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Bus Riders(continued) "Yes, Mr. Yelir. Absolutely. Terminal desportation, a done deal
... Roger. Wilco and out." "Terminal desportation?" What the hell was that? What was
going on here? And how could he possibly think she might be the missing
Nora Finley, even if there was a superficial resemblance? It made no
sense. It was crazy. She watched him tear off the sheet of paper, then
slip everything away within the folds of his rumpled suit, as if he
were a magician. Brenda turned back toward the window, willing him to be gone somehow,
when she felt his left arm move, up and toward her head, until he grasped
the stop cord, and jerked it down. His elbow jabbed her in the shoulder, sharp and painfully, as if a
spur had protruded through the padded flesh at the joint. "Ouch!"
she yelped. "My stop is next," he explained, but he did not excuse himself. Brenda rubbed her shoulder but comforted herself with the fact that this ordeal was about to end. It no longer mattered who Nora Finley was or what "desportation" meant or how this fat, obnoxious man fit into the picture. The bus rumbled over to the curb, and the front and rear doors whooshed
open, as the man, with enormous effort, heaved himself out into the
aisle, then staggered back to the rear exit. Brenda could almost feel
the bus listing to the right as his heavy footsteps thundered down and
out. The doors closed, and the bus rolled on. "Thank God," she whispered, rubbing her sore
shoulder. What a boorish, rude character. And what kind of intrigue
was he involved in? Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a
wrinkled sheet of paper on the seat. He must have lost his notes as
he struggled to get up. Curious, glancing about to see if anyone was
watching her, she reached over, picked up the paper and unwrapped it.
At the top, typeset, she read: Harper Riordan Esq. Below this were scribbled notes that took some effort
to decipher: AKA Nora Finley (Gladys) She felt a prickle of fear, in spite of the absurdity
of it all. What could this mean? Did he still think she might be Nora
— or Gladys — Finley? Fugitive from what, and what in the
world was desportation? Her hands started to shake, and she couldn't
help but picture an act of decapitation or something equally gruesome. "Stop it! He's gone now," she scolded herself. "Don't
be so silly." She folded the paper in half three times, then stuffed
it in her suit-jacket pocket. She'd throw it away later. She looked
out the window, to gauge how much longer it would be until they arrived
at her street. Maybe she'd keep the note as a prop when she told everyone
about this weird guy at work tomorrow. She sat back, closed her eyes
and tried to relax. She felt the bus coming to another stop and heard the sounds of the
doors opening and passengers getting in and out. She opened her eyes,
just as a huge, immensely fat man lumbered down the aisle, head turning
this way and that, looking for an empty seat. "Oh, my God, no," she muttered, incredulously. It was the
same man, only now, he wore a well-tailored, blue, pin-striped suit,
light beige shirt and a red power tie. He looked cool and confident,
in spite of his immense bulk, and his movements were graceful, not at
all like before. Of course it wasn't the same man. She'd been spooked.
But he stopped short by her seat, just like the other guy. "Excuse me," he said. "But is that seat taken?"
Even his voice sounded similar. He didn't wait for her answer. He slid into the seat next to her, as
smoothly as a ballerina. He snapped open a smart, black, attache case
on his lap. "I have to make a phone call, miss. I'll only be a
minute," he said, turning toward her. Brenda nodded, and looked inside the case. There was a cell phone,
a notepad, and half a dozen peculiar objects that she could make no
sense of. They looked like a collection of rocks, strapped down to the
bottom of the case. She saw the man's hand glide over the cell phone,
those same short, pudgy fingers — too many — grasping the
phone and lifting it out of the case. She looked away quickly, heart thudding in her chest. He was so much like the other man, and yet so different. She vaguely
remembered something the other man had said, about another — "Maggie," the obese man said. "Put me through to Mr.
Yelir, please." That's it! That's who the other one called. Then this man was, was
... the other operative the man had talked about, the tag-team partner!
She tried to fend off her rising fear, pleading with herself not to
panic, but her body wouldn't cooperate. He spoke loudly, clearly into the phone now, and she shuddered with
the implications. "Yes, Mr. Yelir, we've definitely located her.
I told you we would. Yes, yes, I'm sure. It's Nora Finley all right." Brenda started shaking. She wanted to flee, and yet she was spellbound,
hypnotized by this man, unable to act. "She's traveling on a city bus," the man said. "Hold
it, I'll find out." And suddenly, impossibly, the big man was staring into her eyes. He
skewered her with those same, whirling pupils that transfixed her, immobilized
her as they penetrated right into her soul. "Rockford Avenue, miss?" he asked. She was so surprised she couldn't think of anything to say, so she
turned the question back at the man. "Rockford Avenue?" Maybe
he just wanted to know where it was.
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