The Snow Swept Trilogy

by Derrick Hibbard

  Through his mirrors, he watched the officer get out of car and walk along the bus until getting to the front doors. Nick was surprised to see the officer wearing a heavy bomber jacket, tucked neatly into his pressed khakis, but he opened the door all the same. He was clean cut, shaven, and aside from the lack of uniform, nothing was the least bit odd about him.

  “’Can I do you for, officer?”

  “Where’d she go?” the officer said, stepping up onto the bus.

  "Who?"

  "You know who."

  "I’m not sure I do." Nick said. Mae's voice rang in his head: Do not trust the cops.

  He felt a pang of panic, and the officer took another step onto the bus and glanced back at the empty rows of seats. A strand of hair fell onto his forehead, and he didn't bother brushing it away.

  "Officer—”

  “Morales,” the man said, the hint of a smile crossing his lips.

  “Officer Morales, I'm off duty, heading back to the garage."

  The cop pointed to the bullet holes in the corner of the windshield and said, "Cause of your bullet holes there?"

  "Well, yes," Nick stammered, but regained his poise quickly, "that's exactly why I'm headed into the garage. Got a few shots over in West Pullman, and got to get the windshield patched up.”

  “You’re a long way from West Pullman,” Officer Morales said and walked toward the back of the bus. Nick unbuckled his safety belt and pulled his substantial body from the seat. He watched Officer Morales examine each row of seats until he came to the seat where Mae had briefly sat. The policeman picked up a crumpled piece of paper and unfurled it. When he saw the scribbled image of the man and woman beneath the lamp post, snow whirling around them as they embraced, the officer smiled.

  Morales held it up for Nick to see, and said, “I want the girl who drew this.”

  Nick saw the scrawled picture and wondered if and how Mae had dropped the drawing. Even if she had somehow dropped the drawing, how could the officer possibly know it belonged to the girl he'd rescued. He'd been driving the bus for hours now, with any number of people who could have dropped the crumpled piece of paper

  "I don't know who drew that picture," Nick said, his mouth suddenly very dry. "I've had many passengers this evening, and it could have been any of them."

  "You stopped your bus for a young lady not too long ago," Morales said and then nodded toward the windshield. "Right around the same time you got your pops to the windshield."

  "I don’t know what you're talking about. I haven't done anything wrong, and I don't see how that little drawing means anything to you," Nick said. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the dryness.

  "This little drawing means more than you could know." Morales smiled and looked on the floor around where Mae had been sitting for any other clues of Mae’s whereabouts. When he saw none, he folded Mae’s picture and placed into his pocket.

  “She got off the bus at the airport, that much we know,” he said, “but we need to know where she is going.”

  “I’m telling you man, I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now please let me go home to my own little girl,” Nick said. Officer Morales stared at Nick for a moment and then shrugged casually.

  “I’m guessing that you don’t know where she went,” Officer Morales said calmly. "She knew that we would have talked to you soon after she left, so she wouldn't have told you. I understand that. But what I do not understand, is that you’re trying to cover for some person you don’t even know.”

  “Sometimes,” Nick said, his voice quiet and soft, “you can just tell the good guys and the bad guys without ever really knowin’.”

  The officer grunted. “What if I told you that she was, without a doubt, one of the worst bad guys you could ever come across? What if I told you that she's a terrorist, responsible for the death of hundreds?"

  “Then I guess I’d know that you're lyin’,” Nick said and suddenly understood where this conversation was going. He looked at the wet floor of his bus, muddy tracks from the passengers he'd served that evening, and then studied his fingers in the harsh light from overhead. He thought of Janelle, probably home and doing her homework now. She was a good girl. He was sad that they hadn't talked more before she'd left for school that morning.

  "It's a shame that you couldn't help more, although it wouldn't have mattered much for you." Morales casually pulled the gun from the holster on his belt and leveled it at Nick's chest.

  The bus driver didn’t try to run. There was no way that he would turn his back to this police officer. No way that he would die with a bullet in his back. He just stared at the officer and waited. He wondered how the night could have taken this drastic turn, but you never really expected things like this to happen. And then suddenly, a faint connection sparked in his mind. He thought about the man who'd ridden the bus several times around his route, waiting for someone to get on the bus. He wondered if there was any connection—

  But it was too late now, and he didn't want to think about those things. Instead, Nick thought about pushing Janelle on the tire swing on that cool summer day, the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking inside the cabin, the sparkling sunshine. He could hear his little girl’s laugh, so vibrant and full of life, could smell the long grass and the blue water. He thought about singing sweet songs with his love as they lay in their bed, holding her hand in his as she died.

  "Be with you soon, baby," he whispered.

  An echoing gunshot that felt a like hammer to his head, and everything was quiet.

  Part Three: Hunters and Prey

  Chapter Twenty

  Inside the airport, the fluorescent lights shone brightly, reflecting off the black tiles. Even this late at night, the airport was crowded with people rushing about their business. The loud speakers erupted with an announcement telling people not to accept baggage from strangers, and not to leave their own bags unattended. The sound of the speakers overhead, the people and the lights were all comforting to Mae. In crowds, everything was anonymous and neutral. But it also meant that you could never be completely sure if the person standing next to you wanted to kill you. She glanced over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t being followed as she slipped into the throng of people and tried to disappear.

  Mae didn’t think that anyone had followed her inside, but she knew that it was just a matter of time. They would find her as they'd always found her, and she would keep running.

  She prayed that Nick would ditch the bus soon, because that large, lumbering vehicle would draw her pursuers like vampires to a bleeding body. He had to get far away from the bus and disappear, but she knew that he probably wouldn’t. It made her feel sick inside.

  As she walked, Mae noticed a teenaged girl and her boyfriend standing in line for the ticket counter. The line didn't look like it was moving, and the girl was leaning against the boy, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. Neither of the two were paying much attention to their suitcases, which were sitting a few feet behind them.

  Mae walked by them, and without skipping a beat, picked up the girl's smallest piece of luggage. She rolled it away from them without looking back, praying that no Good Samaritan onlooker would start blabbing. She walked quickly, disappearing again into the mingling crowd of people, then darted into the nearest bathroom. The last stall was open and Mae stepped inside, pulling the suitcase behind her. She waited for a few moments, making sure that no one had followed her, and then knelt beside the piece of luggage and opened it.

  Mae groaned when she saw the contents—a collection of tween-style clothing. She rifled through the shirts, most of which were too small for her, and finally settled on the only one that would likely fit: a black tee-shirt that had the head of an angsty rock-star-vampire plastered on the front. The shirt was big enough to be a night gown, and Mae figured that it probably was what the girl wore to bed.

  She pulled out a make-up bag and a hairbrush. As she had walked through the airport, she’d purposely not paid attention to the p
eople around her, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, but she was sure that she got some pretty crazy looks for looking like a zombie just-risen from the dead.

  Mae also found a pair of dark gray yoga pants and a sweater. She quickly shed her dirty clothes and stuffed them into the suitcase.

  “Sorry about this, girl,” she muttered, wondering what the teenager was doing at that moment. Probably confused out of her mind.

  She pulled the clothes on, and it felt good to be wearing something dry and clean. They even smelled good, and she thanked her luck for the first time that night. She could just as easily have grabbed the luggage for a complete slob coming back from a sweat fest with a suitcase full of dirty and unwashed clothes.

  Mae worked quickly, zipping up the suitcase.

  30 seconds, maybe? She shoved the brush and makeup back into her own bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She opened the door to the stall and stepped out with the suitcase. The bathroom was empty, except for two stalls down the line. She rolled the suitcase to the large trashcan near the entrance, popped off the metal casing and slid the bag into the bin. She pulled an armful of damp paper towels out from under the suitcase and piled them on top before replacing the lid. She went back to the sink and was brushing her hair when two female security guards came into the bathroom. One nodded at Mae before glancing around. The other guard started pushing on the doors to the stalls and glancing inside.

  “Everything okay?” Mae asked as sweetly as she could manage.

  “Just looking for a lost suitcase,” one of the guards said. "Haven't seen a lone bag around, have you?"

  Mae smiled and shook her head before returning to her hair, which was a royal mess. She pulled a few leaves and twigs from the tangle and dropped them into the sink. One of the guards noticed and scowled.

  “Rough night?”

  “Yeah, just getting back from a camping trip," Mae said. It was the first thing that came to mind, but the lie slid easily from her mouth.

  “It’s really cold out,” the guard said skeptically.

  Mae rolled her eyes, “I know, right? That’s what I kept telling my boyfriend, but he insisted. I'm just glad we got back before the storm hit.”

  The guard lost interest and nodded absently before leaving the bathroom with her partner. Mae breathed a sigh of relief and finished brushing her hair. She opened the makeup bag and applied a little color to her eyes and lips. The color of the makeup wasn't what she would have chosen, a little too dark for her tastes, but the effect was dramatic. Most of the time, Mae didn't like looking in mirrors, because she didn't want to see the face of a young woman who'd lost everything. It was melodramatic, sure, but it was just too depressing. But now, she smiled at herself, pleased with how she looked. Maybe even pretty.

  “Not half bad,” she said under her breath, but continued to stare. The makeup had done a good job covering up the dark circles under her eyes, and the pale gauntness of her face.

  Mae smiled once more, then pulled her backpack over her shoulder and dropped the makeup bag and brush into the trash bin on her way out. The girl she’d stolen the suitcase from was sitting on a bench near the bathroom, sobbing. Her boyfriend stood over her while an uncomfortable security guard was filling out an incident report.

  Sorry about that, Mae thought as she turned and walked the other way toward the ticket counters, watching everyone carefully. She didn't see the two men who’d come into the airport after her, but she knew that someone had to be there already.

  Looking for her.

  Hunting her.

  But she wasn’t trying to spot the people hunting her, not right then. Instead, she was scanning the crowd for a different reason. She was looking for herself. Or as close a version of herself as she could find. She needed someone who could have passed for Mae in a passport photo. Blonde, close to her age and size, with green eyes.

  Mae passed a group of teenagers with snowboarding gear, and a few families with excited, but tired-looking kids. Mostly, she saw business people, dressed in suits and carrying shoulder bags and briefcases.

  Up ahead, a man carried a little girl who couldn't have been more than two years old. The girl was sound asleep on her father's shoulder, and he was struggling with some luggage and a car seat. Mae smiled at the sight, and wondered if she'd ever been held by her dad like that in a crowded airport.

  She ducked into a newsstand and studied the people there. Of the woman who browsed through the magazines and stacks of books, none shared any resemblance with Mae. She heard some laughing from behind, and when she turned, Mae saw a group of boys gawking at a scantily clad actress on the cover of a magazine. No luck there.

  Mae left the newsstand and stepped inside an Irish pub, which was very busy given the hour. She remained in the doorway, allowing people to walk in and out of the restaurant. A waitress tapped her on the shoulder and Mae turned, startled.

  "Table for one, miss?" the waitress asked.

  "Oh, no, I'm just looking," Mae said, and tried to smile. Mae stood in the entrance for a few seconds longer, but with the waitress hovering nearby, she figured she was drawing more attention than she wanted. She kept walking through the terminal, until she smelled coffee and decided that she needed some. It was called Airport Roasters and was attached to a small bookstore.

  Once inside, she spotted a woman near a magazine stand, sipping a cup of coffee and reading through that month's issue of W. She was slightly shorter than Mae, and maybe 10 pounds heavier, but the hair color was virtually the same.

  Mae walked past the woman to a shelf of the newest fiction. She picked up a book by John Grisham and pretended to read the words on the back cover. The woman's purse sat on top of her suitcase, and her passport and ticket stuck out of the front pocket for quick access. The trick was getting just a few seconds with the purse without the woman noticing. The last thing she wanted was to be caught stealing this woman's purse. Landing herself in a detention room with security was the last thing she wanted, and would surely draw her hunters.

  Mae put the Grisham novel back on the shelf and dug around in her pocket for the last of her money, a few coins and a damp crumple of bills, before stepping up to the counter.

  "Americano, small. And not too hot, please,” she said, and studied the woman who looked kind of like her. Her eyes were a lighter shade of green than Mae's, but they were similar enough. Her cheekbones were set higher, but their noses were both about the same size and fairly neutral. Mae wondered for a moment where the woman was flying that night and felt sorry for her. Whether it was a trip for business or pleasure, she wouldn’t be going.

  "Dollar-fifty," the Barista said, and placed the small Styrofoam cup on the counter. Mae handed over two crumpled bills and took a sip of the coffee. It was still hot, but not enough to cause serious burns.

  Mae took a deep breath and savored the warm and pungent mist from the coffee cup. She greedily took another sip, then turned toward the woman. Their eyes met for just a moment before the woman resumed flipping pages in her magazine.

  Mae wandered close to the woman and pretended to study the departures board just a few feet away. She took another sip, enjoying the citrus notes and earthy tones of her drink, wishing that she didn't have to do what she planned. She took a few steps toward the woman and paused so as not to draw any attention. With her thumb, she pushed up on the lid of the coffee cup, hearing the faint pop as it came free and rested on the lip of the cup. Mae took a deep breath.

  Here goes nothing, she thought.

  Another step, and Mae tripped toward the woman, spilling the coffee as she flung forward and drenching the woman's blouse and coat. The woman shrieked and dropped her magazine, flailing her arms as if trying to keep her balance, and then took hold of the soaked fabric of her blouse and pulled it away from her chest.

  "Oh!” the woman yelled, and then turned to Mae. “Why don't you watch where you're going?"

  "I'm so sorry, so so sorry," Mae said quickly, over and over again. "I guess I was j
ust looking at the departures over there, and didn't—oh, I'm so sorry.”

  “Fine,” the woman spat as the Barista came over to offer some paper towels. He bent down between Mae and the woman, sliding the woman's luggage away from the puddle on the ground

  “I’m really sorry,” Mae deftly lifted the woman's wallet and passport. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You’ve done enough.” The woman scowled at Mae and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The woman took the roll of paper towels offered by the Barista and stomped off to the bathroom, dragging her luggage and purse behind her. Mae turned to the Barista.

  “Listen, I’ve made a mess here on the floor. Can I help you mop it up or something?”

  “Nope,” the Barista with a sarcastic smile, “it’s my job. But thank you for offering.”

  Mae returned the smile. She turned to walk away and saw the two men from the cabin walking in her direction. Eddie wasn't with them, but she knew that he was either dead or coming from the other direction.

  Mae looked the other way as she walked past the two men, attempting to block a clear look at her face, without being too obvious. She started walking with a group of tired students who were wearing hockey jerseys and making their way through security.

  Mae kept her back turned to the men while pulling out the passport and wallet of the woman she’d drenched with coffee. She flipped open the passport to the first page and saw that the woman had changed her hair style and color drastically from the time she’d had her passport photo taken. If the woman in real life had shared a passing resemblance to Mae, the photo looked nothing like her. Surprisingly, the woman was older than Mae by more than a decade.

  She looked at the woman’s name, Gertrude Pettingale, and cringed. Unfortunate name, she thought. She decided that she would go by Gerti, which was about as good as it would get with a name like that.