9:59 p.m.
Brooklyn, New York
Greyhound: Bus Station
“I’m sorry,” said the silver-haired woman in her fifties, “but unaccompanied children twelve to sixteen must have a parent or legal guardian fill out this form. Otherwise, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
Amanda’s shoulders slouched, while she pulled back the credit card from the counter.
The ticket person squinted at the skinny girl. “Why can’t your parents come down and sign the form?”
“They’re dead.” Amanda shoved the card into her backpack.
“What about your guardian?”
The teen shrugged into the pack. “I’m on my own.”
“You mean you’re homeless?”
“Yeah…no parents, no guardian, no home, no one who gives a sh—”
Loudspeaker: “Attention, passengers…”
“…about me,” said Amanda. “Thanks for nothing.”
“Wait a minute. Why do you need to get to Colorado so bad?”
Amanda stopped, but kept her back to the woman. “I have an uncle there.” She studied the floor, “I’m hoping he remembers me,” before walking away.
The woman watched Amanda shuffle toward the chairs and sit. She glanced in all directions. The terminal was empty, except for a few people who had purchased passes earlier. She sucked in air and sighed. She had seen other underage kids try to buy tickets without a parent’s knowledge. Those had been ones attempting to run away from home or take a day trip somewhere to drink beer, get high or cause trouble.
She eyed the girl, who sat ten feet from her booth. This one’s different. She’s desperate, maybe even a little afraid. “Hey kid.”
Leaning forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, Amanda looked up.
“Come back here.” When the girl stood in front of her, the woman slid the form and a pen across the counter. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but,” she tapped the paper, “fill this out the best you can.”
Amanda beamed. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
The woman handed over a ticket. “I’m not so sure about that.”
Amanda took the pen. I am.
After surrendering her credit card to the woman, who ran the card, Amanda grabbed the form of payment and her ticket, “Thanks again,” and turned around.
“Your bus leaves at eleven fifteen.” The older female pointed. “There’s a little place around the corner, Salvadore’s Diner. They’re open until eleven. You can get something to eat there.” She paused. “If you’re hungry that is.”
Amanda smiled. “Thanks.”
“Tell him Eleanor sent you, and he’ll give you a break on the prices.” She watched the kid open the glass door and disappear from sight a few seconds later. Shaking her head, she mumbled to herself, “I sure hope I did the right thing.”
… … … … …
10:10 p.m.
Standing in a checkout line at Bobby’s Department Store, three people back, Jacob felt his chest vibrate. He sunk two fingers into an inside jacket pocket. “Have you found me a location yet?”
“Not yet,” said Higs, “but a bus ticket was just purchased at a Greyhound Station in Brooklyn under the name of Sue Ellen Tompkins.”
Fishing out his wallet, “Dead people don’t make travel plans,” Jacob pushed past the people ahead of him. “Give me the station’s address.”
The same height as Jacob, the first man in line: “Hey buddy, wait your turn.”
“I already sent it to your phone,” said Higs.
“Thanks.” Stowing the cell, Jacob dropped four fifty-dollar bills onto the counter in front of the clerk. “That—”
First Man: “I said wait your turn, pal.”
Jacob got in the man’s personal space, but never said a word.
The man on the receiving end of Jacob’s glare puffed out his chest and opened his mouth before shutting it and slinking backward a half step.
“That,” his penetrating gaze never straying from his verbal combatant, Jacob threw his purchases into a plastic bag, “should be more than enough to cover this.”
Thirty seconds later, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his cell phone, Jacob stomped on the accelerator. The Mustang peeled away from the department store, tires shedding rubber.
… … … … …
10:41 p.m.
The thirty-six minute drive took Jacob thirty. He jogged to the ticket counter and showed the silver-haired woman behind the glass his badge. “What’s your name?”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor, my name is St. Christopher. I’m with Homeland Security. I’m looking for a sixteen-year-old girl,” he held out a flat hand at the height listed on the file from Higs, “about this high. She’s skinny and she purchased a ticket here—”
“Forty-five minutes ago,” said the woman. “She never gave me her name. She said she was going to see family in Colorado.” Eleanor winced. I do a nice thing, and it ends up coming back to bite me in—
“Where is she now?”
“Listen,” the woman held up her hands, “I was just trying to do the kid a favor. She said she was homeless, so I figured she might have a better chance if she found her uncle in—”
Jacob waved a hand. “I don’t care about any of that. Where…did…she…go?”
Eleanor extended an arm. “I sent her to Salvadore’s down the street. Her bus leaves at quarter after eleven. She should be back by then.”
“Thank you.” Jacob spun around and bolted for the door. He skidded to halt when the woman called out to him.
“You’re not the only one searching for the girl, you know? Three men were here asking questions about her…well-dressed like you…about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”
Jacob’s face lost some color, as he yanked on the door and took off on a dead run.
Three minutes later, Jacob strolled by the windows of Salvadore’s Diner, studying five of the six patrons in the restaurant. The sixth one—seated at the counter—fit Amanda’s description. The young couple leaning across the table from each other, exchanging kisses and smiles, was no threat. The two men in the corner booth wearing dark suits, and a similarly dressed man at the end of the counter, to the girl’s right, did not fit this diner’s type of clientele. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. Here we go, Jake. The door swung open, and a bell chimed overhead.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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