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.
“It’s hot in here,” she called out now to Miro.
He took his eyes from the rear window and looked in her direction.
Once before she had complained of the heat and he had only shrugged.
Now, Kate grew bolder: “Couldn’t you open the door for a while? It’s stifling in here.”
Miro came forward and Kate felt transparent, wondering if he were suspicious. Did he suspect she had a plot going? How could he unless he was a mind reader?
Miro kept his eyes averted from Kate as he stepped down to the door. He used his key to unlock the door. Kate then manipulated the lever that swung the two sections of the door open, allowing a small rush of air to enter.
“Isn’t that better?” Kate asked, her voice sounding too sharp, too shrill to her ears.
Miro did not answer. He looked out the doorway. Kate sucked in her breath. Her hands were loose on the wheel, ready for the sequence of events that must take place as soon as he stepped outside.
But he didn’t.
Suddenly, he squatted down and sat on the bottom step, his legs dangling outside, blocking any possibility of closing the door.
Damn it.
“Katie, Katie,” a child cried out.
Damn it. She couldn’t abandon the driver’s seat, not after having cajoled Miro into opening the door. This was probably her last chance.
“Katie …” A child calling.
She didn’t know who was calling her. They all sounded the same when they cried out, emerging from the drugged sleep, stunned, reeling out of oblivion into the reality of the bus.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called back.
Miro stood up and looked toward the children.
“Be quiet,” he said.
His command brought silence.
He looked kindly at Kate. “The children. They never leave you alone.”
He remained standing there. Kate dared not move, felt as though she were standing on a tightrope. She smiled at him, what she knew must be a sickly smile, forced, strained.
He didn’t sit down. Stood there, craning his neck. Then miraculously, he stepped down. And out. Less than a foot away but outside the bus. His back to her.
Kate heard her own sharp intake of breath.
Now.
She reached down and took the key out of her sneaker, having already unloosened the shoestring. She checked to see if Miro had observed her: he was still facing away from her. Kate placed her hand on the door lever. And hesitated. She wondered whether she should shut the door and then start the motor. Or vice versa. Suppose she closed the door and the motor didn’t start? Miro would have time to sound an alarm. But suppose she started the motor without closing the door? He was only a foot or two away and could easily jump back into the bus. Her carefully planned sequence of events was disrupted, like jackstones spilling to the ground.
I’m no good at this kind of stuff, she thought. I’m not heroic, not brave. She glanced backward at the children. Maybe she was risking their lives unnecessarily.
For Christ’s sake, Kate, come on, she urged herself. Do it if you’re going to do it. Don’t do so much thinking. Do it.
She slipped the key into the ignition slot. The key lodged itself with a satisfying click. She then did several things at once. Pushed down on the clutch pedal. Released the handbrake. Placed her right foot in position at the accelerator. Blew an errant lock of hair out of her vision.
She managed a swift glance at Miro: still outside, still a step or two away.
Now.
She eased the gear shift into reverse, carefully, delicately because sometimes it made a noise. Not this time, though; it locked into place quietly. She didn’t have to worry about more shifting. She was going to move in one direction only: reverse.
She turned the key in the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. The engine moaned, a lazy reluctant sound: like a yawn. And like a yawn, sleepy, languid. Jesus. She pumped the accelerator, aware of a movement now at the corner of her eye: Miro. She swiveled the lever that controlled the door. The door closed with a gratifying swish. She turned to confirm its closing—and
saw Miro’s face, grotesque in the mask as usual but almost a caricature, his eyes and mouth forming ovals of astonishment. He might have been screaming at her; she didn’t know.
She didn’t know because the engine had come alive, pulsing and purring, sounding eager and confident, the way a motor sounds on a rainy night. She’d often thought of the bus as an animal, a plodding beast, elephant or rhinoceros. But the bus now sounded like a panther, a tiger, sleek, smooth. Or was she getting hysterical?
She jammed down the accelerator and let up the clutch, slowly, agonizingly, not wanting to stall the engine, conscious of Miro at the periphery of her vision and aware, too, that the children were stirring. But concentrating on the delicate balance of her feet on the accelerator and the clutch.
The bus lurched.
My God, the tape.
She ripped at the loose edge of the tape on the window and it came away like a Band-Aid from dry flesh. She pulled at another strip and another, uncovering the driver’s side of the windshield, letting the strands of tape dangle from the right side. She only needed enough clear windshield to see the rear-view mirror perched on the fender. And now she could see it: where she had to drive. She could also see the van, its own windshield taped except for a narrow strip in the middle of the window.
Miro’s shouts were audible now and he was pounding on the door. The children were calling out. The hell with being too cautious about stalling. She pushed down on the accelerator, jamming it to the floor. And she eased up on the clutch pedal. The motor raced, throbbing magnificently, its vibrations singing through her body, the bus itself shaking in response. Lurching again, the bus began to move backward, responding, not the sleek big cat anymore but a plodding beast—but moving, moving. Kate glanced at the rear-view mirror. She had to be certain the bus was on course. She adjusted the wheel. Let’s go.
The bus jerked backward in a shuddering leap. Kate darted a glance at the door: Miro was trotting alongside. The bus was bouncing over the railroad ties in a jolting burst of movement. The children began crying. One of them fell with a thump to the floor. Kate continued to hold the accelerator to the floor.