Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 (26 page)

“And what if we piss these people off by having you come along? They only want me.” I held up the envelope. “There’s only one ticket. Mine. I
promise
I’ll call you every step of the way.” I was making some good arguments, but I had to keep talking for a few more minutes until I saw her opening up to the idea. Even so, she only agreed after I suggested Frank might already be home. “Who knows,” I said, “this whole thing might be a decoy. Maybe he’s already back at your place.”

“He’d call my phone,” Carly said. “He knows to call me, no matter what. He’d call. I know he would,” she added firmly.

“Unless he’s sick or exhausted or scared or they told him not to. I know it’s a long shot, but I really think one of us needs to be at your apartment, in case he shows up. And it can’t be me.” My logic was convoluted, but it worked. She caved in.

“You’ll call and keep me updated?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? Just ask Mom and Dad. They’ll tell you I’m reliable.” I noted the time on my phone. “I hate to be this way, but I have a bus to catch. Go home, and try not to worry.”

“Like that’s going to happen.” She threw her arms around me and squeezed so tightly I could have walked away with her still hanging off my front.

I knew what she was thinking. “Jeez, Carly, it’s not like you’ll never see me again.”

“David said the same thing. I never did see him again.”

“It’ll be okay.” I patted the top of her head.

She let go and looked me square in the eye. “They want you to join them, you know. That’s what this is all about. They’re going to recruit you and if you refuse…”

The sentence hung there, unfinished. “Let’s not worry about that just yet,” I said. “Let’s get Frank back first.”

After we said our good-byes, I watched as she walked back through the terminal. Her head was down and her shoulders hunched, which gave her a defeated look. Not like Carly at all.

My sister had always seemed larger than life to me, not only because she’d always been my big sister, but also because she was what my father called “a presence.” She laughed a little too loudly and had opinions about everything. Unlike me, who hated conflict, Carly had no trouble telling people what she thought, especially when she thought they were wrong. She once picked Frank up from a weekend at our house with a black eye—some girl at a bar thought Carly had been flirting with her boyfriend. True to form, Carly hadn’t backed down and she had the shiner to prove it.

I had underestimated her though. She cared about Frank more than I’d realized, and she had helped Gordon Hofstetter. I tried to imagine her driving him to doctor’s appointments in her dirty car, the empty soda bottles skittering from side to side when she made her drastic sudden turns. She was kinder than I’d thought, but she was still a mess, and not the greatest driver either.

One of the disadvantages of being one of the first ones on the bus and sitting by a window seat is that you have no control over who sits next to you. I found this out the hard way when a woman my mother’s age hoisted her abundant mass into the seat right next to mine. There were clear divisions between the seats, not that it made a difference. Her body spilled over into my half. I pulled my arm over, but it didn’t help.

The woman settled in like she was there for the long haul. She pulled a Kit Kat bar out of her purse, broke off a section, and offered it to me. When I said no thanks, she responded, rather offended, “My hands are clean, if that’s the problem.”

I wanted to tell her that my mind was consumed with getting to my kidnapped nephew and wondering if I’d live to see tomorrow. The germs on her hands didn’t scare me. But all I could come up with was a little white lie. “Sorry, chocolate allergy.”

“Oh, you poor thing. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t eat chocolate.” She prattled on about candy and sweets and her daily diet. She only stopped talking when the driver spoke over the loudspeaker, welcoming us and giving us a rundown on all the stops between Milwaukee and Chicago. After he finished speaking, my seatmate started up again with her annoying chatter. I looked out the window, hoping she’d get the hint.

The driver honked before backing up, then eased forward out of the lot. As it turned onto St. Paul Avenue I caught sight of a figure running breathlessly alongside the bus. Carly. She held a ticket in the air with one hand and banged on the side of the bus with the other as she went. She was so close I was afraid she’d get caught under the wheels and be killed. “Wait!” I yelled, standing in place. I pushed my way out to the aisle. “Stop the bus!”

Other passengers saw Carly now too, and they called out to the driver.

“Hey! There’s another passenger.”

“Stop the bus!”

“Let her on!”

The bus jolted to a stop and the door swung open with a whoosh. After Carly climbed the steps and handed her ticket to the driver, he said, “That was a close one. You almost didn’t make it, little lady.”

“I know. Thanks for stopping,” she said. A smattering of applause came from the other passengers, but she didn’t smile.

As she walked toward me, I said, “Oh, Carly, what have you done?”

“I got in the car to drive home, but I just couldn’t do it, Russ. I’m sorry.”

The bus was moving now. There was no turning back. I jabbed a thumb toward the back. “Let’s sit down.”

Toward the back we found two aisle seats, one in front of the other. Before I could say anything, Carly handed a sheet of paper back to me. I unfolded it and saw, in her scribbled handwriting:
Don’t say anything. I think there might be some of them on the bus.
She must have written this ahead of time. Maybe when she was in line at the ticket counter? How did her mind work? It was a mystery to me.

And so, because we didn’t know who might be listening, we traveled in silence, the thrumming of the bus providing a soothing backdrop for the passengers who buried themselves in their own world—reading, listening to iPods, staring out the window. Only a few people talked, thankfully, and none of them to us. I looked around, but if there were any Associates on board, I couldn’t pick them out. Carly coming along was a big mistake. I knew that and yet I understood. I couldn’t have gone home either. The not knowing would have killed me, and it had to be even worse for her. Frank was my slightly annoying, sometimes endearing nephew. For Carly, Frank was her one and only child.

We were heading south, about an hour into the drive, when a plume of dark smoke on the road ahead got everyone’s attention. The bus slowed to a crawl before coming to a complete stop. Around us, every lane of the expressway was stopped, making the interstate look like a long, narrow parking lot. Passengers unbuckled their seat belts to get a better view. Those riding closest to the front yelled commentary to those of us in back. “There’s an overturned semi,” one guy called out. “And it’s smoking up a storm.”

Worried voices began speculating. Why would it be smoking? “I hope it doesn’t explode,” said the lady with the Kit Kat bar. “If that happens we’re all goners.”

The bus driver got on the PA system to tell everyone to stay calm. He was going to be in touch with his superiors at Greyhound and we’d be back on course in no time.

As Carly and I exchanged worried looks, my phone went off. The number on the display read “Private.” I showed it to Carly, who said, “Answer it.”

“Hello?”

The voice, thick, deep, and distorted, was the same as the message on Carly’s cell. “Get off the bus. Walk to the top of the exit ramp and wait.” Almost a growl. I started to ask for more information, but a sharp click indicated the call was over. I motioned to Carly. “This is our stop. We’re getting off.” Unquestioningly, she followed me down the aisle.

When we got to the front, I told the driver, “We need to get off here.”

He regarded me with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, we need to get out.”

He threw his arms up like
I can’t believe this guy,
and chuckled. “That’s rich. Sorry, son. Not going to happen.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “We really need to get off the bus. It’s an emergency.”

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t think you’re getting it. I would never let a passenger out in the middle of the expressway. Company policy. There are liability issues.”

Carly pushed ahead of me. “I need to go outside. I feel sick. I think I’m going to throw up.” She leaned over him and made a face like she was going to yak right on him.

Reflexively, he shoved her aside with an outstretched arm. “Lady, there’s a bathroom in back. Throw up there.”

“Get your hands off me!” Carly said.

“You need to take your seat.” His face was turning red. And then, under his breath, “I really don’t need this right now.”

She turned to me and, through clenched teeth, said, “Zap him, Russ.”

Earlier she’d told me never to use my powers in front of other people. Now she wanted me to shoot electricity in front of a busload of people. That was Carly for you. Impulsive, my mom always said. Carly just didn’t always think things through.

I shook my head. I had a better idea. I put my hand on the bus driver’s shoulder, and just like I’d infused healing energy on previous occasions, I now tried to use mind control. I’d never done this before, but something told me I could. “Sir, you need to open the door right now.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, but his body relaxed. I felt his shoulder loosen, and I knew something was happening.

I said, “Listen carefully. I’m telling you that you need to open the door for us.”

His eyes became vacant as my thoughts became his thoughts. “I need to open the door right now?” he asked.

“Yes, please. And then, after we’re through, close the door behind us and resume doing whatever it is you’d usually do under the circumstances.”

And just like that, he reached for the button and the door swung opened. “Thank you for riding with Greyhound. Have a pleasant day,” he said, nearly robotically.

Carly and I rushed down the stairs. Behind us on the bus I heard a woman yell, “Hey, how come they get to go?” Then the door swung shut and we were out in the middle of the interstate.

“We really didn’t need the theatrics, Carly,” I said, pulling her sleeve.

“Where are we going now?”

I gestured beyond the accident scene. “To the top of the exit ramp, just like the man said.”

The entire roadway was at a standstill. We wove our way around idling vehicles, inhaling exhaust and getting stares from the occupants of the stopped cars. When we approached the overturned semi, we veered to the far right shoulder. I didn’t see a fire or any human beings, but smoke surrounded us and I could feel the heat. “Is this a real accident, do you think?” Carly asked. “Or was it staged for us?”

“I don’t know.” We plunged through the smoke and came out the other side, coughing and choking. “It’s real smoke, anyway,” I said.

Carly pulled a water bottle out of her purse and took a swig. When she handed the bottle to me, I took a swallow as well and then splashed a handful on my face to ease my stinging eyes. We continued on to the exit ramp, one hundred yards past the accident site. Climbing the hill alongside the ramp, we made our way up. At the top was a quiet two-lane country highway. And parked by the other side of the highway was a white cargo van.

“I think that’s our ride,” I said.

I expected two men in suits to leap out and toss us bodily into the back of the van, but that didn’t happen.

When we approached, two women wearing jeans, T-shirts, and sunglasses ambled out of the van and greeted us with smiles. They were Associates, I assumed. Both had dark hair, were slim, and were, I’d even say, on the attractive side, although too old for me. They could have been friends of Carly’s, which I think, in retrospect, was the point. They were trying not to intimidate me. “Russ Becker?” one said, but I think the question was only a formality. I definitely got the impression they recognized me.

We crossed the highway. “That’s me. I’m Russ Becker.”

“You were supposed to come alone,” the second one said, lowering her shades to give Carly a long stare. She sounded disapproving, but not angry.

“Actually, the message didn’t specifically say to come alone,” I said. “We can play it back for you if you want.”

Carly said, “You have my son. Where is he?” Her voice had a harsh, ragged edge to it, and even though I understood what she was going through I winced, afraid she was going to screw this thing up and we’d never ever get to Frank.

“Frank is fine. He’s not upset at all. He’s waiting for you.” This from the first one. With their sunglasses on they looked unnervingly alike, but I now thought of this one as the “nice” one. Whether or not either of them was nice remained to be seen. Probably not, since they were part of an organization which kidnapped little boys and killed teenagers.

“You’re going to take us to him?” I asked, and when the first one nodded, I added, “Well, then let’s go.”

One of the women got in to drive, while the other motioned for us to follow her around to the back of the van. She opened the door to reveal an area with two bucket seats. There was a wall at the far end, making this space completely separate from the driver and passenger compartment up front. “It’s a short drive,” she said. “I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

Carly glared at her before climbing in; I followed her in. “How long will it take?” I asked, but she slammed the doors shut and didn’t answer.

I noticed the lack of windows in the back and the fact that the door we’d just entered couldn’t be opened from the inside. Track lighting on the floor gave us enough illumination to see each other. The rest of the space around us was bare, as far as I could tell.

“They didn’t pat us down for weapons,” I said. “That’s good.”

“You’re the weapon,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “They can’t take that away.”

“And they didn’t make a big deal out of you coming along.” I was trying to look on the bright side.