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charade, adding some oil and checking the spark plugs while
he wandered the area. Before long, I slammed the hood shut
and joined killer-in-driver’s-clothing, who was patiently
waiting by the folding doors of the bus. The man gestured
to the stairs leading inside, grinning. “Be my guest, big
guy.” I nodded, and we both walked up the steps, the vehicle
groaning beneath our combined weight.
We were soon back on the road, traveling through a
forest darkness so dense, it seemed to offer resistance to the
big vehicle’s movement. A thin rain began falling, and the
distant flashes of lightning promised a far grander show to
come. For the most part, the driver kept his eyes on me via
the sizable rearview mirror, only periodically glancing back
at the road for direction. A painfully poor liar, he was clearly
no newcomer to this route.
“So, tell me, how far north am I taking you?” He asked
with a smile.
“Until I tell you to stop,” I replied. As much as the killer
amused me, I was far more interested in the gathering storm.
“C’mon, I appreciate the fix and all, but I’m not drivin’
ya too far off my route.” His insistence at pretending to be
a bus driver was comical, but the noise of his ridiculously
transparent effort caused me to refuse him an answer. He
finally reciprocated my silence, but I could sense dark
thoughts orbiting his mind like flies circling a corpse. A few
minutes later and he made his killing move. I didn’t hold it
against him— he was, after all, a killer.
“Well, I guess I do owe ya, so I should probably give ya
something fer yer troubles, right?” His massive, hairy hand
left its perch upon the steering wheel and moved to a small
set of buttons beneath the steering column. Suddenly, his
eyes widened, flooded with fear. It was the first time I could
make out the whites of his beady eyes. After a few moments,
the man cleared his throat and spoke again. “So, what’s
north?” His words were accompanied by an increase in his

36 | Mark Anzalone