“Somebody has to be in charge. And it’s your bus.”
“Not really. Technically, it’s Danny’s.”
Pastor Don met Kittridge’s eye. “That’s not what I mean. These people are worn out and frightened. They need somebody like you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He gave a cagey smile. “Oh, I know you better than you think I do. I was in the reserves myself, way back when. Just doing the quartermaster’s books, but you learn to read the signs. I’m guessing ex–Special Forces. Rangers, maybe?” When Kittridge said nothing, Pastor Don shrugged. “Well, that’s your business. But you obviously know what the hell you’re doing better than anyone else around here. This is your show, my friend, like it or not. My guess is, they’re waiting to hear from you.”
It was true, and Kittridge knew it. Standing in the aisle, he surveyed the group. The Robinsons were seated up front, Linda holding Boy Jr. on her lap; directly behind them was Jamal, sitting alone; then Wood and Delores. Don took the bench across the aisle. Mrs. Bellamy sat at the rear, clutching her big white purse with both hands, like a retiree on a casino junket. April was sitting with her brother on the driver’s side, behind Danny. Her eyes widened as their glances met. What now? they said.
Kittridge cleared his throat. “Okay, everybody. I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. But we’re going to get you out of here. I don’t know just where we’re going, but if we keep heading east, sooner or later we’re going to find safety.”
“What about the Army?” Jamal said. “Those assholes left us here.”
“We don’t really know what happened. But to be on the safe side, we’re going to keep on back roads as far as we can.”
“My mother lives in Kearney.” This was Linda Robinson. “That’s where we were headed.”
“Jesus, lady.” Jamal scoffed. “I told you, Kearney’s just like Fort Collins. They said so on the radio.”
In every group, Kittridge thought, there was always one. This was all he needed.
Linda’s husband, Joe, twisted in his seat. “Close your mouth for once, why don’t you?”
“I hate to break it to you, but her mother’s probably hanging from the ceiling right now, eating the dog.”
Suddenly everybody was speaking at once. Two days in the truck, Kittridge thought. Of course they’d be at one another’s throats.
“Please, everybody—”
“And just who put you in charge?” Jamal jabbed a finger at Kittridge. “Just because you’re all, like, strapped and shit.”
“I agree,” said Wood. It was the first time Kittridge had heard the man’s voice. “I think we should take a vote.”
“Vote on what?” Jamal said.
Wood gave him a hard look. “For starters, whether or not we should throw you off this bus.”
“Fuck you, Rent-a-Cop.”
In a flash, Wood was up. Before Kittridge could react, the man gripped Jamal in a headlock; in a flurry of arms and legs, they went tumbling over the bench. Everyone was shouting. Linda, clutching the baby, was trying to scamper away. Joe Robinson had joined in the fray, attempting to grip Jamal around the legs.
A gunshot slapped the air; everyone froze. All eyes swiveled to the rear of the bus, where Mrs. Bellamy was pointing an enormous pistol at the ceiling.
“Lady,” Jamal spat, “what the fuck.”
“Young man, I think I speak for everyone when I say I’m tired of your crap. You’re just as afraid as the rest of us. You owe an apology to these people.”
It was completely surreal, Kittridge thought. Part of him was horrified; another part wanted to laugh.
“Okay, okay,” Jamal sputtered. “Just put that cannon away.”
“I think you can do better than that.”
“I’m sorry, okay? Quit waving that thing around.”
She thought a moment, then lowered the pistol. “I suppose that will have to do. Now, I do like the idea of a vote. This nice man in the front—I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t what it used to be—what did you say your name was?”
“Kittridge.”
“Mr. Kittridge. He seems perfectly capable to me. I say all in favor of his running things, let’s see a show of hands.”
Every hand went up except Jamal’s.
“It would be nice if it could be unanimous, young man.”
His face was burning with humiliation. “Christ, you old bag. What else do you want from me?”
“Forty years of teaching public school, believe me, I’ve dealt with more than my share of boys like you. Now, go on. You’ll see how much better you feel.”