Short Cut to Santa Fe (4 page)

The hatch to the hold was slammed shut, and the surly-looking relief driver climbed into the bus. He moved his tool kit over and sat down next to the aisle. Surely the company didn't send an emergency mechanic on every trip, thought Karen. Surely not. Or did you need a mechanic on a trip into a world that stretches the boundaries? And exactly what boundaries were going to be stretched? And how, not to say why? If the rest of the patter she had to memorize made as little sense as this, she was going to rewrite it. Maybe this job wasn't going to be worth five hundred bucks and all you could eat.

“Jesus, Gary,” said the relief driver. “Let's git the hell outta here.”

With a clash of the gears, Gary threw the idling bus out of neutral. It lurched forward at an astonishing rate of speed, barely negotiating the turn at the airport gate, and tore in the direction of the setting sun like a charging rhinoceros.

“Isn't Taos somewhere north of Santa Fe?” asked John.

“Mmm,” said Harriet. “Definitely north, and somewhat to the east, I think.”

“Then why do you suppose we've gone from driving straight into the sunset to heading south?”

“To avoid all the crowded suburban roads running between the interstate and the airport? I really don't know,” said Harriet irritably. Doubt was creeping into her voice as she spoke. “You know—longer but faster. There. Look—the bus is turning right up ahead. We'll probably connect with the road to Taos any minute now. Why don't you check the map and see if you can figure out where we are.”

“I always get the impossible jobs. Why can't I chase the bus, and you try to work out where we are?”

“Because it would be tricky to change drivers in mid-stream, so to speak. And if we stop, we'll lose them. They're moving at a hell of a clip. I trust they know more about the location of radar traps and all that than we do. How are the kids doing? By the way—there's food in the cooler right behind you. I'm famished. Did you eat on the plane?”

“Are you kidding? I value my life and health more than that,” said Sanders. “How about you two?” he asked in a muffled voice as he searched through the cooler sitting between them on the seat. “Anyone feel like a sandwich? By some stroke of luck, we seem to have four sandwiches here—they all appear to be ham and cheese on dark bread with lettuce and pickles and stuff. In addition, there's cheese, piles of fruit, and things to drink. Coke?” he asked, passing out the wrapped sandwiches. “Here. And in the paper bag at your feet is the world's most enormous bag of cheezy things. Really, Harriet. I begin to doubt your taste and refinement. Also four boxes of crackers.”

“I was hungry,” she said. “So I bought lots. Is it still cold?”

“Very,” said John. “An extremely efficient cooler you have. Have a sandwich.” He unwrapped one and gave half to her.

“Gorgeous. Hang on a minute, though, they're speeding up again, and the road is getting worse. I hope you kids don't get carsick.”

A muffled chorus from behind declared their immunity from such childish ailments.

And indeed, the van, admirable though it was for transporting large amounts of photographic equipment, was not designed for high-speed chases over bad roads, and at the moment it was rocking and bouncing like a small boat on a choppy sea. Suddenly, in a terrific crash of sound, the bus made a rapid right turn and disappeared from sight.

There was a worried exclamation from behind.

“I'm sorry,” said John, turning toward the backseat to hear better. “I didn't quite catch what you were saying.”

“We said that he's turned the wrong way.” Caroline was speaking softly, as if she were afraid to voice her concerns out loud. “Our regular driver never goes this way.”

“And he isn't the regular driver?” asked John.

“No. The regular driver's Bert, and Lesley's the regular guide on this kind of tour. Lesley does historic sites and Susie does desert flora and fauna. That's plants and animals,” added Caroline politely, in case their traveling companions didn't have a scientific bent. “Someone at Dallas said that Lesley was sick today, but Bert never gets sick. He always drives. He's nice. We really like Bert.”

Her brother nodded.

“I hope he isn't lost,” said Caroline. Her voice was carefully neutral. “I hope he drives past our road.”

“Don't be stupid, Car—of course he'll go past our road. He's just been heading around the city a different way.” Underneath his bravura tone Harriet heard the panic of a small child lost and far from home.

“Okay—what if we don't drive past your road?” interrupted Harriet. “Let's consider the possibilities. What do we know? Two things. The bus driver is new, and the bus is leaving the city—or has left the city—via a route unfamiliar to you. In these situations one begins, always, with the worst-case scenario. The new driver is just taking what he thinks is the best and most rapid route to Taos. Let's say it doesn't intersect with your road. When we get to Taos, we call your parents, who will be very pleased to know you're okay. Then we whisk you down to the hotel.”

“Do you work for the CIA?” asked Stuart. “You sound a little like a CIA operative.”

“Stuart asks everyone that,” said Caroline. “Our dad says he has a friend who works for the NSA, but he won't tell us who it is, in case we drive him crazy.

“Or her. We love spy stories,” added Caroline.

Harriet shook her head. “I'm a photographer. Not nearly as exciting, is it?”

“A news photographer?”

“No. I only photograph buildings. But I have a good friend who's a news photographer. She's had pictures on the covers of
Time
and
Newsweek
,” she added. “Do you read magazines?”

“Of course we do,” said Stuart. “Hey—what's the bus doing now?” he asked.

“I think it's probably turned north,” said Harriet. “Toward Taos. Not a very good road.”

Karen Johnson was in a quandary. Her instructions were to start serving drinks and snack trays—cheese, crackers, nuts, veggies, and two very small sandwich quarters—as soon as the driver was well on his way. She had somehow imagined that they would be gliding smoothly along a broad, well-tended road surface, instead of bucketing down a series of desperately bad secondary roads. Perhaps she should start with the food. It, at least, couldn't spill. She extracted herself from the history of Rose Green's late husband's unhappy business ventures, to which she had been devoting perhaps a tenth of her attention, and headed unsteadily along the aisle to the galley. Coffee and tea were imprisoned in urns; there was a tiny sink and a burner, although she couldn't imagine trying to cook anything under these conditions. She unlatched the door above the sink and discovered a refrigerated compartment with trays neatly stacked on wire shelving, close together. She counted them. Twelve. Eight passengers, two drivers, one guide. Eleven people on the bus. A wave of relief passed over her. If they had been expecting more passengers, they would have loaded more trays. She wedged herself into the corner, grabbed a tray, unwrapped it, and gave it to Diana Morris. “It's a bit bumpy for drinks,” said Karen. “But there are things in cans that probably won't spill.”

“I think I'll risk a soda,” said Diana. “Anything cold and wet.”

The Nichollses declined both food and drink, and Karen's spirits lifted. She was starving. Food had been in short supply in her life lately and she felt faint from hunger. She took the few steps back to the galley, put down the two trays she was carrying, ripped the plastic film off one, scooped up the two little sandwiches, and consumed them with the rapidity of a starving dog. They were astonishingly good. Smoked salmon on whole wheat bread, and some kind of exceptionally tasty pâté on thin rye. She was impressed. Perhaps this tour really was worth its exorbitant price. She grabbed a carrot, looked hungrily at the sandwiches on the second tray sitting in front of her, then, with heroic resolution, picked it up intact, added another tray for the other hand out of the refrigerated compartment, and headed back down the aisle.

The Kellehers turned out to have notions about food. Suellen loathed fish of any kind, she explained to Karen, although she might eat the pâté if it weren't too rich or too spicy. Karen suggested leaving the smoked salmon; Rick thought he might be able to eat it, although he didn't particularly like the idea of hors d'oeuvres an hour or so before dinner. Suellen offered to share a tray instead of taking two; Rick pointed out that they had paid for two trays and might as well get them. Suellen countered with a proposal to take one now, and another a little later, if they were still hungry. Never had so much brainpower, thought Karen, been expended on such a useless topic. After all, in an hour or two, everyone was going to be sitting down to a huge meal. Prepaid. Taking matters into her own hands, she set a tray in front of each Kelleher, very firmly.

The relief driver had been crouched over his tool kit, fiddling with something, with his back to the aisle. But the interminable discussion over the Kellehers' snack trays had finally aroused his curiosity, and when Karen looked up, he was peering down the aisle to see what was going on. It was evident that something other than the snack tray imbroglio had captured his complete attention. He seemed to be staring past her, through the back window; then with a muttered word that Karen didn't quite catch, he heaved himself out of his seat, grabbed onto the two uprights that marked the beginning of the aisle, crouched down, and said something directly into his co-worker's ear.

The sudden increase in speed startled them all. The Kellehers lost their dual snack trays on the first bump. Diana Morris's cola can bounced onto the floor and rolled, dribbling dark liquid as it moved. “What in hell is going on?” said Kevin Donovan in a surprisingly clear and sober voice. He slid over to the aisle and tried to get a look at the road ahead, but he was hindered by the bulk of the relief driver and the fast-gathering dark. “What do you bastards think you're doing?”

“Deal with him, Wayne,” said the driver.

“Shut up.” There was an edge of panic in the relief driver's voice. “And sit down.” He swung himself around, achieving stability in the crazy lurching environment by looping an arm around the pole and wedging his feet against the steel dividers. With a wary eye on Donovan, he bent over to recover something from his seat; when he straightened up again, he was holding a huge and cumbersome weapon.

The only noise to be heard was the bus bouncing over gravel—the only movement that of the passengers swaying in spite of themselves from the mad careening of the bus. Donovan was half in the aisle, hanging onto the back of the relief driver's seat, staring down at his weapon; Suellen Kelleher had shrunk into her corner, with her husband protectively in place between her and the gunman. Teresa Suarez watched it all without expression. Someone behind her gasped.

Then everything happened at once. Donovan yelled, “Put that thing away, you fucking idiot.” The bus lurched violently to the right. Arms grabbed Karen from behind and toppled her to the floor. There was a burst of gunfire, agonizingly loud in that confined space. Hot air exploded beside her head and she heard a startled “oof” from behind. By now she was flat on her face on the carpeting that ran between the seats of the Archway Tour bus, bouncing painfully on the hard surface.

Dizzy and confused, she lifted her head, knowing only that she had to be on her feet. She was in charge. That was her job. But the scene in front of her made no sense. Kevin Donovan was kneeling with his feet sticking out into the aisle, his torso flat down on his seat, very still. Ahead of him, the relief driver waved his weapon back and forth, in harmony with the swaying of the bus. Donovan raised his head, looked back at the relief driver, and began very slowly to resume his sitting position. How could either one of them have thrown her to the floor with so much violence? And as far as she could tell, she hadn't been hit by a burst of gunfire. Then the sound of distressed breathing reached her and she turned her head to look.

Diana Morris was crawling on her hands and knees toward the back of the bus. The pool of blood she'd left behind her was soaking into the carpeting. More dripped from her as she struggled. Karen scrambled along the aisle in a hunched position, picking up bruises as she was flung against the metal sides of the seats, until she was beside the wounded woman. “Where are you hurt?” Diana Morris fell over on her side, her hand pointing down at a huge, bleeding wound in her thigh.

“You could have killed us all, waving that gun around,” said an incisive voice. It was Mrs. Green. An invigorated Mrs. Green. “You've certainly hurt that young woman. We can't leave her like that. Here—just a moment.” She reached into a capacious bag that was slung in the net in front of her and produced a plastic case with a red cross emblazoned on it. Then, rummaging farther, she pulled out a plastic bag containing a number of pastel scarves. “I'll just make her a bandage—”

“No. I'll take care of her.” This was a new voice, controlled and calm. “Get out of my way, Brett, will you?”

“The hell you will.” His voice was strained. “Stay where you are.”

“Brett—don't be a fool. Let me out. Unless there's someone else in the bus who knows what he's doing?” Silence. “Right. I'm a nurse and I've seen my share of gunshot wounds. Now let me out.”

Jennifer Nicholls's husband seemed to have turned to stone. She sighed and crawled past him into the aisle. “Excuse me,” she said to Mrs. Green, “but if that's a first-aid kit—”

“There's one in the galley, too,” said Karen.

“Good. I can use both.”

“What in hell do you think you're doing?” The man with the weapon seemed to gather his wits together again at last.

“I'm keeping this woman from dying. If I were you, I wouldn't try to stop me, not unless you'd like to face a charge of first-degree murder.”