After the First Death (8 page)

Kate turned away. As she did so, she caught sight of the dead child who had been laid across the long rear seat. The body was covered with a piece of bleached linen Artkin had obtained from the van. The child’s feet portruded from the covering: tiny green sneakers, almost new, white shoestrings tied neatly, pale green socks bunched at the ankles. Poor Kevin McMann. That was the boy’s name. They had allowed Kate to search the boy’s body for identification. She’d found his name on a frayed card noting his membership in the Uncle Otto Teevee Club (“Fun For You On Channel 2”). His pockets had yielded few other clues as to who Kevin McMann had been or might have been had he lived. An unwrapped stick of Spearmint gum. An orange crayon. A curled-up length of string, the kind a boy might use to fly a kite or catch a fish.

She wanted to flee the sight of the boy, flee this bus, this bridge; she felt the panic rising in her again, unable to stop the panic just as you can’t stop yourself from bleeding. She willed herself to remain outwardly calm at least, and walked toward the front of the bus, sinking into the driver’s seat. The sun splashed through the uncovered strip on the windshield, hurting Kate’s eyes. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not cry.

Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she cried. Perhaps as a child when she was little Katie Forrester and her mother dressed her up in lace and
frills like a child movie star. That had been her first disguise, the first of many. She often wondered where her disguises left off and the real Kate Forrester began. So many disguises. There was the most obvious one, the disguise provided by nature: she was blond, fair-skinned, slender, no weight problems, had managed to avoid adolescent acne. A healthy body with one exception: the weak bladder. That was Disguise Number One: Kate Forrester, healthy young American girl, cheerleader, prom queen, captain of the girls’ swimming team, budding actress in the Drama Club. But there were other Kate Forresters, and she wondered about them sometimes. The Kate Forrester who awoke suddenly at four in the morning and for no reason at all couldn’t fall back to sleep. The Kate Forrester who couldn’t stand the sight of blood—she’d fainted once at a football game when Ron Stanley had been tackled at her feet, his helmet sailing through the air and blood gushing from his head. And the Kate Forrester who was afraid of riding in roller coasters and who oozed with urine between her legs in moments of high excitement. Maybe that was why she refused to let guys touch her and instead kept them beguiled with her wit and charm: knowing how guys could not resist an intimate smile or gentle flattery.

All the Kate Forresters. Were other people like that, she wondered, not simply one person but a lot of them mixed together? Did the real person finally emerge? But suppose that real person turned out to be someone terrible? Or someone who never found love? Isn’t that what life was supposed to be—a search for love? She wanted to find somebody to love, to love forever. But who? Her few childhood passions had appeared and gone as swiftly as spring snow melting in the sun. Did she deserve to find love? Was she good enough? That
question brought up another Kate Forrester disguise. Kate the manipulator. Who used people shamelessly in, oh, a thousand ways. Getting straight
A
’s from Mr. Kelliher in math and barely lifting a finger to do so but knowing how to smile at him, feign interest, dropping by after school and once, daringly, breathlessly, leaning close to him, letting her breast brush his shoulder. Why had she bothered? She’d always been an excellent student in math. She didn’t know why she’d gone out of her way to charm Mr. Kelliher. Just as she didn’t know why she’d used the same charm to win the role of Emily in the Drama Club’s presentation of
Our Town.
She knew she could play the part, she was certain of her talent Yet she had played up to David Hart, the director, caressing his ego with tender strokes. Having obtained the role, she’d gone ahead and won the best actress award to prove she deserved the part. One reason she’d wanted the part was to play opposite Gene Sherman. Kate had been enthralled by him, riveted, mesmerized during the first few rehearsals. Until they sat together during a lunch break—and his feet smelled.

My God, she thought later, what do I want? Perfection? What’s the matter with me? She wasn’t perfect herself, why should she demand perfection from others? What would her friends think if they knew about these secret Kate Forresters, if they could penetrate her disguises?

And then the helicopter, the flutter of the blades, the roar of the motor, drawing closer, filling the air, causing the bus to vibrate. She leaped from the driver’s seat toward the doorway. They were saved. Help was coming.

Miro yelled: “Stay in the seat, miss.”

But she ignored his words and began pounding on
the door. She tried to wedge her foot in the space where the two locked sections of the door came together. She had to get out there and wave, get the attention of the pilots. And then Artkin loomed in the doorway. With swift, deft movements, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Let me out,” Kate cried, struggling as he pushed her toward the driver’s seat.

“It’s no use, miss,” Artkin shouted, an ominous presence in the mask. He grabbed her shoulders roughly, his face only inches from hers. “They will know sooner or later that you are here, if they do not know already.”

A high, whining sound now, above the roar of the helicopter, and Kate recognized a police siren, howling and harrowing. “Listen,” Artkin said, holding her fast in his grip. “This helicopter now, and a police cruiser and then more helicopters and more cruisers. And army jeeps. Then the television van and the radio cars. This is only the beginning.”

He released her, and she groped for the steering wheel for support. She realized the truth now. They were still trapped here despite the helicopters and the policemen and the soldiers.

The children began to cry, awakened violently by the sudden gathering of sounds. Kate looked at them with dismay as they sat up, cheeks tear-stained, clothing rumpled, eyes frightened.
Mommy
, they cried, and
Daddy
, and other words Kate could not discern, words that were the special vocabulary of childhood to express whatever fear or terror they felt, sensing finally that something was askew in the small and safe world they had occupied until this morning.

Now one small child pointed to Artkin’s masked face and a howl of terror issued from his small body. His
howl touched off a chorus of screams and cries that rivaled the cacaphony outside the bus.

“See to the children,” Artkin called to Kate. “That is your job. If you cannot do this, you are of no use to them. Or us.”

Kate’s panties had dried against her body, the weak bladder not having betrayed her for the past hour or so. Now the moisture began to spread and her chafed thighs stung as she walked down the aisle toward the children.

Miro pressed his face to the window, looking out through the narrow opening. Excitement raced in his blood as he observed the scene. He could feel his heart accelerating, pumping energy into every part of his body. This is what he loved: action, movement, things happening. Across the ravine, police cruisers with blue revolving lights had arrived at the building, sirens making the vehicles sound as if they were maddened animals. Two helicopters wheeled in the sky, dipping and slanting, and they, too, were like wild things: birds of prey circling their victims. But we are not victims, Miro thought; they are, everyone out there. Now three army vehicles arrived, two jeeps and a truck. The men in the jeeps bounced forward as the vehicles stopped abruptly. Three men leaped from each jeep, all in uniform, and they ran, crouching, to the building, scurrying, looking as frightened as the children here in the bus. The army truck lumbered to a halt. From beneath its canvas covering soldiers jumped to the ground and then dashed toward the woods. Twenty-five or thirty soldiers, sleek and quick, garbed with camouflage uniforms so that they could blend with the woods and become part of the bushes and trees and scrub brush. Miro knew that these were the snipers.
They disappeared into the protection of the woods so swiftly and easily that one could almost doubt their appearance a moment before.

As abruptly as the sound and movement began, so did it cease. The helicopters wheeled away from the scene, lifting high into the sky as if sucked by a giant’s invisible mouth, the sound of their motors fading. The siren howls also faded, then died. The silence was suddenly immense. Even the children became quiet. Miro looked to see the girl moving among them, soothing them, talking gently to them. They reached for her with pleading hands, and it seemed there was not enough of her to go around, to supply them with the reassurance they needed. But that was not Miro’s concern at this moment. He looked out at the scene again, searching the woods for movement. He saw, here and there, a branch snapping, a bush jostled. The snipers were already in position, waiting, waiting. The snipers always played the waiting game. Miro spotted two of them.

Artkin positioned himself at the next window.

“The snipers have arrived,” Miro said. “They are out there now.”

Artkin scanned the scene with an unerring eye. “I know. I have seen five.”

Miro was abashed. Why is it when I see only two of something, Artkin always sees three or more? Will I always be the student? Will he always be the teacher?

“At this point,” Artkin said, “the snipers are the real danger. Later we must watch for an attack, but for now the snipers are their most potent weapon.” Artkin spoke low so that the girl could not overhear. “The snipers are the most patient of men, as they wait. And as they count. They count to see how many of us are here. And they count the openings, the places where they see a bit of flesh here, a bit of clothing there, an eye, a temple, a
hand.” Miro always marveled at Artkin’s concentration and the way he had of lecturing even in the middle of an operation. “So be careful, Miro. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily. And be alert always. Although we are, to some extent, protected from the snipers.”

“To what extent?” Miro asked.

They could hear the girl murmuring to the children, calming their fears, reassuring them.

“The message that was sent. The message said that for each one of us who dies or comes to harm a child shall die. They perhaps do not believe this yet. But they will.” He glanced at the body of the dead child on the back seat. “In a while, they will know to what extent we will go.”

Miro frowned. A question had formed itself in his mind, but he was too timid to ask it. He had never questioned Artkin before, had been content, indeed pleased, to carry out orders.

“Are you troubled, Miro?” Artkin asked.

And Miro saw immediately that he could hide nothing from Artkin.

“This operation,” Miro said, and fell silent, turning to the slit in the window once more, afraid that he would see anger in Artkin’s eyes at his impertinence.

“What about this operation?” Artkin said. There was no taunt in his voice now.

He did not look at Artkin but spoke the words that were plaguing him. “This operation is different from the others. The others—we struck fast and then ran. The post office explosion in Brooklyn, the confrontation in Detroit. Los Angeles. We did what was necessary. But this is different.” He kept his eyes glued to the scene outside, but his words rushed out now. If he were going to be condemned for speaking, then he would speak everything that was in his mind. “We are on a bridge,
surrounded. The police out there, and the soldiers. The snipers.”

“This is a test of our strength and endurance, Miro,” Artkin said, still speaking as a teacher, reasonable, patient. “I agree that we appear to be vulnerable. And that danger is all around us. The woods on both sides of the bridge are dangers. They can bring men in there, snipers and others, more numerous than the trees. And the bridge itself. We are perhaps one hundred fifty feet high and open to possible attack by men climbing the girders under us. At night, especially. But we have Stroll and Antibbe to guard us at night. This is a railroad bridge, Miro, and there is space between the ties to see what goes on below. And we have flashlights and spotlights.”

His words did not bring comfort to Miro. Instead, they emphasized the truth of Miro’s concern.

“But, most of all, Miro, we have the children. They give us the balance of command. Let the generals and the police chiefs gather in the building across the chasm, let them set up their communications. They are powerless while we have the children.”

Perhaps Artkin was right. There had never been reason to doubt him before—why now? The snipers would not dare shoot and risk the lives of the children. Stroll and Antibbe were professionals—they knew their jobs. The building across the ravine was at least a thousand yards away, while behind them there was nothing but the sheer drop to the depths below. Still, Miro was troubled.

“How long will this go on?” he asked.

“Until the demands are met,” Artkin said, turning back to the window, studying the scene outside.

“What are the demands?” Miro heard himself asking, taking a deep breath as he spoke, knowing he was taking
a desperate chance by asking a question like that.

Artkin did not answer immediately but continued to look at the terrain. Have I sealed my doom? Miro wondered.

“You are growing up, Miro,” Artkin said. “I forget sometimes.” He looked at Miro, but the boy could not fathom what Artkin was thinking. His eyes, as usual, told nothing. “I am not supposed to forget anything, but I do on occasion. Does the girl bother you? Is that one reason you are troubled?”

That was Artkin: catching you off guard, off balance, striking where you least expect it, from a direction you had not anticipated.

Miro looked down toward the girl. He summoned contempt as he spoke. “She troubles me because she still lives. She was my initiation and cheated me out of it.”

“Don’t worry. You will have your chance,” Artkin said.

So. Artkin had accepted Miro’s question without anger or rebuke. Although it was true he did not answer it. And then Artkin said: “In a little while, when things are calmer, I will send Antibbe here to the bus and summon you to the van. And I will explain the operation to you.”