin slipped the wallet into his pocket. He unfolded the panties and shook them out. Was he expecting still another key to be hidden somewhere?

She became aware of the children’s voices. In protest now. And Miro’s voice, answering the protests. “Take the candy, take it.” She heard one of the children retching, and another crying out, “I don’t want any more.” And still another: “I don’t feel good.”

Artkin ignored the developing clamour as his hands moved relentlessly across her body, over her stomach, down her thighs, his mained hand obscene, causing her to shudder. Up her legs, across her buttocks, impersonal, businesslike, the impersonality somehow more threatening and scarier than if his hands lingered, caressed, acknowledged that this was a woman’s body he was searching. His hands moved up again, reached into her armpits, scuttled across her breasts. Her breasts might have been objects on a shelf.

“Your shoes,” Artkin said.

She removed her sneakers. He looked into them, shook them and dropped them to the floor. She bent down, put them back on, left them untied. She stood again and realized that since that first cold look into her eyes, Artkin had not looked directly at her. He had avoided her eyes. And this was worse than his fury. She’s heard that jurors, bringing in a guilty verdict, were unable to look into the eyes of the accused. It’s difficult to look into the eyes of someone you will be
responsible for killing. Miro had turned away from her. And Artkin averted his eyes. If she didn’t feel so exhausted, so bankrupt, so utterly spent, she’d be dissolving in panic.

Now the children’s cries were louder. Just as they’d been docile together as if taking the cue from each other, now they were protesting in unison, complaining of stomach aches, crying for their mothers, calling to Kate. She hazarded a glance toward them. Miro was holding out the bag of candy helplessly, uncertain how to proceed. One of the children, blond little Karen, leaned out of her seat, retching, on the verge of vomiting. Kate resisted an impulse to run to the child, to find the pail, to let the child get all the dope out of her system, to hold her while it all came up.

“Quiet,” Miro yelled at them. “Be quiet.”

But the clamour continued, wails and cries and moans.

“That was a serious mistake, miss,” Artkin said, his face a breath away from her face. “It was a foolish mistake. Foolish because we are in negotiations now and your delivery is almost complete. Your stupidity might have ruined everything, touched off an attack.”

She did not say anything. But a small hope flowered within her. If he was talking to her, giving her hell, then he probably wouldn’t kill her. Not now, not yet.

“You are still useful to us, to a certain extent. Because of the children. They are getting the last of the drugs.” He glanced in their direction. “And they are also upset now. You must take care of them, keep them quiet. We are in a delicate time with the negotiations. There must be no upsets. We are pledged to kill a child if the people out there take any kind of action. But they are also watching us, to see what might happen.”