Rush hour traffic was building as Boots pulled onto Gallatin Road, the main drag through this northern suburb. A mish-mash of fast food outlets, cloned service stations, small retailers, and a few chain stores crowded each other for exposure along the busy strip. He had seen enough of Nashville. He hated country music, and he was sick of hearing about the Tennessee Titans. Thank God he’d be leaving shortly. According to the itinerary in his pocket, the bus would travel down the Natchez Trace Parkway, with the group scheduled to spend the night at a Days Inn in Natchez.
That would be the place to take care of business, he thought. A call to his room would lure Reynolds out. They would whisk him off to some secluded spot where he would have the opportunity to sweat over his misdeeds, then Boots would ventilate the bastard’s head with 9mm slugs. In his view, it was a simple business proposition, a permanent solution to an annoying problem. It made him quite a different breed, or so he reasoned, from such ogres as serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer or mass murderers like Charles Manson. Boots looked forward to making his report back to The Boss that Pagano had ceased to exist.
As he drove along, dodging the zany Nashville drivers, Boots saw a couple of boys jostling each other as they waited for a school bus and recalled his own life as a youngster in Brooklyn. Monstrous in size even then, he had liked nothing better than making things miserable for other young punks. Though not well-educated in a formal sense, he had the equivalent of an advanced degree in street smarts. He graduated from petty larceny to armed robbery, then joined the outfit as a “soldier” in a group involved in loan sharking. He loved to knock heads when some poor slob got behind in his payments.
In the 1980s he was made a capodecina, captain of his own crew involved in mob activities. He escaped the trials brought on by Pagano as he was on an overseas sojourn back in the old country, recovering from a shooting injury. He hid out for three years, then returned after the heat had subsided. Intensely loyal to Tony Vicario, he happily took on the mission of tracking down the traitor who had tried to destroy the family.
When he arrived at the church, Boots saw the bus in the parking lot with its engine running. Noting several men wandering about, he decided to see if he might be able to target the traitor, although Pagano had doubtlessly attempted to alter his appearance. Boots parked beside a twenty-four-hour drugstore next door, took out a small pair of binoculars and swept the area. Remembering Pagano as a man of average height, he focused in on one figure that appeared about the right size. The man walked beside a taller companion.
Taking a closer look, he realized the strolling figure appeared a bit slimmer than the Pagano he remembered. That was something that could easily have been changed. The white hair fit, but he recalled a balding spot in front caused by a receding hairline. While considering this disparity, he picked up on something. The man’s hair had been combed forward at an angle.
So it would cover a bald spot?
As he studied the face framed like a bullseye in the circle of the lenses, he knew it resembled Pagano in many ways. Yet, in others, he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t seen the man in several years.
A person could alter a lot of things about himself, he reflected, but it would be difficult to hide peculiar mannerisms. He concentrated on recalling all he could about Pagano. Then it came to him. Pagano had an oddball grin, a sort of half-smile that pulled his mouth to one side as though his face were warped.
As he watched the man talk, the quirk showed up almost on cue. That same twist of the lips he remembered. Now he was certain. He had tracked down Pat Pagano, the traitor. Excitedly, he reached over and tapped his fingers atop the Medal of Honor case that lay on the seat beside him. It would be his war trophy.
Like any hunter, Boots was eager for the kill. So eager, in fact, the passion it generated set off a totally unexpected reaction inside his overburdened body, something for which he was ill prepared. First came a return of that damnable pain in his chest. Then a growing numbness invaded his left arm. His jaw began to tingle. Something told him this was not just another irksome episode of angina.
Reaching for the cell phone on the seat beside him, he punched in the motel number and asked for Dom Locasio’s room.
“Yeah?” Locasio answered in a laconic voice. He never bothered to say hello.
“Dom, this is Boots. I’ve found him.” He spoke rapidly, his voice tinged with anxiety.
“Pagano?”
“Right. He’s about to get on a red and white Nova Tours bus packed with senior citizens. It’s at Lovely Lane United Methodist Church on Gallatin Road in Madison.”
“Damn! Where are they headed?”
“New Orleans. I got a paper with times and all. They’ll be on the Natchez Trace Parkway, spending the night at a Days Inn–”
His voice choked off as the searing pain suddenly intensified, almost like a knife jabbed into his chest.
“Where?” Locasio asked.
“Oh, God.” Boots gasped, fighting to get his breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“The heart...get an ambulance.” Boots was sweating now. He reached a hand up to tug at his collar.
“Where are you?” The strain colored Locasio’s voice.
“Drugstore...by the church parking lot.”
“Lovely Lane Methodist? Hang on, Boots. I’ll have somebody there pronto.” Then the younger man apparently realized he was still missing a vital piece of information. “Wait. Where did you say they were spending the night?”
“Natchez.” It was almost a whisper.
Boots dropped the phone. He needed air. If he could just open the door. Fresh, cool air. He reached over and pulled the door handle, then pushed against it with his foot. The exertion was too much. He fell back against the seat and fumbled with his collar. Sweat soaked his shirt.
Boots felt light-headed. Was this it? Was he cashing in his chips? His heart raced and the rushing blood pounded in his ears. He barely heard voices nearby.
“He must be having a heart attack,” Fred said. He gazed over Bryce’s shoulder.
Bryce’s own heart had taken a jump in tempo as he stared at the burly figure sprawled across the car seat. He spotted the binoculars, the telephone.
They had found him.
“He’s having trouble breathing. I know CPR.” Fred pushed Bryce aside as he spoke, apparently believing his friend had been numbed by indecision. “Go call nine-one-one.”
Save your executioner, Bryce thought? This man was clearly the enemy. Every bit as much as the Germans he had faced during the war. But did he really have any choice? If he refused to help, it would require a lot more explanation than he was prepared to give. And at the moment he was not sure just how badly his cover had been breached by the mob.
Displaying no emotion, Bryce nodded. “I’ll alert them at the drugstore.” He trotted across the parking lot. Before he reached the store’s entrance, the shrill wail of a Metro Nashville Fire Department ambulance cut through the morning chill. Flashing lights appeared down the street. Moments later he waved the paramedics toward the tan car with the open door.
As the ambulance crew took over from Fred, Bryce heard Tillie Ellis’ voice shout from the bus.
“Fred, come on. We’re ready to leave.”
Sweating from the exertion, Fred grasped his open jacket on either side and began to fan with it. His beak of a nose made him look like some kind of tall bird flapping its wings. “Let’s go, Bryce. They’ll take care of him now. Nothing else we can do.”
Bryce pondered the enormity of what he had just seen, of what it boded for his future. The binoculars told him Boots had been watching him. Had Boots used the phone to call 911, or had he called someone else? He thought it unlikely the old capo would have come after him alone. But how much did the others know? He doubted Boots was even aware of the bus tour. Probably the big man had followed him from his home.
Bryce had been meticulous in covering his tracks. He did not use credit cards, never gave out his Social Security number. In
fact, he had never applied for Social Security benefits. He kept only a small balance in the bank and withdrew funds from his foreign account in checks of odd amounts under five thousand dollars, sums calculated to arouse no suspicion. He never filled out those prying warranty questionnaires; he would not even mail in the cards. He had no passport and he never registered to vote. How could they have found him after all these years?
When they reached the bus, Tillie stood beside the door, watching them with the critical eye of a mother hen. She nodded toward the ambulance. “Tell me what that’s all about after we get on the bus. Sadie is here and we’re ready to roll.”
Bryce felt a sudden urge to bolt and run. This might be his last chance. But, just as quickly, a strange sense of calm came over him, an odd feeling of dispassion. He held his ground. Was it sang-froid or resignation? He wasn’t sure, but if they had located him after all the precautions he had taken, was it hopeless to keep running any longer?
The questions still tormented him as he stepped aboard the bus and moved down the aisle in search of his seat-mate, who would also be his roommate at motels along the way. Funny, he thought, he had been looking forward to this trip as something of a new beginning, an effort to put behind him all the sadness, the hurt, the self-recrimination, the depression that had dogged him for so long now. But just when he was like an old spy ready to come in out of the cold, a deadly specter had risen from the ashes of his past. Now he faced the prospect that his anticipated tour of liberation could turn into a deadly journey to hell.
4
The small rectangular window above the massive windshield, where the bus’s destination would have been displayed on a Greyhound, bore the whimsical designation GOIN’ PLACES.
Inside, the decor was warm and inviting, a soft gray with red trim, scalloped fabric above the windows like small red awnings. Fuzzy red covers topped the seat cushions. It appeared such a perfect setting for this leisure-minded group to begin its latest adventure that almost to a person, they would have scoffed at any suggestion it might come to some kind of tragic end.
The only one who would not have taken such a suggestion lightly stowed his brown canvas carryon bag on the overhead shelf and slid into his place on the rear bench seat.
“I was afraid Tillie might go off and leave you,” said Troy Walden from his position by the window. A short, heavyset man with clipped gray hair that resembled bristles on a brush, he had a round, smiling face.
That might have been the best thing for me, Bryce thought. “Fred Scott and I got delayed by a little emergency.”
At that moment the ambulance siren began to wail again and its flashing lights sped past in the nearby street.
Troy glanced through the window, then turned back to Bryce. “What happened?”
Bryce explained about the man with the apparent heart attack, leaving out any speculation of who the victim might have been. He was just finishing the story when Tillie’s voice came over the PA speakers mounted above the seats.
“Before we get under way, Dr. Trent wants to say a few words. I warned him to keep it short. We’re running a little late. For you non-Lovely Laners, Dr. Trent is our senior pastor.”
Peter Trent leaned forward as though ready to lunge down the aisle, a necessary maneuver to accommodate his six-foot-six frame. He had played basketball before starting his seminary studies. He took the mike from Tillie with an amused grimace, as if accustomed to being the target of one of her lectures.
“You folks had better mind her on this junket or she’ll have you across her knee,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you a great trip. Tillie has done a fine job planning it. I’m sure you’ll see and do a lot of interesting and exciting things. Just don’t get too carried away down there in Sin City.” The last comment was accompanied by a wide smile. Then his face turned serious. “Let’s have a brief prayer, and then you’ll be on your way.”
Listening in the back, Bryce could only hope the trip did not get overly exciting. He was probably the only one in danger of literally getting carried away in New Orleans. It was a known Mafia stronghold. Had Boots died, he wondered? And even if he had, how much had he told his henchmen about Bryce Reynolds beforehand? Should he consider himself safe for the moment, or was it likely they would be coming after him sooner than later?
“Gracious Lord,” Dr. Trent said into the microphone, “we pray your blessings on these, our brothers and sisters, as they head out on a journey of fun and fellowship. Keep them safe, help them to be your ambassadors of goodwill, and bring them back renewed in their faith and refreshed in their outlook on life. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
Bryce added his “amen” to those voiced around him. He could not have asked for more–safety, renewal, a fresh outlook on life. But he had an overwhelming gut feeling that fate was dealing from an entirely different deck.
As the bus rolled out of the parking lot, Tillie came back on the loudspeaker. “Listen up, people. I’m going to pass out your trip kits, then we’ll go over what’s inside them. I’ll keep you updated on our whereabouts as we go along.”
Her commanding presence reminded Bryce of an old first sergeant he had known back in the war. World War II, of course. All the fiftieth anniversary commemorations and recent movies had revived interest in that critical period of history among Americans of all ages. For him it had stirred half-century-old memories that had long been locked away. Now he wondered if he was headed for a new kind of combat. It made him wish he had brought along the small .44 caliber revolver he kept in the bedside table at home. Actually he had thought about bringing the gun, having once heard that New Orleans was a city with a high murder rate and one of the most corrupt police departments in the country. He didn’t know if that were still the case. Anyway, it didn’t seem quite right to pack a gun on a church-sponsored bus loaded with senior citizens. Instead, he had stuck a pepper spray device in his carryon. It looked like a plump ballpoint pen, complete with clip for attachment to your shirt pocket.
When Tillie reached the back row, she handed the last two red folders to Bryce. “Give one to Troy,” she said. “We’re happy to have you with us, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Bryce,” he said, working on a slight smile. Over the past several years, he had come to think of himself solely as Bryce Reynolds, training his mind to show no reaction when someone called "Pat" on the street.
“Very well, Bryce," Tillie said. "Fred Scott told me about that poor man over at the drugstore. He said you saw him first and ran over to check on him. I hope they got him to the hospital in time.”
“Yeah,” Bryce said. He couldn’t bring himself to add so do I.
Tillie headed toward the front of the bus. Bryce thumbed through the folder, noting the cover printed with “Lovely Lane Silver Shadows Fall Tour” and the dates. Inside, the first item was a revised copy of the itinerary, giving a few more details than the original he had received in the mail. He felt in his shirt pocket for the other one, but it wasn’t there. He had left home in a hurry but remembered folding it up and shoving it into his pocket. At least he thought he had. Or had he? It was annoying how you could forget little things like that in so short a time. He used to think he had a mind like a steel trap. Now it was more like a rusty spring. He was forever walking into the kitchen to get something, only to stand there puzzled, trying to remember what he had come for.
Next in the kit was a list of all those on the bus, complete with addresses and phone numbers. He noticed only about half of them had Madison addresses. Most of the others lived in adjacent communities. After that came a few descriptive sheets on the Parkway, on Natchez and New Orleans, then several pages of inspirational poems.
Tillie’s voice again livened the speaker. “First, let me acknowledge a typographical error before some of you eagle eyes start calling me to task. On the last page of the itinerary, you’ll notice the day we come home listed as ‘Friday.’ Obviously, that should say ‘Saturday.’”
When she finished going through the kit,
Tillie wound up her spiel with a small bit of housekeeping. “On a longer trip, where we would be spending a lot more time on the bus, I would suggest rotating seats after each stop. It would give everyone equal opportunity at sitting in front and back, as well as both sides. But we won’t be on the bus all that long. You might want to swap around on your own, though. It would give you the chance to sit with some different people, make some new acquaintances.”
Troy looked askance. “Better watch her. She’s a manipulator. She might try to get you hooked up with some lonely old white-headed widow.” He snickered. “Maybe you’d like that.”
“I’ve been alone for too long now,” Bryce said. “Another woman would probably find me too difficult to live with.” It wasn’t altogether true, but it was an excuse he had come to depend on. A reason for keeping his distance, for declining to get into any kind of relationship that would require revealing details about his background.
Troy’s face suddenly took on a clown’s painted look of sadness. “Fred told me how you’d lost your wife to cancer. Sometimes I wonder what’s worse, seeing a healthy spouse get suddenly ill, struck down in the bat of an eye, or having to watch one slowly deteriorate, knowing there’s not one sorry thing you can do to stop it.”
“Is that the case with your wife?”
“Parkinson’s Disease.” He moved his fingers as he stared at them, as though seeing a woman’s trembling hands.
As he thought about it, Bryce wondered if the fact that his wife, Ellen, did not linger might have been a blessing. Of course, he hadn’t felt that way at the time. Watching her rapidly waste away had been agonizing. In the end she had become only a shrunken parody of the once-beautiful woman he had loved and lived with for so long. Her abundant blonde hair, which in recent years had taken on a silken, silvery sheen, was gone, a victim of the powerful chemicals that had tried but failed to halt the deadly cancer’s spread.
When she died, he laid the full blame at his own doorstep. It was the culmination of a series of blunders, of fatally flawed decisions he had made. Blunders that had not only contributed to his wife’s surrender to the disease but to the fiery deaths of his two grown sons as well.
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