to Josie, so that the wind could stir all my senses that the butter and the heavy cream had dulled. The heart race I’d experienced earlier in my room had returned. The fear came back more sinister this time, strong enough that I tasted it at the edges of my tongue.
I yelled to no one in particular, “Should we wait for another day?”
Josie clutched my sweater tight around her. “Duffy, no,” she called over the wind. “I want my mom back today.”
Everyone heard and nodded, reaffirming their commitment, all except for Anderson and Nora. They conferred with a look. If this trip were officially on Centennial’s books, we’d be heading home, but if they tried that now, there’d be mutiny.
No one spoke while boarding. We didn’t want to compete with the gale slapping at the windows. After a chorus of seat-belt clicks, Anderson pulled out. He drove with overt attention, hands at two and ten, eyes on the road. No lane changes without a blinker, no impatience at lights. But he was going fast. Faster than necessary. Maybe he thought he could beat the storm, though out my window a gust of wind ripped away the first few drops of rain.
He finally slowed down when he turned onto Sanger. The road went seldom used, and was full of potholes and empty gravel turnoffs. A few minutes in, Anderson came to a full stop at Old Farm Road, where deep tire tracks gouged out the dirt and a bent road sign lay fallen in the grass.
Bates was nowhere to be seen.
A soft patter of drizzle cut the hard-edged silence while we waited. Carl stretched his neck, looking out every window. I drummed my fingers to the beat: Come on, bastard, come on. The air in the bus wound tighter than a fiddler’s string.
Then in the quiet, like a fire alarm, Anderson’s cell phone rang.
I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation while sitting in the last row, but next thing I knew, Anderson pulled out and floored it. He flashed his eyes at me in the rearview mirror. The connection lasted all of a second, but I understood: Bates wasn’t feeling cooperative.
“Slow down,” Nora warned. “Better wet than dead.”
My heart thrummed along with the engine.
Anderson leaned over to speak to Josie, prompting her to open the glove compartment. She pulled out a large first-aid kit, and from that she produced paramedic scissors, the kind with a funny angle in the shears and a relatively dull tip. Worthless for self-defense. My gun burned at my thigh.
We finally slowed, a feathery rain dusting the front windshield. The wipers squeaked as they skimmed the glass, leaving behind a clean sweep where the lattice girders of Sanger Overpass appeared. Anderson crept the bus to the middle of the bridge and stopped.
Carl grabbed the seat in front of him and pulled forward to look over it. “I don’t see any—”
At that moment, headlights flashed behind us, brakes squeaked, and our vehicle bumped forward a foot. Everyone yelped in surprise. I shifted around to look out, and watched as a tiny bullshit Honda rental pulled back from our rear fender. Its headlights flashed in the cabin again and froze, painting streaks of humming light on the ceiling and warped shadows everywhere else.
“Duffy?” Anderson asked, squinting into the strobe.
“He’s parked,” I called before my throat closed up.
Anderson shook off his jacket, loosened his tie, and pocketed the scissors. “Nora, make sure everyone stays out of the rain. I’ll take care of this.”
“What’s wrong with that fool?” Nora asked. “Is that who’s dropping off—”
Anderson slammed his door shut. Valencia moved next to Nora, whispering some version of the story in her ear. Carl clambered beside me to watch from the rear windows.
Bates exited the rental car and pitched something over the bridge. On his way back, the men met in front of the headlights. They were mere outlines, rough drawings that spoke only in stance and stature. We heard nothing over the idling engines. When Bates’s form spread, so did Anderson’s. They stood with legs set apart, hands on hips, drawing closer and closer together until