The Death in the Willows Read Free

well-being.
    Were they always the same, these unspectacular men? Twisted, warped, with radiating bitterness that moved in pulsating rings, withering all in their paths?
    The heavy black woman in the seat adjacent to the driver began to scream.
    â€œShut up!”
    She continued screaming.
    Willie turned toward the driver as the bus began the final approach to the tunnel. “Stop this thing and open the door.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The driver responded with an alacrity that obviously indicated he was under the impression that his unwelcome passenger was departing. The bus stopped with a jerk that threw the passengers forward in their seats. The door hissed open.
    â€œI told you to be quiet.”
    She screamed again.
    He raised the automatic and shot her twice in the face. Her head lurched backward against the window. Grabbing her arm, he jockeyed her forward and let her fall through the door to tumble onto the pavement in a pool of rushing blood.
    â€œGet going.”
    Willie Shep stood by the driver, holding on to a vertical pole with one hand, while the other arched the automatic back and forth as the bus moved into the tunnel. The passengers sat in numb shock, the only sound that of the engine and whish of tires on pavement.
    An old woman in the fifth row clutched a knitting bag to her body with talonlike fingers. The noise she made was nearly inaudible at first, but as the litany continued, its increased intensity made it clear to everyone. “Put it down … put it down.…” The old woman’s chant was rhythmic as it increased in volume.
    â€œStop it, grandma.”
    â€œPut it down … put it down.…” She seemed oblivious to him as he moved down the aisle. He stopped by the fifth seat and placed the gun against her forehead. She continued staring ahead and making the low moaning sounds. The driver glanced apprehensively in the rear-view mirror as the other passengers, as if a single organism, took a simultaneous intake of breath.
    â€œYou’re next, grandma.”
    She slowly turned toward him. “I am going to see my grandchildren in Vermont.”
    â€œRush the bastard!” A young man, wearing an Adidas T-shirt, sprang from his seat and lunged toward Shep. A shot tore into his arm and knocked him to the floor.
    Willie Shep retreated to the front of the bus. “Anyone else moves gets it. Understand!” He glanced to the front. “We’re halfway through the tunnel. Stop the bus.”
    The bus slowed to a gradual halt with its nose just before the wide stripe at the tunnel’s midpoint that divides New York from New Jersey. The driver switched on the emergency flashers and lowered his head across his arms spread on the steering wheel.
    Cars behind them began to ease slowly into the vacant left lane, and then that too ceased, and they were alone in the deserted tunnel. It became apparent to Lyon that Transit Authority police had now sealed both ends of the tunnel. A protective sheath was beginning to enclose them. There would be hurried conferences, a marshaling of forces coordinated on both sides of the river, and then a gradual movement toward them.
    The bus began to move again. Slowly, directed by whispered commands from the hijacker, it backed, turned, and backed again until it slanted across both lanes. The engine died again, and only the center aisle lights illuminated the shadowy, stricken faces of the passengers.
    Lyon realized the hijacker’s strategy. With the bus astride the tunnel, he had a clear view of both the front and rear approaches, while his flanks were protected by the walls of the tunnel.
    Willie gestured to the young man on the floor who clutched his wounded arm. “You! On your feet. You’re the messenger.”
    Hands reached into the aisle and helped him struggle to his feet. “What do you want me to do?”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œHannon. Robert Hannon.”
    â€œOkay, Bob, baby.