Reaching the truck, he scampered into the cab and pulled out his handkerchief again. The poncho didn’t help much where glasses were concerned. Once he had them reasonably dry, he pushed his face toward the windshield and stared northward. He saw a slight reddish tint to the sky ahead. He thought he detected smoke, as well, though he couldn’t be sure because of the tenacious sweep of the rain.
He pulled the truck in front of the trailer, got out and went to work. Attempting to maneuver in the midst of the storm made it nearly intolerable, but he tugged and pushed and fought and cursed until he had truck and trailer married together.
Claire came flying out in her yellow poncho like a dwarfed version of Big Bird. She jumped into the truck and looked around at Ike with the pinched face she wore during moments of alarm.
“Where did that thunderbolt come from? It shook the trailer.”
“That was no thunderbolt.” His voice mirrored his concern. “It was an explosion, apparently just up the road. I thought about that bus, but...I don’t know what it could have been.”
He eased the mobile home out past the big live oak and turned onto the road. A tree had blown over a couple of hundred feet north of them, partially blocking their path, but Ike was able to ease around it. He continued at a slow pace, dodging the litter Nora’s reaching tentacles had scattered about indiscriminately. They had gone no more than half a mile and were just passing an opening in the trees when Claire shouted:
“Ike, stop!”
He jammed on the brakes but they had already moved beyond the gap. “What is it?”
“Back up. I think I saw a fire.”
When he had maneuvered back to where they could get a clear view, both of them saw it, the dim outlines of a large frame mingled with scattered tongues of flame and a smoky haze that seemed to swirl in agitation from the gusts of wind.
“Oh, God,” Claire said. “You don’t suppose–”
Ike turned into the opening and drove out along the trail toward the remains of the bus. When he saw someone waving, he pulled up and stopped. Claire was already out before he had his brakes set.
“What happened?” she asked the bedraggled looking woman who stood beside a man sitting on the ground.
“He injured his ankle and his back when he jumped out of the bus. Can we get him out of the rain?”
“Let me check him.” Claire bent down for a look. “I’m a nurse.”
The man swiveled his head to look at her. “You’re an angel in yellow, as far as I’m concerned.”
She checked the peeled skin, then shook her head. “You’ll think angel when I start patching that up. It’ll be painful, but I don’t see anything seriously wrong.” She looked around at her husband, who had just walked up. “Let’s get him inside the trailer. I’ll break out the first aid kit.”
“What happened to the others?” Ike asked. He bent down to help the man to his feet. “It looked like the bus was loaded when I passed it.”
“Most of them are under the trees over there,” the woman said. She pointed toward the line of live oaks. “I’m Marge Hunter and this is Bryce Reynolds. We’re with a church group of senior citizens.”
“Anybody else hurt?”
“Not from the bomb,” Bryce said. “The driver got bashed in the head, and I’m sure the others are totally miserable.”
Ike stared in disbelief as he balanced Bryce on his good leg. “Bomb?”
“There were four hijackers inside when it went off. Some of our people went looking–”
“Hey, who’s that?” a man called out as he and his companions came charging out of the gloom toward the headlights.
“We’ve got some help,” Marge said, almost smiling now. “She’s a nurse.”
After everyone was introduced, Claire pulled one of Bryce’s arms around her shoulder to help support him. “Let’s get inside.”
They boosted Bryce up the low steps and got him into the mobile home. Marge joined them, but the three men remained outside in the rain. “You guys come on in,” Ike said. “Don’t worry about the water. This thing will dry out.”
With the lights turned on, they looked like shipwrecked sailors pulled from the briny depths. After they got Bryce into a chair, Claire pointed to the small dry erase board by the door.
“That’s Deputy Floyd’s number, Ike. Call him on the cell phone and tell him to send some school buses. He said they had drivers on standby to rescue folks.” She looked around at Marge. “How many people do you have?”
“Forty-five in all. Did you find anybody else, Fred?”
“Not alive.”
Claire dug into one drawer for towels and another for her first aid kit as the others watched Ike make the telephone call.
“Carl, this is Ike Holzman. You’re going to find this hard to believe, but we just found a busload of senior citizens marooned in the rain, off the road about half a mile north of our place.”
“What fool bus driver went down that road?” the deputy asked.
“I don’t know the details, but the bus is blown all to hell.”
“Blown? By the wind?”
“A bomb, they said. Look, Carl, there’s forty-five old folks out in this God-awful storm. Claire said you had some school buses on standby. We need them right away.”
“Anybody badly hurt?”
“No, just scratches. A sprained ankle. Claire’s taking care of it.”
“A bomb.” The tone of the officer’s voice said it all. It was, indeed, unbelievable. “We’ll be there soon as possible, Ike. May take twenty minutes or so. Tell ’em to hang in there.”
Ike switched off the phone. “Twenty minutes or so.”
MacArthur had dried his face and blotted his sandy hair. “Fred and Troy and I talked this over on the way back,” he said, draping the towel Claire had given him around his neck. He looked across at Ike. “You people have been very kind, but we have a bit of a problem we need your help with. I think the less you know about it, the better off we’ll all be. You see, Bryce here got innocently involved with some rather unsavory characters. In order to protect him, we need to be careful what is said about that explosion.”
“What do you want us to do?” Ike asked.
“Tell the truth, basically, just as you did on the phone. How you found us, that we mentioned a bomb. Just don’t speculate on anything else. And don’t mention Bryce’s name, that he was injured.”
Ike’s ready grin was that of a schemer. “I was raised in a climate that frowned on collaboration with the law. Personally, I don’t have any of those hang-ups. But you can count on our discretion.”
“If anybody wants to ask us any questions,” said Claire, “they had better do it before early in the morning. As soon as this storm abates, we’re on the road to God knows where.”
Bryce looked around at them and wished that his mother could have been there. How many times had she told him that people were basically good and had an innate desire to help one another? Still, it involved a risk that he was not sure they should bear.
Pulling on a blue knit shirt that Ike had brought him, Bryce felt the heavy hand of fate on his shoulder. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all your help. It’s really sort of overwhelming. But don’t do anything that might put yourselves in jeopardy. The police will be asking lots of questions. They may bring in the FBI.”
“You’re in southern Mississippi,” Ike said. “You will be dealing with the local sheriff and his deputies. A bombed out bus and...you said hijackers? That will get their attention. But they’re short on manpower. Right now everyone is concentrating on this hurricane that’s just down the road. They won’t have a chance to do anything about this bus until Nora moves on. You’re from Tennessee, right? I’d find another bus as soon as possible and get your folks out of here and back home.”
MacArthur pulled the towel from around his neck and laid it on the sink. “I think we’re reading from the same script. Fred and I plan to approach the police, or sheriff, as you say, and volunteer to answer their
questions. We’ll plead that the others are too distraught and should be given dry clothes and fed and bedded down. We’ll ask Chick Townes to arrange another bus for us and head for Nashville at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, we want to keep Bryce out of sight.”
“What about the other thirty-nine people?” Bryce asked. “They heard what that hood said. And they heard me get up and say I was the man he was looking for.”
38
Ike looked around as he headed for the truck. “We need to get everyone over toward the road. I don’t think it would be a good idea to bring those school buses into this field. I’m holding my breath till we get this trailer out of here.”
Fred suggested that Marge stay with Bryce, but she wanted to be on hand when his fate was discussed with the others. After Bryce assured them he didn’t need a baby sitter, they trudged back out into the storm wearing plastic bags Claire Holzman had given them to ward off some of the downpour. Ike shifted the truck into reverse and backed down the trail to the opening near the road.
The weary, demoralized Silver Shadows huddled together like cattle beneath the trees, some looking as forlorn as motherless calves. Those who could had instinctively offered consolation to others. Clara and Horace clustered around Sadie, attempting to shield her from the worst of the storm. Claire moved among them, checking out the worst cases and offering words of comfort and hope. Help was on the way. She pressed her fingers gingerly on Chick’s face and decided nothing was broken. Apparently he suffered only a large bruise and a king-size headache.
“Bryce Reynolds jumped out a window before the explosion,” Fred explained when he had everyone’s attention, or at least those with enough alertness to listen. “He’s got some scratches and a sprained ankle, but he’s okay otherwise. The sheriff is on the way with some school buses to get us back to safety and shelter. However, there’s a problem we need your help with. Hamilton MacArthur wants to make a suggestion.”
MacArthur resembled some weird alien from another planet with the plastic bag seeming to cover an elongated head, but he spoke with force and authority. “All four men who held us hostage apparently died when their bomb accidentally exploded. They robbed us of our money and jewelry, and that’s the way they wanted to be remembered. I could only speculate on why they were looking for that man Fred Scott and Bryce Reynolds claimed to be. But I’m sure Fred and Bryce saved our lives by what they did. And therein lies the problem.
“The ringleader said Fred was too tall, which means Bryce must have been about the right size. If word were to get out, through the sheriff or the news media, that Bryce Reynolds said he was the man they were after, whoever sent those men would likely accept it as the truth. Then they might dispatch more vicious thugs looking for Bryce. There’s no telling what might happen. I think it is up to us to protect him. I suggested, and Fred agrees–”
“So do I!” Marge Hunter shouted.
“–that we should say nothing about their looking for anyone. Our only explanation for what happened should be the robbery. They threatened us with a bomb if we didn’t do whatever they demanded, then they took our money and our jewelry. They probably intended to take our bus and abscond with all of our belongings. Fred and I will volunteer to speak for the group. Hopefully the authorities will let the rest of you get some well-deserved rest.”
“Does everybody understand?” Fred asked. “Don’t forget the threat they made to come after us. Those men won’t, obviously, but they’re sure to have friends back wherever they came from. Are we all agreed on this?”
There were some mumbles and nods. The only disagreement came from Tillie Ellis.
“You two can be the spokes-men,” she said. “I will be the spokes-lady.”
Fred quickly took her aside to impress upon her the importance of adhering to the party line. He was still talking to her when a car with flashing blue lights appeared in the road behind them, followed by two yellow school buses.
As the soaked, shivering and bedraggled Silver Shadows were herded aboard the buses, Deputy Carl Floyd cornered Ike Holzman.
“What the hell happened here?”
Ike pointed to the smoldering carcass of the late Nova Tours bus. “They said some hijackers commandeered their bus and robbed them, then forced them off. The guys must have accidentally set off their bomb.” He turned to Fred, MacArthur, and Tillie. “These people over here are the leaders of the group. They can fill you in on the details.”
“You folks go get in my car,” Floyd said. “Lemme take a look at the mess, then we’ll get out of here. Any investigation will have to wait till later. That nasty gal Nora is getting too close for comfort.”
As Ike walked with him through the downpour, Floyd could feel the gusts getting stronger. He leaned into the wind, wandering through the scattered remnants of what had once been suitcases stuffed with clothing and souvenirs. Closer to the bus, bits of shattered glass, mangled seats and other torn and twisted pieces of metal lay strewn about. Floyd almost tripped on one rectangular object. When he kicked it over, he saw the destination sign that said "Goin’ Places."
“I bet they sure didn’t realize they were goin’ to Hell,” he said with a look of disbelief. “It couldn’t be any more devastating down there.”
As a matter of fact, it wasn’t too different than the aftermath of a tornado, something he’d had the misfortune of witnessing on more than one occasion. The destruction was incredible.
“What happened to the hijackers?” he asked suddenly, already guessing the answer after seeing what looked like a leg torn from its socket.
“They were apparently on the bus when it blew,” Ike said. “I believe that MacArthur fellow said it was four men.”
“Damn.” Floyd stretched the word into two syllables as they reached the blackened frame. “Anybody who was in there sure didn’t survive.”
The winds had reached dangerously close to hurricane force as Deputy Floyd drove toward the high school. After introducing himself as the retired president of an insurance company–it turned out Floyd’s mother owned one of the firm’s policies–Hamilton MacArthur gave the sanitized version of what had happened, starting with the bus being lured off the interstate by a bogus policeman.
“What did they do with the bomb?” Carl Floyd asked.
“Put it under the seat where I was sitting,” said MacArthur. “That was a scary thing. They threatened to blow us up if we didn’t do everything they demanded.”
“It may be un-Christian to put it this way,” Tillie said, “but I think those horrid men got what they deserved.”
“We’ll probably have a devil of a time identifying them,” said the deputy. He was already dreading the inevitable return to the scene of the tragedy. “Maybe the license plate on the van will help.”
The high school gymnasium resembled the casualty ward in a military field hospital. Rows of canvas cots had been set up at one end of the hardwood floor. Many of the Silver Shadows rested beneath blankets provided appropriately by a team from UMCOR, the United Methodist Church’s disaster relief agency. One of the first on the scene, there to provide comfort to victims of Nora’s expected devastation, the team had not counted on a bombing incident adding to the ranks.
A local Methodist minister was among the volunteer workers and arranged two emergency calls at Fred’s request. One was made to Dr. Peter Trent in Madison, offering assurance to worried families that everyone was safe. The other went to the headquarters of Nova Tours. After Chick had given a brief explanation of the problem, his boss promised to dispatch the standby bus immediately. Two drivers, one a company official, would alternate on the journey, putting them on the Gulf Coast the following morning. The management representative would remain to assist law enforcement officials in their investigation.
Bryce had changed into a dry outfit of Ike Holzman’s during the ride into town. Remaining with him in the trailer, Marge had donned one of Claire’s housecoats. They found the high school entrance sheltered by a canopy.
“I doubt it’ll still be here in the morning,” Ike said.
But it allowed Claire, Marge and Bryce to rush into the building without getting soaked again. While Claire put her nursing talents to work with the others, Marge and Bryce sat in folding chairs near the cots, drank strong black coffee and talked about their beleaguered pasts.
After hot showers in the team dressing rooms, Fred, Tillie and MacArthur donned ill-fitting but dry clothing provided by a local thrift store. They were then ushered into the music room and directed to chairs facing the school band director’s desk, now occupied by Sheriff Andrew Cooper. He was a burly man with a double chin who attempted to compensate by squeezing himself into a tan uniform at least a size too small. The resulting discomfort gave him a frown that most people took for the skepticism of a professional cynic.
After brief introductions, Andy Cooper looked across the desk. “I expected the worst out of this hurricane, but what happened to you folks adds a disturbing new dimension to it.”
His audience of three listened in polite silence. He wondered if they might be suffering still from the shock of their harrowing experience. Deputy Floyd had reported all he knew about the situation, which wasn’t much. Cooper had talked with Ike Holzman as well. He’d never understood people who looked and dressed like weirdoes, but the beatnik artist seemed to be a decent sort. If he hadn’t come along at the time he did, there was no telling what might have happened to those unfortunate old folks from the bus. As it was, they had come out of it as stunned and bewildered as a band of zombies. Mrs. Holzman, who Floyd said was a nurse, had advised Cooper against trying to question any of them except these three.
“This is Miz Jennings,” the sheriff said. He waved an arm toward a dark-haired, matronly woman who sat at the table beside him. “She teaches business at the high school here. She’s agreed to take down your statements and type it up tonight. You can sign it and be on your way when your new bus comes in the morning.”
Fred Scott smiled at him. “That’s very accommodating of you, Sheriff Cooper. We appreciate it.”
Hellbound Page 21
