"Now, what did you want, kid?" the driver grumbled as he guided the bus down the street.
"I need to go to the big hill above Boeing Field," Zach repeated. "That's where I live."
"Beacon Hill? You're on the wrong bus. You should have boarded the bus to Othello Station."
"Yeah, Othello Station!" Mom, Dad, and Zach had caught the bus there to go to the art museum. It was only a few blocks from home. They had caught—"Bus thirty-six! How do I find bus thirty-six?"
The driver pulled up to the stoplight at Pike and Second. Zach glanced out the window behind him, checking to make sure the Asian men weren't there to see him riding the bus. They weren't, as far as he could tell through the rain.
"I'm not a map, kid," the driver snapped at him. "It's probably one of those busses that runs on Third Avenue."
"How do I get there?" Zach begged.
"That way." The driver pointed up the street to the left. "One of the busses up there's bound to go to Beacon Hill."
Zach stood, slipped another photograph from his pocket to deposit on the seat—carefully, not letting the driver see—and moved toward the door.
With a huff, the driver opened it. "Dumb kid! You didn't even ride two blocks! Next time, know where you're going before you pay the fare!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Shortest ride I've ever given."
Zach jumped from the bus to the sidewalk, back into the cool, pounding rain. The bus pulled ahead a moment later, and Zach waited for the traffic to clear, then ran across the street in the direction the driver had indicated. A block away, up the street, several busses stood in a line, unloading and loading passengers. None was bus thirty-six, but more busses were gathered another block to Zach's left. A small crowd of people loitered near them, watching further up the street, waiting for still other busses to come. Zach ran to join them, his eyes darting in every direction in case the Asian men were near.
Two busses, one behind the other, pulled up just as two others departed. He was about to step up and ask the driver of the first for help when he saw the display atop the second: "Beacon Hill," it read in electronic orange letters. It was bus thirty-six!
Zach raced to it and bounded aboard. "Are you going to Othello Station?" he begged of the driver as he pulled another bus fare from his pocket.
"Sure am," this driver replied. He watched as Zach grinned, deposited the fare, and walked up the aisle toward the middle of the bus.
There were a lot of people on the bus, but Zach found a pair of empty seats together halfway back, on the side behind the driver. He collapsed into the seat beside the window as the bus reentered traffic. They didn't see me get on, he told himself. They didn't get on after me. As the bus moved to the next block, Zach began to feel safe for the first time since the Asian men had captured him and Grandfather on the ferry. Grandfather—Zach hoped he was okay. Not that he wanted to see him again, but neither did he want Grandfather to get hurt for rescuing him last night. He still couldn't believe Grandfather was alive.
More people got on as the bus stopped every couple of blocks, and a few got off. But no one sat down beside Zach, and the Asian men did not get on. How could they? They were back at Pike Place Market, probably still searching for Zach there. They didn't know—they couldn't know—that he had escaped. He would never see them again.
With that liberating thought, Zach let out a long breath and leaned the side of his head against the window. He was going home! He was going to find Mom and Dad…and Paws, too. He would give Paws a huge hug, and Paws would lick his face.
Feeling the bus bounce gently along the street, Zach closed his eyes, just for a moment. He was free.
*****
The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain Page 117