Cut and Run (16 page)

When she saw the empty driver’s seat, she froze.

“What the—” She stopped herself from using profanity in front of the children.

“Why’s the driver gone?” a boy asked behind her.

Phoebe took several steps forward while she tried to be as level-headed as possible. “Maybe the motor stopped and he’s checking something under the hood.”

She reached the driver’s seat, her eyes instinctively scanning the area. There was no key in the ignition. She looked outside, first to the front, then the left and right, but the driver was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe the driver is in the back,” another boy claimed.

Phoebe twisted her head and saw several of the kids crowding toward the rear of the bus and peering out the window.

“He’s not there,” a girl said.

“Shit!” Phoebe cursed.

Why had the bus driver left? And right in the middle of a railroad crossing, of all places? Without the keys to the bus she couldn’t move it off the rails. Her heart beat faster, but she tried to keep a cool head. She was the only adult here. The teacher who was supposed to be accompanying them had had a flat tire on the way to the school, and Phoebe had therefore arranged with her to reroute the bus, so they could pick her up on the way. However, in the meantime, Phoebe was responsible for these kids. If she showed that she was panicking, then the kids would surely panic too.

“Get all your belongings, your bags and things, and we’ll get off the bus until we can find out where the driver is. And no pushing and shoving, okay?”

She might as well have saved her breath with her last instruction, because the kids suddenly all tried to be the first to reach the front of the bus, all talking over each other.

Phoebe leaned over the dashboard and scanned it. There were several switches. She tried the first and looked to her right, but the door didn’t open. Then the second. Nothing.

“Open the door, Miss Chadwick!” a girl started to whine.

“I’m trying,” she answered tersely and touched the next switch. When she flipped it, it broke off. Her heart stopped as she looked at her fingers holding the black switch.

“You broke it!” the girl cried out. “Miss Chadwick broke the switch!”

Phoebe felt the smooth area where the switch had broken off the console, while several kids started to scream. “He cut it through,” she murmured to herself. “The bastard sabotaged the bus.”

Dread filled her stomach. This was no accident. This was deliberate. The bus driver was trying to get the kids killed.

“Somebody call 9-1-1 and tell them where we are.” She rushed to the door and looked up. There had to be a manual release somewhere above the door. Her eyes searched every inch, but the spot where the manual release for the door was normally located was covered with a piece of metal that had been screwed over it. “Fuck!”

In the background she heard several kids crying, while others were already talking on their cell phones. But Phoebe knew she couldn’t rely on the police to get here soon enough. At any moment, a train could approach.

Her eyes flew back to the back of the bus where the emergency exit was located. “Let me through to the emergency exit!”

She paved her way through the kids and reached for the lever to open the back exit. She pulled in the direction indicated on the door, but nothing moved.

“Why is it not opening?” a girl whined.

Phoebe yanked at it again, but the thing didn’t move. Shit!

She turned back to the kids. “It’s jammed. The windows! Push the windows out! Lift the latches and push on the bottom until the window opens.” She had no idea whether the windows would simply fall out or be locking at a ninety degree angle. In either case, the kids would be able to get out, though they’d have to jump.

“What latch, Miss Chadwick?” a boy asked.

She rushed in his direction. “The red latch on the bottom of—” Her eyes fell on the window the boy was pointing to.

“There’s no latch,” the boy said, his eyes now filling with tears. Phoebe focused her eyes on the red contraption at the bottom edge of the window, but the latch that was supposed to be there had been sawed off.

“There’s no latch on this one either!” a girl screamed from the back of the bus.

The kids rushed to the windows and Phoebe watched helplessly as they hit their fists against the glass. Before she could stop them in their futile attempts to break the windows, a sound from outside made her snap her head around.

The crossing gates were lowering and the warning lights started to flash.

Her mouth went dry, while the horrified screams of the children filled her ears.

4

Scott let a vile curse roll over his lips.

It had taken him longer than expected to find the correct railroad crossing on Google Maps. Figuring out that the train would collide with the school bus today at about two p.m.—the same day he’d had the premonition—had been easy. It had only taken him a minute to check the schedule of the White Sox to realize they’d be playing Kansas City the next day and that Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac was supposed to sing
God Bless America
at the seventh-inning stretch.

Kicking his Ducati into a higher gear, Scott raced down the street. He knew this part of the Chicago suburbs well. Well enough to avoid any known speed traps, where the police lay in wait. He couldn’t afford to get held up by a cop. Every second counted. All he’d had time for, once he’d figured out the location of the impending accident, was to shove the largest wrench he could find in the garage into his leather jacket and jump on his bike. An axe or a steel cutter would have been better tools, but he’d had no time to look for them. He could only hope that what he’d brought would be strong enough.

Scott slowed at the next intersection, cursing at the red light. When it switched to green, he was already in the middle of it, turning left, leaning almost forty-five degrees to the side with his bike, before the oncoming traffic had moved even an inch. Honking sounds chased him, but he ignored them and gained speed again.

“Three more blocks,” he ground out as he drove past a bank. He caught a glimpse of the display on the outside, which announced the temperature as well as the time: two p.m. The driver would have already left the bus and locked the kids and their teacher inside.

Another intersection, but this time he didn’t have to slow down. The side streets had stop signs.

“Two more blocks.” It was almost like a chant, a prayer he sent to the powers that be, the powers that had given him this gift of foresight. A gift he’d at first cursed because it had made him different. But one he’d learned to appreciate with the help of his adoptive father, the man with whom he had so much in common, including this gift.

Scott’s entire body was tense, the muscles in his neck rigid, his jaw clenched. The thought that he might be too late made him turn the handle even harder, sending more gas into the engine to make the Ducati go even faster. If the police caught him now, it wouldn’t matter. In a few seconds he’d be at the railroad crossing, and once they saw what was happening, they wouldn’t stop him.

“Come on,” he ground out and saw the yellow vehicle in the distance now as he cleared a slight hump in the road.

The street was almost deserted. No other cars waited at this side of the railroad crossing, the gates of which had already lowered. The bus blocked his view of the street on the other side of the crossing, making it impossible to see if there was anybody else on whose help he could count.

Just before the gates, Scott skidded to a halt, jumped off the bike, killed the engine and with the same movement, pulled the kickstand up. He didn’t bother taking his helmet off. There was no time for it.

Running between the middle of the gates, he charged toward the bus, pulling the wrench from the inside of his leather jacket and gripping it tightly with his gloved hand. When he reached the passenger door of the bus, he saw several kids kicking against the glass from the inside. Screams accompanied their fruitless efforts. Safety glass didn’t break that easily.

“Get away from the door!” he screamed, but realized they didn’t hear him.

He lifted his visor and tried again. “Away from the door!” He slapped his hand against the door and lifted the arm holding the wrench.

The kids finally looked at him and seemed to understand.

“Step back! Cover your eyes!”

The moment the kids had backed away from the door, he lowered his visor again and hit the glass panel with his wrench. The glass of the left panel shattered. Then he did the same with the right panel, until it too shattered. He gripped the frame and pulled it toward him to open at least one side of the door. He jerked it open with sheer force and willpower. He tried to do the same with the right side, but it was stuck and didn’t move an inch. The opening he’d created was narrow, but it would have to do. The kids would be able to squeeze through.

“Now all out!” he commanded, throwing a glance over his shoulder. In the distance there was a movement: the train.

“Quickly!” he screamed and reached for the first child, lifting the girl down. “Run to the side of the gates! Run!”

One child after the next he helped out of the train, while he continued to urge them to hurry. “Quickly! Faster! Get to the other side! Run, damn it!”

The kids were crying and screaming. He couldn’t avoid them cutting themselves on the glass shards as they tried to brace themselves while exiting the bus, but a few cuts and bruises were better than the alternative getting closer with each passing second.

In the distance he heard sirens approaching. Somebody had called 9-1-1. But they wouldn’t be here in time to help with the evacuation. Despite his helmet, he heard the radio from the bus. Stevie Nicks was still singing, but he was familiar with the song, and knew it was coming to an end. And once the radio announcers were speaking, Scott knew he only had a few more seconds until the train would smash into the bus.

“How many more?” he yelled.

“Three!” came the panicked voice of an adult. The teacher.

“Quickly!” Scott dragged the next child out of the train and shoved the girl in the direction of the gate. The next boy almost fell out of the bus, stumbling over his own feet. He righted him, making sure he had found his feet again, before reaching for the last one.

“Run!” he commanded, his voice hoarse now, his heart beating like the locomotive that was fast approaching.

Scott recognized the song reaching its last chords. “Shit!”

A young woman appeared on the top step, hurrying down. She turned sideways to squeeze through the narrow opening, and he reached for her and pulled, but met with resistance. His gaze flew to her face. Her eyes went wide in horror as she tried to pull free of the bus, but failed.

“Fuck!” he cursed behind his helmet and reached past her where her top had caught in a jagged edge left by the broken glass.

Suddenly the music stopped, and the announcer now spoke. “And that was Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac. How’s that for nostalgia?”

He knew he had only seconds now.

Her eyes darted past him, and he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know how close the train was.

“Run!” she urged him. “Save yourself!”

“No!” Scott yelled and tore at her top. Finally, it ripped free of the glass and the teacher almost fell into his arms. He whirled around, the next words of the radio announcer in his ears.

“And can you guess who’s going to be singing
God Bless America
…”

With the woman in his arms, Scott jumped to the side, landing beside the tracks. He rolled over her, shielding her, when a moment later, the train hit the school bus behind them. His helmet and heavy leather jacket—though it was open in the front—protected him from the flying debris while he covered the woman beneath him as best he could.

“Don’t move,” he urged her, though he had no idea if she heard him through his helmet.

But he knew she was alive. He felt her breathing against his chest, her hands holding on to his shirt in a death grip.

The screeching of the train braking was the next sound he heard. Only when there were no more sounds coming from the train, indicating that it had stopped, did Scott lift his head.

He took a breath, his first conscious one since reaching the bus, and felt his heart thunder. The teacher in his arms had her eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you all right?” Scott asked, but she didn’t reply. He jerked his helmet off and tried again. “Are you okay?”

Finally she opened her eyes. The first thing he noticed was that they were a vibrant blue. The second thing he realized was that for the first time he looked into a woman’s eyes and felt he could trust her with everything.

Shocked by the strange feeling, Scott pulled back and lifted himself off her, sitting back on his knees, flinching slightly as he did so. He’d hit the asphalt hard, taking the full brunt of the fall before he’d rolled on top of her. His ribs were bruised, but he knew nothing was broken.

“You saved my life.” She squeezed his hand and pulled herself up to sit. She turned her head toward the gate.

Scott followed her gaze and saw the kids standing there, dazed, in shock, but only a little worse for wear. Several cars had stopped in the meantime, and drivers and passengers were running toward the children.

“You saved all those kids.”

Her words made him look back at her. She was prettier than he’d noticed at first. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair had gentle waves, and her skin was bronzed, her lips full and red and a tantalizing complement to her blue eyes. If any of his teachers had looked like that when he’d been a kid, he was sure he would have liked school a lot more.

“Are you sure you’re unhurt?” he asked now.

She nodded, pressing her lips together, her eyes now growing moist with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I was just there at the right place at the right time,” Scott answered and wanted to get up, but she suddenly slung her arms around his neck and hugged him to her so tightly he couldn’t resist putting his arms around her and hugging her back.