After the First Death Page 3

  But it turned out not to be a man.

  When they boarded the bus, the driver sitting behind the wheel was a girl. Blond, slender, wearing a dazzling yellow jersey. Long hair like straw; no, not straw, honey, syrup.

  Miro had followed Artkin to the bus after Stroll had overtaken the vehicle, pulled the van up in front of it, and forced the driver to come to a halt. Artkin, Antibbe, and Miro had scrambled out of the van while Stroll remained at the wheel. Antibbe easily forced the door open with a crowbar and returned to the van. Artkin and Miro had climbed aboard. The takeover was completed within seconds, with no outcry from the children or the girl driver. She regarded them in shocked silence, mouth agape, eyes wide with disbelief. Miro crouched down beside her to remain out of sight of anyone passing on the highway while Artkin passed down the aisle, greeting the children, calling to them—Hello, there.… It’s a nice day.… Aren’t you a pretty little girl?… Do you like candy, chocolate?—all the while watching for any passing vehicles. He cajoled the children, diverted them, a master of that kind of thing, a superb actor. Miro envied him as he remained beside the girl. For the first time she noticed the gun in Miro’s hand. Her face registered revulsion, as if she had observed something obscene. And then fright overcame her: stronger than fright. Terror. She had run the course Miro had so often seen. Shock then revulsion then terror.

  Artkin returned to the front of the bus and picked up a brown grocery bag he had dropped on entering. The bag contained chocolate candy, wrapped in tinfoil.

  “Candy for everybody—everybody loves candy,” he called out brightly. Miro touched Artkin’s arm. Artkin paused. Miro saw the pulse leap in Artkin’s throat; it was dangerous to touch Artkin.

  Miro raised himself up. “I thought you said the driver was a man.” His voice was a whisper but harsher than he intended.

  “You are not supposed to think,” Artkin said, spitting the words, pulling away, going down the aisle, distributing the candy among eager hands. The candy had been treated with a tranquilizer, a drug strong enough to render the children docile and passive within a few minutes. How else, Artkin had said, can we keep a bus full of children quiet? There was plenty of chocolate, as well as lollipops dipped in the drug in spare bags in the van.

  Miro crouched beside the girl again. Her knuckles were white where they clutched the steering wheel. She was rigid, looking ahead through the windshield. Her chin trembled and her shoulders shook as if a chill had overtaken her. Miro remembered that one time when his own chin had trembled and his shoulders had shuddered beyond control. When Aniel died. He had fought tears—a soldier was not supposed to cry—but he had been overwhelmed at how the rest of his body betrayed him although his eyes had remained dry. He had tried to remain emotionless, to keep the fact of Aniel’s death neutral and meaningless, but a strange sound had issued from his body, a sob torn from his insides, as if giving voice to a terrible wound. Artkin, who was always there, dug a hard hand into Miro’s shoulders. He had brought the news of Aniel’s death: instantaneous, almost accidental—a bullet had ricocheted and drilled into Aniel’s forehead, between his eyes. Miro had wrenched himself away from Artkin’s grip and bolted from the room, disgusted and in despair, disgusted with the way his body had betrayed him after all those years of training and in despair because his brother’s death left him alone in the world. Except for Artkin. But Artkin was not his flesh and blood.

  Miro studied the girl now. He was close enough to smell the scent of her deodorant. Or was it her cologne? She raised her arm slightly and he saw the circle of perspiration at her armpit. So, the girl’s body was betraying her just as Miro’s body had once betrayed him. As all bodies must eventually become traitors, perhaps. And Artkin? Would he ever become a victim of his own betrayal?

  Miro looked at the girl’s temple near that flow of yellow hair. The plan had been for him to walk the driver outside the bus, away from the sight of the children, raise the pistol to the driver’s temple, and squeeze gently, carefully. Do it quickly, Artkin had advised, and do not hesitate. Artkin had often said they were not interested in needless cruelty. They had a job to do and the job concerned death. Do not prolong it more than necessary. Deliver it as efficiently as possible with the least mess. We are not animals, after all, he said, but merely a means to an end. Everything is done for a purpose. Miro reached out his hand as if to touch the girl’s temple or perhaps her hair. But he resisted the impulse.

  Artkin had finished handing out the candy and now he laughed and joked with the children, although Miro knew his eyes contained no laughter. The tranquilizers should have begun to take effect by the time they reached the bridge. Miro wondered whether the revolver’s report would rouse them again.

  As Artkin returned to the front of the bus, the girl drew a deep breath and turned to them. “What’s this all about?” she demanded, gathering her strength and courage and outrage, not realizing how pathetic she sounded.

  “Just drive, miss,” Artkin said, softly, gently. “Don’t be concerned. We merely want to divert the bus from its course for a few minutes. No harm will be done to you or the children.”

  Miro marveled at how convincing Artkin sounded. He had seen him do this before, his voice reassuring, soothing, almost tender. He remembered that voice vividly just before Artkin had shattered the face of the police officer in Detroit with a blast from the revolver. If the thousand pieces of that face were put back together now, the countenance just before death would be peaceful, expectant, without any hint of the horror to come.

  “Why are you driving this bus today?” Miro asked. He knew this question would draw Artkin’s wrath—Artkin always discouraged needless conversation in operations—but Miro was disturbed. He did not want anything to go wrong with his first death.

  “My uncle is sick. I take over sometimes for him. I passed a special driver education course.” Like a schoolgirl reciting her lesson.

  Artkin darted Miro a glance of annoyance and then turned to the girl. “I’m certain you are a careful driver, miss, and that’s good. We would not want anything to happen to the children. Just keep driving so the children do not become upset.” His voice still reassuring, reasonable.

  The girl actually smiled at Artkin, a wan smile, uncertain perhaps, but a smile all the same.

  Artkin looked at his watch. Miro glanced at the kids in the bus. Some of them seemed to have gone limp and sat languidly in the seats, as if in a daze. Miro wondered: How strong were those drugs?

  “You have seventeen minutes left,” Artkin said to him.

  Miro nodded. For a moment, he had been as deceived by Artkin’s gentleness as the girl had been. But the reality of the situation imposed itself again on him. He glanced at his watch. In seventeen minutes—no, sixteen now—he would kill this girl. He wondered how old she was. Eighteen? Seventeen? His own age?

  The girl shifted gears as the van in front of them began an uphill climb. The children barely stirred. Miro saw Artkin pondering the children. He looked doubtful, his forehead wrinkled in concern. Artkin seldom showed doubt. Had the drugs been too powerful? Or was Artkin merely deep in thought, selecting his possible victims: who would die, who would live?

  Artkin became conscious of Miro’s study.

  “Don’t concern yourself with them,” he said, indicating the children. “Look to her.” He nodded toward the girl. “You have less than fifteen minutes.”

  Miro felt the presence of the gun under his jacket, like a tumor growing there.

  She was furious with herself. Her pants were wet—her panties, really, but she hated the word panties for some reason—and her fingers actually ached where she gripped the steering wheel and she could feel a migraine beginning, a dart of pain imbedded in her forehead above her right eyebrow, but these things didn’t matter. What mattered most—what she was furious about—was the way she had sat there all the time, numb and dumb, while these animals took over the bus, took complete control of her and the children while she did absolutely nothing at all. And tho
se wet pants, her flesh chilled now between her legs. Her bladder and the muscles there—always a weakness. A sneeze could do it, or sudden laughter, and she would feel a small oozing of delight followed by the shameful knowledge that she was wet again. She owned sixteen pairs of pants—all right, panties—but, jeez, this was the limit.

  She kept her eyes on the van ahead, following orders. Ordinarily, she hated to follow orders—at home or at school—but usually did. Another weakness. And here she was, complying again, carrying out the instructions they had given her. Not they: him. The older one. The one in command. Funny, you’d think she’d be more intimidated by the older one rather than the boy, but it was the boy who worried her. Even now, she could feel his intensity as he crouched nearby. Even though he had put the gun away, in his jacket someplace, she felt a sense of dread, menace. He had looked at her with those deep brown eyes, almost black, and she felt as though he were measuring her for a coffin. God, what a thought. But then she always dramatized situations. Anyway, the boy disturbed her, not the man. The man had seemed reasonable, rational, unlike the boy, who had something of an animal about him, like a dog straining at a leash.

  The van took a sudden turn to the left. Old Vineyard Road. She was puzzled—there was nothing out that way. She had lived in Hallowell all her life and knew the place like she knew her own face in the mirror—even the small pimple that appeared near her nose each time her period arrived—and she tried to envision where the van was leading her and the bus. To Brook’s End? That old pavilion where they’d had dances years ago during the Big Band era her parents always talked about? Nothing else out there. Anything could happen out there in the woods like that. She gripped the wheel hard to keep from trembling. Stop dramatizing, she told herself again. Think of the poor kids. She glanced in the rear-view mirror. The kids were subdued, not restless or jabbering as usual. She saw one child apparently dozing, her chin resting on her thin chest. Another child’s mouth hung open, his jaw slack and loose. She knew instantly that the children had been drugged, that the candy the older man had given out was evidently doped up. As she darted glances from the van ahead to the rear-view mirror, she saw a boy begin to fall lazily, almost in slow motion, out of his seat, into the aisle. She cried out. The older man had also seen the child begin to fall and hurried to him, catching him before he hit the floor. He picked up the little boy, cradling him in his arms. Instead of restoring the child to the seat, the man himself sat down, holding the boy against his own chest, rubbing his hand across the boy’s forehead paternally. Yet the man was obviously a monster, taking over a bus like this, feeding the kids some kind of drug.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” the boy told her. His words were precise, each word pronounced perfectly. Too perfectly. He had a slight accent, an echo of something ancient in his voice, and it was obvious that English was not his native language. She glanced at him quickly, defiantly, to show that she would not always leap to obey his orders. His hair was black, small tight curls fitting his head like a helmet. His skin was dark but with a kind of copper hue as if burned by the sun too long. He could be anything. From anywhere.

  Now she had to concentrate on the driving because the road was unpaved, rough and narrow. Trees formed arches through which the vehicles passed. The sunshine was blotted out occasionally and they were enveloped in sudden shadows. The bus lurched as it encountered a dip in the road, and the boy was thrown slightly against her. She felt his body against her shoulder only for a moment, but it caused her to shudder. She looked into the mirror. The small pimple had appeared, near her right nostril. Damn it. She hadn’t noticed the pimple this morning when she washed her face, and her period was two weeks away. The migraine ate like acid into her forehead. Would her period come ahead of time while she was here on the bus? She felt like crying, the way she had when she was a little girl and crying solved things, brought rescue.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, fleeing her thoughts.

  “Just continue to drive,” the boy said. “We are almost there.”

  She sent her mind ahead of the bus and the van, pondering the possible destination. At the same time, the van began a steep climb and she felt the resistance of the bus to the ascent. She shifted into second, summoning all her strength for the movement. This was an old bus, without automatic shifting, and the gear mechanism balked at changes, the gears grinding in protest, like old bones being disturbed.

  Her mind flashed ahead again. At the top of the hill the road continued its twisting way in the woods. The road crossed a railroad track no longer in use. She remembered that there was an old rickety railroad bridge off to the right, abandoned, closed off. The trains from Boston did not come this far anymore. Freight trains took other routes and commuter trains from Boston took passengers only as far as Concord and Lexington, twenty miles away. The old bridge was a narrow sagging span high above the Moosock River, which was no longer a river but a thin scrawl of water, barely a brook. Kids sometimes invaded the bridge and removed the traffic barrier—a gate as old and battered as the bridge itself. They held beer parties and dropped the bottles to the river below. She hadn’t participated in the parties, but their fame was legendary at Hallowell High.

  The bus climbed steadily, lumbering, like some huge beast being driven against its will. She hoped the bus would collapse, like a beast, and die there on the road. She wondered what would happen if the bus stopped and didn’t go on. She looked down at the ignition. What would happen if she removed the key, tossed it out the window into the thick growth by the side of the road? Would this spoil their plan, whatever it was? Or would she be placing the kids and herself in worse jeopardy? The man seemed reasonable. Should she go along with him and hope that what he said about diverting the bus for only a few moments was the truth? She looked into the rear-view mirror again. The children were lolling in their seats, some asleep, others half awake, eyelids drooping. They’re my responsibility, she told herself. They’re in my care. I shouldn’t do anything to place them in greater danger than they’re already in. She felt the presence of the boy beside her, smelled the plastic jacket he wore. He was groping inside the jacket now: reaching for the gun? The migraine was a dagger above her right eye.

  “We are almost there,” the boy said.

  And the gun was in his hand again. Pointing at her.

  The van had halted in front of the bus at the top of the hill.

  The man, having dispatched the boy to watch the children, said, “The van will reverse itself and back onto the bridge. You will follow.”

  “Do I back up, too?” she asked, wondering how she could perform such a stunt on this narrow dirt road.

  “No, simply follow the van. It will stop and you will stop, too, facing it.”

  “It’s a railroad bridge,” she said. “And it’s old and rickety. Is it strong enough to hold us?”

  “Yes. It has been tested recently. It is not too narrow, as you will see. There’s room for two sets of tracks. But proceed slowly. The ride may be uncomfortable as the tires must go over the railroad ties. The bridge is perhaps three hundred feet long, the length of one of your football fields.” She noted the use of your—meaning not mine. She wondered about his nationality. He was dark like the boy and his skin was also coppery, burned by the sun too long.

  The driver of the van had somehow turned it around, although he left broken bushes behind.

  “Now follow,” the man said. “And then it will be all over for you.”

  “Will I be free to go? The children—what about them?”

  He touched her shoulder gently. “Don’t be concerned. Everything will be fine.”

  She followed the van onto the bridge. The ride was bumpy, the bus bouncing as the wheels passed over the wooden railroad ties. She suddenly had an impression of height and realized that the bridge was high, probably one hundred and fifty feet or so above the river. The sensation of height was emphasized by the spaces between the railroad ties. Leaning forward and craning her neck, she saw clear sp
ace every few feet. Anyone walking on the bridge would have to watch his step. She urged the bus forward delicately, conscious of the spindly structure, the rotting ties, the space yawning below. The guardrails were solid-looking, however; black, iron, providing a sense of safety. Her foot barely touched the accelerator as she guided the bus in the bouncing path of the van ahead.

  “Fine,” the man said, “fine.”

  At last, the van halted and she braked the bus. She looked across the ravine to the old pavilion building. The building, abandoned, lopsided as if frozen in a drunken sway, was perched on the edge of land that was as high as the bridge. It seemed far away, the length of three or four football fields.

  “Turn off the motor,” the man said.

  When she complied, the man reached over and took the key out of the ignition. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You did excellently,” he said. Then he turned away. “Miro,” he called.

  But Miro didn’t answer. In fact, he heard Artkin’s voice as if from a great distance. He was looking at one of the children, a boy. The boy was alone in a seat, not paired off like most of the others. He lay full-length across the seat, as if he were sleeping. But his skin was bluish, as if someone had injected the veins of his face with blue dye. His chest did not rise or fall.

  “Artkin,” Miro cried, unable to take his eyes away from the child.

  “Yes?” Artkin replied, voice sharp, impatient.

  Miro managed to tear his eyes away from the boy. He beckoned to Artkin. A flash of annoyance crossed Artkin’s face as he walked down the aisle toward Miro. “It’s your time,” he said, as he approached. Miro pointed at the boy.

  Artkin swore, in the old language, swore softly, an ancient word of dismay and disgust. Miro had never heard such a word from Artkin’s lips before. Then Artkin acted quickly, feeling the boy’s chest for signs of life, checking the pulse in the frail wrist, placing his ear against the boy’s lips. The boy was still, unmoving.