Stirred

March 14, Nineteen Days Ago

Fifteen Minutes Prior to the Bus Incident

He pulled the Prevost motor coach into the oasis in Indianapolis at four in the afternoon, following a ten-hour haul out of Philadelphia. He was carrying forty-two passengers on a bus tour called “Sea to Shining Sea.” Russell couldn’t understand anyone wasting a vacation on this, or even worse, wasting their hard-earned money. It was essentially a northerly-oriented coast-to-coast trek through the Midwest, Dakotas, and Montana, eventually concluding in Seattle. This was day one of his twenty-fourth “Sea to Shining Sea” tour, and already he couldn’t wait for it to be over.

The passengers slowly unloaded from the bus, drifting herd like toward the oasis, which contained a giant convenience store, restrooms with full showers, and several fast-food chains.

He’d given them thirty minutes to be back on the bus—they had reservations at an Embassy Suites in Chicago, and he had a reservation for di

While the bus’s bottomless gas tank filled, Russ grabbed the empty, 24-oz. wide-mouthed Coke bottle and walked into the store.

He’d been holding it back all day, knowing this oasis was coming, and it was most certainly worth the wait.

This place had the best restroom in the world, boasting stall walls that dropped all the way to the floor for maximum privacy, and the option (for a five-dollar credit card charge) to purchase twenty minutes in an “executive stall” outfitted with high-grade toilet paper, guaranteed cleanliness, a bidet, and a first-rate magazine selection.

Russ bought an “executive stall pass” and headed back toward the restrooms.

They’d be in Chicago in three hours, and he needed a night of letting his hair down, because tomorrow was going to suck major ass.

On the itinerary…

The Willis Tower at nine-thirty A.M.

Lunch in the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock Center.

And then an afternoon drive down to St. Louis, where the first item on day three’s agenda was the Gateway Arch.

In his experience, all people wanted to do was have their fat asses hauled to the top of shit.

Russ entered the restroom and made his way down to executive stall number eight.

Punched in the code, stepped inside.

Clean as a whistle, and it smelled like lavender and roses.

He installed himself on his throne, set a magazine in his lap, and pulled the small, velvet bag out of the i

From the velvet bag, he fished out a Ziploc baggie containing a quarter lid of pot, stems and leaves from rolling past joints, and papers.

Driving forty-two people across the country was a stressful proposition.

He tried to always make sure he was good and baked for the last few hundred miles of every driving day, and since he’d been with the bus company now going on twelve years, he had their drug testing schedule pegged down to a science—they tested him twice a year, always before the big Alaska tour. And he wasn’t such an addict that he couldn’t abstain for a month to turn up a clean UA.

He rolled a tight little number and fired it up right there in the stall.

Took one deep, penetrating hit that nearly cut the J in half, and then twisted it out against the wall.

He held the smoke until his lungs screamed, and then opened the empty, wide-mouthed Coke bottle he kept for just such an occasion and blew the smoke inside, capping it before any escaped.

Leaned back on the toilet.

Shut his eyes.

Let it come like a heavy, warm blanket—

A knock on the stall door ripped him out of his bliss.

“Occupied,” he said, coughing.

“Yeah, I know. I was just wondering…um, you think I could have a little toke?”

Shit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, we’re alone in here, all right?”

“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 begi

“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 begi