Stirred

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

The 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 di

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, fa

“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 a

“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 a

“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.”