Locasio scowled as he read Hunter on her badge and drew back his hand.
From the rear of the bus, a voice boomed out, “Don’t touch her!”
The words were so cold and threatening that Locasio was struck with shocked surprise. He flinched, dropping his hand.
The man standing beside the window in back spoke again. “I am Pat Pagano. You have no quarrel with the rest of these people. Let them go.”
As he stared, Locasio slowly broke into a grin. “Mr. Reynolds, right?”
“Right.”
Locasio turned to his companions. “I do believe we’ve found our man.”
Then he looked back at the passengers, his jaw tightening, his eyes cold and menacing. “I want you people to listen very carefully to what I have to say. You’re damned lucky to get out of here alive. When they ask you what happened, tell them you were hijacked by robbers. They’ll also ask you to describe us. Well, you better be as vague as hell. Just remember, I have a list with everybody’s name and address on it. If you get blabber-mouthed, we’ll come after you. You can count on it. And you won’t like what we have in mind, I promise.”
Looking around, he spotted an empty box on the floor that had held somebody’s lunch. He leaned down, picked it up and motioned to Ferrante. “All right,” he said into the microphone, baring his teeth like a dog ready to bite, “just so you won’t have to tell a lie, you will drop your money and jewelry in this box as you pass by. Now get the hell out of here...all of you. And fast. Move it!”
“In this rain?” someone asked.
“Unless you’d like to die on the bus,” Locasio said. “You can take cover under those trees over by the road.”
In the back, Bryce watched Sarah Anne and Fred forcibly push Marge up the aisle. Then Troy turned toward him, a look of fear and anxiety in his eyes. But there was determination in his voice. “I’ll stay with you,” he said.
“No, you won’t.” Now that Bryce had taken the ultimate step, he was devoid of indecision. “You’ve got a wife at home to look after. No one’s depending on me. Don’t worry about it.”
Troy hesitated, then reached over and gave Bryce a fierce hug. He moved slowly out at the end of the line. Bryce was so touched by the gesture that he had to blink his eyes to stem the rise of tears. But he broke into a grin as he saw Troy pointedly ignore the box in the big man’s hand.
Walking through the wind and rain was difficult at best. Some of the women sobbed hysterically. Troy and MacArthur, along with a few others, including Tillie and Sarah Anne, managed to herd everyone over to the cluster of trees. A few had raincoats, some umbrellas, which did little good in the fierce wind. Most huddled together behind the large tree trunks, on the side away from the storm’s approach, trying to eke out as much shelter as possible. Unfortunately, the sparse leaves of the live oaks formed a canopy that was about as effective as a sieve.
Betty Lou and Fred grasped Marge’s arms as she stood out in front of the others, eyes fixed on the bus.
Unsure if there were tears, for the rain pelted her face unmercifully, washing away whatever might have been there, Marge could hardly bear not knowing what was happening inside that bus. “They’re going to kill him, aren’t they?” Her voice was a mixture of bitterness and sadness.
“Let’s wait and see what happens,” Betty Lou said. She did not look hopeful.
As soon as the last passenger had stumbled off the bus, Locasio walked toward the back. Bryce remained standing at his seat. The other men stayed at the front, watching through the windows at the retreating seniors. Locasio held the detonator in one hand, cradled the automatic in the other. He stopped a few feet from Bryce. He grinned and held up the bomb-triggering device.
“I’ll bet you wondered whether I would really use this, didn’t you?” he asked.
“It crossed my mind.”
“Well, you can be damned sure I would have. Boots Minelli died this morning. It might have been helpful to send a load of church people along with him.” The laugh that followed had a hollow sound.
Bryce frowned. His first impulse demanded that he snap back. You’re nothing but a cruel, heartless bastard immediately came to mind. But the previous night at Preservation Hall had been one of his rare concessions to impulse. Everything boiled down now to a game of matching wits. He knew such a reply would hardly gain him any points.
“How did Boots find me?” he asked. The question had been tormenting him ever since that shocking confrontation in the drugstore parking lot Monday morning.
“He tracked you down through that bank in Switzerland. Got some hackers to break the bank’s codes. Then he knocked off the guy who ran that mail drop in the English Channel and found your name and address. But he was too damned tight-lipped to tell me what name you were using.”
Bryce had heard about the murder on the Isle of Man. He never connected it with the Mafia, though. Recalling his brief conversation with FBI Agent Burger, he asked another question that concerned him. “Boots didn’t know about my move to Portland after the trial, did he?”
Locasio laughed. “Hell, yes. We got a man on the inside at the Justice Department.”
That shocked him. But now Bryce knew what he had to do. He looked across at Locasio with all the sincerity he could muster. He spoke in his most convincing manner.
“Then you know I’m a wealthy man. I’ve got enough money in that Swiss bank to take care of both of us the rest of our lives. All you need is my signature on a piece of paper, and you’re a rich man beyond your fondest dreams.”
As he spoke, he reached one hand up and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. Locasio listened with a disparaging look. Obviously he considered this plea the final act of a desperate, doomed man.
“I’ve got some bank transfer forms in my bag,” Bryce said, pulling the cap off his pen.
He counted on the young hood pausing to consider the possibilities. Maybe think he could get Bryce’s signature, then kill him. It appeared to be working. A grin began to tug at the corners of Locasio’s mouth.
With a move so quick Locasio was caught completely off guard, Bryce raised the pen and pressed a white plunger. A stream of fiery pepper spray squirted squarely into the mobster’s startled face. As the burning irritant struck his eyes, Locasio let out a guttural scream of pain. He threw up his hands, dropping the pistol and the detonator.
Bryce had prepared for this moment from the time the Mafiosi had entered the bus. First he had reached down to remove the spray pen from his carryon bag. Then he had turned to the window, where lettering at the base instructed:
Emergency Exit
Lift This Bar
Push To Open
Carefully and unobtrusively, he had shifted the metal bar, which secured the window at the bottom. Now he jumped onto the rear bench. He bent forward to grab the seat-back in front with his right hand. He swung the window out with his left foot, steadied himself with his left hand on the edge of the window. He swung his right leg through the opening, pushing off with both hands.
He felt a sharp pain in his back as he scraped against the edge of the window before falling straight down. The drop was about six feet. Remembering his old airborne training, he flexed his knees as he landed, rolling onto his side when his knees buckled.
Despite the cushioning effect of the wet sand, the impact gave him a severe jolt. He might have been dazed, but the driving downpour soaked him immediately. His head quickly cleared.
As he pushed himself up, he felt a needle-like pain in his right ankle. But with the adrenaline pumping, and the knowledge that at any moment someone could lean out the window and start firing, he managed to overcome the pain in both ankle and back.
He started running as fast as he could. He tried to keep to the rear of the bus, where he would present a less visible target.
As they drove into the field, he had noticed a line of pine trees jutting out at an angle from the road. They appeared to be surrounded by some sort of bushy undergrowth. If he could just make th
e tree line, there should be enough cover to hide from his pursuers. What he might do when the full force of the hurricane hit was a question he would defer to the future.
If he had one.
Inside the bus, Joe Blow, Ferrante and The Barber began racing toward the back as Locasio screamed like a wounded tiger. Seeing Reynolds disappear through the window, they came to a sudden halt. Momentarily immobilized by shock and uncertainty, they stared wildly at each other.
Joe, who was closest to Locasio, finally collected his wits and yelled, “Go get the bastard!”
The other two turned and started toward the door. They never made it.
As he rubbed his face and squirmed in pain, Locasio blindly kicked his foot against the detonator. He did not trip the switch, but he jarred loose the wires that Joe Blow had been unable to secure as well as he would have liked.
The result was catastrophic.
36
Time seemed caught in a cosmic vacuum. Unsure how long he had been running or how far he had made it from the bus, Bryce leaned forward to wedge his body against the wind gusts. Pain had begun to inhibit his pace. The pine thicket remained at least thirty yards ahead.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion tore through the air. The roar deafened him, drowning out the noise of the storm. Heat struck his back like the rush of air from a blast furnace. The shock wave sent him sprawling. He almost choked at the acrid odor of burning flesh and charred fabric. For one fleeting moment, as he fell, the terrible smells took him back in time. Back to an equally horrific scene at his home on Long Island when he had endured the agonizing cries of his dying sons. The memory died as his face slammed into the sand. Bits of debris mingled with the mass of raindrops that showered over him.
The blast succeeded where the leap from the bus window had failed. It stunned him. He lay on the soaked ground for some indeterminate time, then rolled over and slowly sat up. Looking toward the bus, he could see only flames licking around remnants of the frame. Smoke, both billows of black and columns of white where intense heat had turned the rain into steam, swirled about in the blustery wind.
His ankle felt as though caught in a vise. His back could have felt no worse had he blistered it lying much too long in the sun. Yet despite the pain and the watery lashing he took, he sat in the drenched field and slowly looked about, marveling that he was still alive, wondering if he really deserved to be, considering what his presence had done to the innocent members of the Lovely Lane Silver Shadows.
Bryce’s fellow passengers were far enough away and so thoroughly battered by the approaching hurricane that they were somewhat distracted from the physical effects of the explosion. What they felt mostly was a shaking of the ground, almost like an earthquake. But they received a full dose of its visible and psychological aftermath. Most watched in stunned silence as the big bus disintegrated before their eyes.
Not Marge.
Fred tried to restrain her when she started to bolt as soon as the debris had settled. “You can’t go over there,” he shouted above the roar of wind and rain and flame.
She pulled away from him. “I think I saw something move behind the bus just before it exploded.”
She began running in that general direction with Fred close behind her. Troy and MacArthur quickly took up the chase. She looked about frantically, dodging pieces of sheet metal, torn bits of luggage. As a severed hand lying on the ground nearly gagged her, she heard a voice to one side.
“Over here!”
She spotted a bedraggled figure resting on the ground and knew at once it was Bryce. Darting over to him, she knelt at his side, took his outstretched hand and stared at him. His face appeared lined with pain. Otherwise he looked intact.
“Thank God you’re alive,” she said. The tears streamed now, though it was difficult to separate them from the drenching rain.
“I think I sprained my ankle when I jumped out the window,” he said. “I don’t know what I did to my back.”
Fred had bent down over him and moved around to look at his back. “Your shirt’s torn and bloody. Looks like the skin has been peeled back. You need a doctor.”
Bryce finally mustered a weak smile. “I’m sure one will be along any minute.”
MacArthur had arrived, Troy just behind him, puffing from the exertion. “Were those guys still on the bus?” Troy asked.
“I doubt they could have gotten out.” Bryce looked around slowly.
MacArthur gazed at the smoldering hulk. “I don’t see how anybody could have survived.” Then he turned back to Bryce. “While I was huddled under those trees, I remembered where I had heard the name Pat Pagano. It was in the stories about the trial of the Vicario crime family in New York. Must have been eight or ten years ago. Pagano had worked as an investment advisor for the family corporation. He was the chief government witness against them.”
Bryce gave a heavy sigh. “You have a good memory.”
Troy looked incredulous. “Mafia?”
Bryce nodded.
“As I recall the story,” MacArthur said, “Pagano wasn’t a member of the Mafia. He had just been hired to handle investments.”
Listening in silence, Marge now saw how it all made sense. Those strange looks, the odd reactions. Bryce had recognized those men for who they were back in Natchez. He had been living with that knowledge ever since, yet he never flinched. And he had admitted who he was to save her from that horrible man.
“I remembered something, too,” she said. She still held his hand in both of hers. “Keith told me a little about the Battle of the Bulge. He said some real heroes came out of it. With that Medal of Honor, I'm sure you were one. You were very brave back then. You still are.”
“I’ve also been very foolish,” he said. Then he gave them a brief account of how he had innocently fallen into the Mafia trap, resulting in the death of his sons and his wife’s demoralization. He was interrupted at one point by a loud whumping noise as the black van’s gas tank erupted and a new display of flames danced beyond the bus’s funeral pyre.
When Bryce had finished, MacArthur responded with a sympathetic frown. “You did nothing worse than any of us would have done. I daresay we would all have jumped at such an opportunity.”
“But I should have gotten out as soon as I fully understood what I was into,” Bryce said.
Fred stared at him. “If those men were sent to kill you, what happens now?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
Troy straightened up. “Maybe we ought to go check and see if any of them survived.”
“Good idea,” Fred said. “I wish we could get Bryce some medical help, but I didn’t see any sign of life on the way in here. Marge, you stay with him while we take a quick look around.”
As they moved away, Bryce turned to her, his face drawn. “I’m sorry I didn’t turn out to be the man you thought I was. I lied last night about that gun, too. I picked it up when I saw three of those hoods start across the street toward Preservation Hall. I had it in my mind to shoot them. I’m still not sure if I really would have, but thank God you stopped me.”
As disheveled as a water-logged scarecrow, her jacket and pants and everything beneath soaked to the skin, hair plastered down around her face, Marge felt no better than she looked. But she summoned all her courage and moved close to him, placing one arm carefully across his shoulders to shelter his injured back from the storm.
“You aren’t the only one who’s been hiding from reality,” she said. She struggled to find the right words to verbalize the torment in her heart. “I have a secret, too. One that I’ve been running from for years. I wasn’t really ill last night. Not from what I ate for dinner, anyway. I know Troy told you something about my problems with Herbert Hunter, but neither he nor Betty Lou knows the real story.”
She told him about her brother and how it had left deep scars on her life, and how Herb Hunter had tormented her with knowledge of the secret.
“I don’t care what happened in you
r past,” she said. “I know the real you is the man I’ve come to respect these past few days. I would hope you could somehow overlook my tainted past and–”
“You aren’t responsible for what your brother turned out to be,” Bryce said. “I know exactly what you’ve been going through. And I think we’ve both suffered from the same mindset. We’ve been playing games with ourselves. When you’re a private type of person, as we are, you tend to internalize things. You feel terribly vulnerable. Instead of opening up and confiding in someone who might help you see there are other ways to cope, you lock your troubles away inside and begin to play games with your mind. It’s easy to psyche yourself out, then get locked into a pattern.”
Marge knew she had failed at trying to fight her debilitating dilemma alone. Perhaps he was right. Surely they needed each other. That was the message, wasn’t it? She smiled through the tears. “My guardian angel must have sent you.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” he said. “I’m afraid my problems with the Vicario family have only come to a temporary standstill, not a final solution.”
As he flinched, Marge realized her arm had brushed against the raw skin on his back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve got to get you out of this mess somehow.”
37
Ike Holzman started to make the dash from the trailer to his truck when a loud rumble boomed somewhere to the north. Thunder first came to mind, though he had seen no lightning. As close as the noise had to be, he knew it should have been preceded by a slashing, fiery streak through the sky.
Then, as the rumbling continued for a few moments, sounding as though it were compounding in waves, he realized what he had heard was an explosion.
A big one.
Nearby.
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