After the First Death (17 page)

One question remained.
Could
she take that chance? Could she actually try to drive to the bus out of here? Could she ever be that brave? She could rehearse in her mind all the things she had to do to get the bus moving. But she wished there were a way she could rehearse her bravery.

He watched the girl.

As he had never watched anyone before.

From all over the bus, from many angles.

Was “watch” the proper word? In the past, at Artkin’s command, he had watched doorways for someone to appear, watched cars, watched airport entrances.

But this watching was different.

It was watching but also looking.

It was using his eyes as a blind man would use his hands.

Like now:

Kneeling down to give the appearance of adjusting the buckle on his boot, he squinted up at her, seeing the right side of her face only as she bent over one of the children. An errant shaft of light outlined her profile. He would love to trace that delicate profile with his finger, down her forehead, over the nose that had a slight rising in it, and across the lips to the delicate chin. He pictured her, foolish thought, opening her mouth and nibbling at his finger. The thought startled him. Where do such thoughts come from? His finger in her mouth, her lips nibbling? He straightened the buckle, stood up, and moved away.

Later, he watched without seeming to watch as she arched her back wearily, lifted her head and raised her face to the ceiling of the bus. She massaged her shoulders, then her back. She looked as if she were taking a shower, the water invisible as it splashed her body. She looked like a bow, poised for the arrow to be shot. She thrust her arms behind her, as if they were wings and she could fly out of here. The movement caused her breasts to press forward, straining against her jersey. He had always been embarrassed by the sexual displays of American girls. They were without shame in their boldness. But Kate was not being bold now. She did not know he was watching. His eyes were half closed as he sprawled in the seat, pretending indifference. Kate was only seeking to relax, to ease her tired body, as if she were alone in her room. He could not take his eyes away from her breasts. They were not large but they stood out prominently. He wondered what it would be like to hold one of her breasts in the palm of his hand as if it were a small puppy to be petted and caressed.

Still later, Kate was at the back of the bus again, looking out of the window. Miro noted the way her blond hair flowed down below her shoulders. The small of her back sloped gently toward her buttocks. What word did the Americans use? Ass. A blunt coarse word. But he could not deny the attractiveness of the rounded buttocks in the tight jeans. He tried to recall her buttocks as he had seen them in that earlier glimpse, unclothed, uncovered, pale and pink in their roundness, the glimpse too swift, too little. Now Miro was able to study her buttocks without hurry, for she seemed preoccupied with whatever view lay beyond the window. He should be suspicious, of course, and he would be if it were anyone but an American schoolgirl, one of those
hollow, empty-faced girls without any purpose in life. They were beautiful the way flowers were beautiful, with no purpose except to be beautiful. He continued to stare at Kate’s body while Kate continued to look out the window. Let her look. She was like a flower and flowers should be allowed to follow their inclinations. Until the season ended and they died.

She knew he was watching her, that look in his eyes again, and she was both exhilarated and appalled. A while ago, he had looked at her with hard, cold eyes and talked of death and destruction, and she’d had no doubt that he could kill her or any of the children without hesitation, without conscience. And then she’d felt his eyes upon her, following her, drinking her in as if she could quench some terrible thirst of his. She thought of all the talk about feminism and equal rights and realized it melted away when it came to certain things. Like that look of his. She hadn’t been flattered by that look, by his interest. In fact, she resisted his attention, pretending not to notice, not wanting him to know that
she
knew, not wanting to respond. Yet a small dim hope flowered within her again. Was she foolish to let it flower? Her emotions were on a seesaw now: up, down, up, down.

She looked up now to catch Miro turning away, averting his eyes quickly. But not in time. She knew, though, that she could not rely on him and what he had seen in her. She had to rely on the key. And that unknown quantity: herself.

The long afternoon burned on, the heat increasing, pounding at the taped windows, pressing on the roof of the bus like a giant’s hot hand. The helicopters came and went, roaring and throbbing and fluttering and then receding, fading away; and after a while, Kate
discerned a pattern in their arrivals and departures. Every fifteen minutes. Occasionally, a siren howled, piercing the air with its sound of emergency: something gone wrong, something gone askew. Distant shouts sometimes reached them, and Kate would press eager eyes to the window slits but would see no movement out there, no activity, the woods shrouded and still. Yet, the helicopters and sirens were reminders that someone was out there, someone was watching. But what could they do as long as the hijackers held the children?

Artkin visited the bus on occasion, consulting with Miro, checking the windows, glancing at the children and at her with indifferent eyes as if he were taking inventory in a store or warehouse, checking numbers, quantities, nothing else. He fed the children more doped candy and Kate protested only feebly, knowing her resistance was useless. Once, Artkin offered her the candy, holding out a piece of chocolate.

“Why not sleep, like the children?” he said, that gentleness in his voice she did not trust anymore. She saw him whirling Kevin McMann above his head.

She shook her head.

“The time will pass more quickly,” he said.

She was almost tempted. But shook her head again. “No.”

He looked beyond her, and Kate turned to see what he had spotted. Raymond’s eyes were open, watching them. Those bright eyes.

“Hello, young man,” Artkin said, going to the child. “You look wide awake. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

Raymond flashed a look at Kate.

“Would you like some candy?”

Raymond looked at Kate again, questioning her with his eyes. Artkin caught the look.

“Take the candy,” Artkin said.

Raymond’s chin began to tremble.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Raymond,” he said, the name a whisper. His eyes were agonized as he confronted Artkin.

Oh, Raymond, Kate thought. You poor kid. Take the candy, eat it, don’t try to be brave, sleep this whole nightmare away. She knew that it had been futile anyway to count on a five-year-old child for help. Futile and foolish. But he had been a forlorn hope at a time when she had needed hope, no matter how forlorn.

“Don’t you like candy, Raymond?” Artkin asked, that deceptive gentleness in his voice again, a voice that would haunt her dreams.

“My mother says it’s not good for my teeth,” Raymond said bravely in his old man’s voice.

“But this is a special occasion, Raymond,” Artkin said. “You can wash your teeth good when you go home and you won’t have any cavities from the candy.”

Again, Raymond looked at her.

Kate said: “Take the candy, Raymond.”

Raymond’s eyes filled with tears as he held out his hand to Artkin, palm up. Was he crying because he didn’t want to eat the candy or because Kate had let him down, capitulated, sided with the bad guys? She had to make an effort to hold back her own tears.

“Now eat,” Artkin said. “It tastes good, you’ll like it.”

Raymond put the candy in his mouth, chewed, the tears rolling down his cheeks, looking at neither Artkin or Kate.

“That’s good,” Artkin said. “And now, another.”

Kate turned away.

Later, Raymond slept along with the children. She’d waited until Artkin left before going to him but he was already drugged, head lolling, jaw loose and slack. Had
Artkin increased the dosage? The other children also slept. Perhaps the drug accumulated in their bodies, didn’t wear off but remained there. In the past hour or two, they had become even more docile, as if in a stupor. The drug also seemed to immobolize their bodies; since that first experience with the pail this morning, none of the children had asked for its use again. They didn’t ask for food, either. Kate herself felt drugged. Her blouse was damp. Her hair hung in moist strands as if she hadn’t washed it in weeks. The heat clung to her flesh, seemed to penetrate her pores, dulling her senses. Raymond’s hand was in hers. She pressed it and Raymond pressed back faintly. Her legs felt heavy, as if huge weights rested on them, as if she had been running a long long time. She felt her head nodding, her eyelids drooping, and was too exhausted to resist the sweet lassitude invading her body so tenderly, so beautifully. She fell asleep, a deep dreamless sleep of clinging darkness. No bus, no children, no hijackers, no helicopters, no sirens. Nothing.

Miro watched her sleeping. She was like one of the children. Unguarded, unprotected.

If they went to Times Square again, he would ask Artkin to arrange for one of the girls.

He was curious.

Small beads of perspiration glistened on Kate’s lips, like a moist mustache. A lock of hair had fallen away, revealing her temple, the cluster of small blue veins. The bullet in her temple would flower into blood.

He was sorry the bus driver had not been a man, after all. He would have been spared meeting this girl and seeing the horror in her eyes when she looked at him. She had said: Don’t you feel anything?

What was there to feel? Miro wondered. A man lived his life and performed his duty and did what was necessary to survive. As Artkin did. How he wished he could be like Artkin someday.

Miro frowned as he looked down at the girl.

She stirred, lifted a hand to her cheek.

Miro moved away, in case she should awaken and see him there, like one who peeks at women.

Monique dreamed that Classie was with her. Sitting on her lap and hiding. Both of them hiding from everybody. Mommy, Daddy, Claire. Claire who was in the third grade and came home and didn’t want to play with her.

In her dream, Classie was sitting on her lap but then she got up. All by herself. Classie was walking. Classie never did that before. She wasn’t supposed to walk. But she was walking now. And then she was running.

She was running down the middle of the bus and the big man was running, too, with his big boots and he was going to step on Classie. Crush her. Kill her.

She wanted her daddy to stop the man.

She wanted her mommy to stop him, too.

But they were gone. Gone with Claire to school, and when they got home, they wouldn’t want to play with her and they would let the man’s boots step on Classie and crush her.

She screamed for Classie.

Look out, Classie, look out.

The man’s boot was like a giant’s boot coming down on Classie as she ran. But now Classie wasn’t running. She was moving her legs but staying in the same place.

And here comes the boot.

She screamed again, the scream like a big fire coming out of her mouth.

Kate woke up and knew instantly, blindingly, where she was: on the bus, with the children and the hijackers. She kept her eyes closed for a moment more, reluctant to open them, to take up the burden of being on the bus again. The echo of a fading cry lingered in her ears. She opened her eyes. Were the children all right? She heard their soft snores, their heavy breathing. She looked around. They were all lost in the drugged sleep.

She moved her foot and felt the key cuddled in her toes. If she was going to try to drive the bus out of here, she’d better do it before it was dark, before night came on.

The moment was here then. But she didn’t know whether she was ready or not. She had to summon a Kate Forrester she’d never known before: the brave Kate Forrester.

The
steering wheel was in her hands and she was poised for action: one foot resting on the clutch pedal, the other ready to push down on the accelerator. She had rehearsed the steps she must undertake. In sequence. She had sat here for almost an hour, waiting. Going over the whole thing in her mind. But it was all futile, would go for nothing without Miro. The dash to freedom depended on him. He had to be outside the bus, standing at the doorway, so that she could close the door and shut him out. But Miro was showing no inclination to step outside, although he had done so regularly earlier. Now he lingered in the back of the bus, squinting out the windows. Once in a while,
he walked among the children, checking them out, as if the children might be plotting among themselves, for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, Kate was concerned about the failing daylight. Twilight had arrived delicately, like soot being sprinkled throughout the bus. Outside, light still lingered, that eerie time of day that was like dawn in reverse, the sky pale but growing darker, the sharp edges of everything growing blurred and indistinct. Peering through the slit in the windshield, Kate saw that the roof of the van was melting into the gathering darkness. If she waited much longer, she would have to use the headlights. The lights would shine directly into the van, causing an immediate alarm. She’d also been pondering another worry: What about the cops and soldiers in the woods? What would they do when they saw the bus moving? Would they fire? Would they figure that someone was trying a getaway from the hijackers or would they think that the hijackers themselves were attempting to get away or trying a diversion? She didn’t know. She only knew that she had to take that chance. She felt certain they wouldn’t shoot at the bus knowing the children were in there. She would have to gamble that they’d hold their fire, that they were under orders not to do anything that would further endanger the children.

The children, thank God, were still under the influence of the drugs, sleeping mostly, stirring occasionally, calling out once in a while. She was grateful for their drugged state at the moment, allowing her to concentrate on her plan. She felt an urgency to get going, to put the plan into action before she got cold feet or thought of something that would dash cold water on the plan. But she couldn’t do anything at all while Miro was
on the bus. She could only fidget here at the wheel and wait. And wait.