A rasping voice over the loudspeaker forced a long enunciation of vowels as it announced, “New England Express for Middleburg, Hartford, Springfield, and Bennington now loading at Gate Twenty-nine.”
Willie Shep walked rapidly toward the corridor as the man with the beard picked up a small flight bag at his feet and followed. Lyon was last, and the three men were quickly lost from each other’s view.
Willie Shep hurried and damned himself for that last beer. It was important that he board the bus first, and he nearly ran until his pace was broken by a uniformed policeman leaning against the wall directly in his path twirling his club by its leather thong. He crossed to the far side of the passageway and brushed against a diminutive man who cursed him in Spanish. Willie stopped and let his hand caress the hidden gun. The Puerto Rican’s sneer faded as if he sensed some quality that stilled further aggression. He turned abruptly and hurried in the opposite direction.
Hate filled Willie Shep. Its tendrils radiated from him with a harshness that left a bitter residue. He wished that the weapon at his belt were a fully automatic rifle that he could level before him, turn to full fire, and cut a swath of death. He had considered that alternative for several days and nights as he lay on his narrow bed on East Tenth Street, but had finally settled on the plan he would now carry out.
It had started three weeks ago when they’d fired him from Miller’s Supermarket. The manager had tried to con him into believing it was a “last on, first off” general layoff, but he knew better. The assistant manager, that bastard O’Halloran, was out to get him. That mick had hated his guts from the first day he’d reported for work—that was the real reason.
For the first week he hadn’t been too pissed, in fact he was almost relieved to be released from the tedium of work; but then the unemployment compensation people started giving him a hard time. When he told them to take a flying fuck they told him that his claim would be indefinitely delayed. People loved screwing you, they got their jollies that way; just like Loyce had when he’d called and said his support money would be late.
“So, what else is new, Willie?” she had said. “Forget it. I’ve got an old man with balls who brings in bread regular.” She’d laughed and hung up.
If he’d had the gun then he’d have given her a full clip right in the face. But he’d only had a few bucks, just enough to get tanked in a bar where some big bastard shot off his mouth. There had been a fight, and he’d been thrown out while the other patrons crowded in the doorway laughing.
He had waited until the plan was ready. A few more minutes and they wouldn’t laugh again.
The man with the beard moved rapidly, but not in such a manner as to attract attention. His eyes darted from side to side scanning passing faces, checking, always checking. There was always the remote possibility that someone, some chance acquaintance might recognize him, wonder about his presence, and tuck the fact away for some future damaging use. It was that faint probability that could always spell disaster … and he was careful, as always.
Out of habit, Lyon bought a newspaper. He doubted that he’d read it during the two-and-a-half-hour trip, but held it as a possible security blanket against boredom. He took no note of others in the terminal, his mind still filled with benign monsters.
The short line before Gate 29 began to move through the door as Willie Shep pushed his way toward the front. The bus driver stood before the vehicle’s open door and took the first ticket from a stout black woman. She boarded the bus and took the first seat by the window.
Willie shoved his ticket forward and received a disdainful glance as the driver reached past him and took the ticket from the next in line. Willie mashed his ticket into the driver’s hand and stepped on the bus. He saw with relief that the seat immediately behind the driver’s was empty. He slipped into it and sat on the outside to discourage occupancy by anyone else.
The man with the beard was ninth in line. His eyes swiveled across the bus and stopped for the briefest moment on Willie Shep before he walked briskly to the rear and took the last seat in front of the lavatory. The fact that the nervous man from the bar was on this bus nicked at him. It might require a change of plans, precautionary measures—care, always care, that was the secret. He leaned back in the seat with a low sigh.
Lyon Wentworth was the last to board. He found a vacant window seat near the rear of the bus, wedged his briefcase into the narrow space between seat and window, tilted his chair as far back as it would go, stretched out, and opened the newspaper. He felt a pleasant lassitude, as if he were on some remote beach with a warm sun on his face and soft wind brushing against his body. His eyes closed.
The driver stood facing the loaded bus with bobbing head and moving lips as he took a head count. He was a large black man dressed in well-creased navy-blue trousers and a white shirt with a narrow dark tie clasped between the second and third buttons. Finished counting, he waved to the dispatcher, sat behind the wheel, and hissed the door shut.
The engine started with a small vibration that shuddered through the bus. It backed slowly from the loading area, turned, and began to head down the exit ramp.
Willie Shep leaned toward the driver. “How long it take you to the tunnel?”
“About three months,” the driver responded without turning.
“Don’t smart ass me. The tunnel. The one down the street. What’s it called?”
“The Lincoln Tunnel, and like I said, about three months. That’s when I get transferred to another run.”
“All the buses go through the tunnel. I watched for an hour yesterday. They all go through.”
“Most do, but not this one.”
“Over to Jersey.”
“You got the right ticket on the wrong bus, mister.” The bus reached the exterior of the building and paused for a light. “This is the New England Express: Hartford, Springfield, and up into Vermont. We go straight up Manhattan and catch the New England Thruway in the Bronx.”
Willie Shep slipped the automatic from his waistband and placed the muzzle against the driver’s ear. “I got a vote here that says we go through the tunnel.”
“You drunk, mister?” The driver turned until he stared directly into the barrel of the gun. “You’ll get in big trouble. Now put that thing away.” The light changed and cars in the rear began to honk.
“The tunnel. Now!”
“You’re the boss.” The bus turned toward the access ramp of the Lincoln Tunnel as several passengers, familiar with the route, began to mumble.
“Keep going until I tell you to stop.” Willie Shep stood in the front of the bus facing the passengers with the pistol, weaving slowly back and forth. He reached toward the driver with his free hand. “Give me the speaker.”
The driver shook his head in resignation and handed the microphone from the side of the dashboard to Shep.
“Turn it on, damn it!” Willie again turned the gun toward the driver. “I said on, boy.” His voice carried throughout the bus as the driver thumbed a switch. “I got a gun,” Willie yelled, “and I can use it.” The anxiety in his voice pushed its register to within a few decibels of a screech. “Everyone stay put, shut up, and don’t give me no trouble!”
The bearded man in the rear slouched deeper into his seat and tilted his cap further over his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled softly.
Lyon Wentworth jerked awake. He had unconsciously pulled the newspaper across his chest as if it were a bed sheet warding off an intruder. For a moment the rapid change of milieu disoriented him, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus on the slender man at the front of the bus waving the gun. The obvious danger in the situation tensed his body and dispelled the aura of well-being.
Were they always the same, these unspectacular men? Twisted, warped, with radiating bitterness that moved in pulsating rings, withering all in their paths?
The heavy black woman in the seat adjacent to the driver began to scream.
“Shut up!”
She continued sc
reaming.
Willie turned toward the driver as the bus began the final approach to the tunnel. “Stop this thing and open the door.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver responded with an alacrity that obviously indicated he was under the impression that his unwelcome passenger was departing. The bus stopped with a jerk that threw the passengers forward in their seats. The door hissed open.
“I told you to be quiet.”
She screamed again.
He raised the automatic and shot her twice in the face. Her head lurched backward against the window. Grabbing her arm, he jockeyed her forward and let her fall through the door to tumble onto the pavement in a pool of rushing blood.
“Get going.”
Willie Shep stood by the driver, holding on to a vertical pole with one hand, while the other arched the automatic back and forth as the bus moved into the tunnel. The passengers sat in numb shock, the only sound that of the engine and whish of tires on pavement.
An old woman in the fifth row clutched a knitting bag to her body with talonlike fingers. The noise she made was nearly inaudible at first, but as the litany continued, its increased intensity made it clear to everyone. “Put it down … put it down.…” The old woman’s chant was rhythmic as it increased in volume.
“Stop it, grandma.”
“Put it down … put it down.…” She seemed oblivious to him as he moved down the aisle. He stopped by the fifth seat and placed the gun against her forehead. She continued staring ahead and making the low moaning sounds. The driver glanced apprehensively in the rear-view mirror as the other passengers, as if a single organism, took a simultaneous intake of breath.
“You’re next, grandma.”
She slowly turned toward him. “I am going to see my grandchildren in Vermont.”
“Rush the bastard!” A young man, wearing an Adidas T-shirt, sprang from his seat and lunged toward Shep. A shot tore into his arm and knocked him to the floor.
Willie Shep retreated to the front of the bus. “Anyone else moves gets it. Understand!” He glanced to the front. “We’re halfway through the tunnel. Stop the bus.”
The bus slowed to a gradual halt with its nose just before the wide stripe at the tunnel’s midpoint that divides New York from New Jersey. The driver switched on the emergency flashers and lowered his head across his arms spread on the steering wheel.
Cars behind them began to ease slowly into the vacant left lane, and then that too ceased, and they were alone in the deserted tunnel. It became apparent to Lyon that Transit Authority police had now sealed both ends of the tunnel. A protective sheath was beginning to enclose them. There would be hurried conferences, a marshaling of forces coordinated on both sides of the river, and then a gradual movement toward them.
The bus began to move again. Slowly, directed by whispered commands from the hijacker, it backed, turned, and backed again until it slanted across both lanes. The engine died again, and only the center aisle lights illuminated the shadowy, stricken faces of the passengers.
Lyon realized the hijacker’s strategy. With the bus astride the tunnel, he had a clear view of both the front and rear approaches, while his flanks were protected by the walls of the tunnel.
Willie gestured to the young man on the floor who clutched his wounded arm. “You! On your feet. You’re the messenger.”
Hands reached into the aisle and helped him struggle to his feet. “What do you want me to do?”
“What’s your name?”
“Hannon. Robert Hannon.”
“Okay, Bob, baby. You take the news out of here.” Willie found that he was beginning to enjoy the situation. It had all gone as planned. All the things he had thought of those nights on the bed at East Tenth Street had come to pass. So, he had to shoot the fat one—just as well. Someone had to be made an example of. “Listen, Bobby. You get off the bus and walk back the way we came. Pretty soon you’ll come to cops, right?”
“I suppose.”
“You tell them what’s happened. You tell them that there’s a real mean son of a bitch here who’s already killed once, shot you, and has got a dozen buddies in the Freedom Army helping him. You tell them they got one hour to get a million bucks in hundred-dollar bills back on this bus—carried by you. Got that?”
“A million in hundreds.”
“And more. Tell them I want a jet on the runway at Newark Airport with parachutes. And no cops near the plane or my buddies will set off the bombs in the terminal. Got that?”
“A jet with parachutes. Bombs in the terminal.”
“And they got one hour. One hour or I start killing people. I kill someone for every five minutes they’re late. Got that?”
“You start killing people,” Robert Hannon repeated numbly.
“Get going. Fast—or I get somebody else and leave you dead.”
The young man, still clutching his wounded arm, stumbled painfully down the aisle. He glanced once at Willie Shep and then went out the door.
Willie glanced at the nonexistent watch on his wrist and let out a low curse. He had pawned it, and now wouldn’t know when the hour was up, much less the five-minute increments. What the hell. He laughed. There were eighteen passengers including the driver left on the bus, and probably as many watches. Not that he wanted a woman’s watch, but there would be others. He glanced at the driver who was still hunched over the wheel with his arms spread. He wore a large chronometer-type watch with several dials and a sweep second hand. “Gimme the watch.”
“What?” The driver looked up at Willie with a slow confused movement.
“You heard me. The watch.”
“You want my wallet too?” He slipped the band off his wrist and gingerly handed it over.
“Get to the back of the bus.”
As the driver made his way down the aisle, Willie turned to peer out the window. A hundred yards in front he could see two police cars, with blinking roof lights, pulled across the roadway. Other cars, ambulances, and tow trucks were behind the automobile barricade. He looked out the other side and saw the scene repeated. He sat down on the floor with his feet stretched forward and the gun held in both hands.
His planning had been excellent, he thought with satisfaction. The narrow tunnel gave him protection on both sides. Any attempt to storm the bus would have to be either from the front or rear, and he’d take five passengers with him if they tried that. He looked at the watch. It was five. He’d start counting off the five-minute intervals exactly at six. He smiled. It had begun.
The whispering voice near Lyon’s ear was nearly toneless. The man behind him had leaned forward until his lips were only inches from the narrow aperture between the seats. His droning whisper was far too low for the hijacker at the front of the bus to hear.
“He’s a nut,” the voice said. “There will be more killing.”
“The police will do something.” Lyon found himself whispering through clenched teeth.
“Sure they will. But some of us won’t be here to see it.”
“They’ve stopped this kind of thing before. They have special teams to handle it.”
“They’ve been lucky. This time they won’t be. You saw what happened when the kid tried to rush him. This guy’ll kill four, maybe six, more.”
“There’s nothing we can do.” There was a pronounced edge of fear in Lyon’s voice.
“Maybe there is.”
Lyon looked up the aisle to where the hijacker sat on the floor. His profile was well below the window line and protected from police sharpshooters. What did they do in cases like this? Talk the man out? Rush him? Yes, there had been a good deal of that lately. Percussion grenades combined with overpowering firepower and a quick dash by special teams who hoped to move fast enough to save most of the passengers. Most of them …
He leaned back with the newspaper crushed between his hands, and tilted his head toward the aperture between the seats. “Any ideas?”
“You ever in the army?”
“Long time ago. Korea.”<
br />
“Fired a weapon?”
“Well, yes, but …”
“You have a newspaper. I saw it. Hold it over the space between the seats.” The voice was low and commanding.
Lyon held the newspaper over the aperture and felt something metal thrust into his hand. He glanced down to see that he held the barrel of a large revolver. He automatically reversed the weapon until the butt rested in his palm and his finger curled over the trigger guard.
“Kill him,” the voice behind him whispered.
“I can’t do that.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“You have to.”
“Take this back.” He tried to force the gun through the seat opening, but felt unyielding pressure, probably the man’s knees pressed against the opening.
I was an intelligence officer, he wanted to say. I never fired at the enemy. But he had once.… One quiet night he had gone to the division Ranger Company’s forward position to debrief a patrol that had returned to their lines. He was hunched over in a bunker with a pad on his knees when it started. Loud bugles … noise … so much noise, and then the searchlights reflecting off low-hanging clouds as they all rushed to the parapet. He’d automatically grabbed his M-2 carbine, switched it to full fire, and was on his second clip when a large hand pressed against his shoulder.
“You’re blowing away our defensive wire, Captain,” Rocco Herbert, the Ranger commanding officer, had said. “Please open your eyes.”
Again, long ago, he had fired at a man with his eyes open. The vision still haunted him and peopled his dreams with a guilt that no rationalization could remove.
“I won’t be able to do it,” he said aloud.
“What’s going on back there?” The hijacker stood in a crouch and aimed his weapon toward the rear of the bus. “You hear me? What’s going on? Answer me!”
Lyon tensed. His hand holding the large revolver perspired against the cool metal. He pushed back against the cushions.
“You going to answer me?” Willie Shep’s voice cracked in an adolescent quaver as it reached the top range of its register. “You … second from the toilet.” The gun pointed directly at Lyon. “Yes, you, buddy boy. Stand up, motherfucker.”
Death Through the Looking Glass Page 17
