James Patterson - Roses Are Red

Betsey was still incensed. Her brown eyes flashed. "He's thought of everything, including not giving us time to plan. Who is this bastard?"

The Handie-Talkie crackled again.

"Open the door! Get ready to heave the bags out," the radio voice suddenly commanded again.

I grabbed two bags full of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. My heart was in my throat as I rushed to the open door a second time. The wind outside roared.

The train was hurtling through deep woods now, elms and pines and thick brush. I saw no houses or anyone lurking in the woods. It seemed like a good spot for the drop-off.

The Handie-Talkie went dead again!

Assholes! "Agent Doud yelled at the top of his voice. The rest of us groaned and dropped to the floor.

The voice repeated the drill eleven times in the next hour and a quarter. Three times we were made to move all the money to different cars on the train.

We were sent all the way to the last car then we were immediately ordered back to the front again.

"You guys are good. Very obedient, "said the radio voice.

Then the two-way was silent again.

"I can't stand this! "Betsey yelled. "Goddamn him to hell I want to kill that bastard," The money bags were oversized and heavy; we were exhausted from lugging them through the train. We were covered with perspiration and dirt and soot. Jumpy and on edge. The constant rattle of the train was noisier than ever.

The Amtrak train was rushing through deep woods again. Its horn blared loudly. Agent Walsh was keeping track of the stations we'd passed.

Then the Handie-Talkie came to life again. "Get those bags of money and diamonds ready. Open the door now! And when you toss them throw them out close together. If you don't, a hostage will be shot! We're watching every move you make. You're very pretty, Agent Cavalierre."

"Yeah, and you're a geek," Betsey muttered to herself. Her pale blue T-shirt was stained a shade darker with sweat. Her black hair stuck closely to her scalp. If she'd had an ounce of fat on her before, she'd lost it during the jarring train ride.

"False alarm," the voice on the radio said with obvious glee. "As you were. That's all for the moment."

The two-way went dead again.

"Shit!"

Everyone collapsed on to the duffel bags and lay there breathing heavily. I was trying to keep my brain working in straight lines, but it was getting harder after each false alarm. I really wasn't sure if I could make another run to the other end of the train.

"Maybe we should get off the train with the money bags." Walsh spoke from his perch on the bags. "Screw up their timing at least. Do something they don't expect."

"It's an idea, but too dangerous for the hostages, "Betsey told him.

Walsh and Doud cursed loudly when the two-way came on again. We had almost reached our limit. What was our limit?

"No rest for the wicked," the voice said. We could hear the pop of a soft-drink or beer can being opened. Then a sigh of refreshment. "Or maybe the line should be, rest for the wicked?"

The radio voice screamed at us. "Throw out the bags now! Do it! We're watching the train. We see you! Throw the bags or we kill all of them!"

We had no choice; no options had been left open to us. It was all we could do to try to throw the bags off close to one another. We were too tired to move as fast as we might have. I felt as if I were moving in a dream. My clothes were soaking wet; my arms and legs sore.

"Throw the bags faster!" the voice commanded. "Let's see those muscles, Agent Cavalierre."

Could he see us? Probably. It sounded like it. No doubt he was in the woods with his two-way. How many of them were there?

When the nine bags were gone, the train rushed around a sharp bend in the tracks. We couldn't see what was happening fifty yards behind us. We fell to the floor, cursing and moaning.

Betsey gasped. "Goddamn them. They did it. They got away with it. Oh, goddamn them to hell."

The Handie-Talkie came on again. He wasn't finished with us. "Thanks for the help. You guys are the best. You can always get a job bagging groceries at the local A and P. Might not be a bad career option after this."

Are you the Mastermind?" I asked.

The line went dead.

The radio voice was gone and so were the money and diamonds, and they still had the nineteen hostages.

Seven miles ahead, agents Cavalierre, Doud, Walsh, and I stumbled off the train at the next available station.

Two black Suburbans were waiting for us. Standing around the vehicles were several FBI agents with rifles. A crowd of people had gathered at the station. They were pointing at the guns and agents as if they'd spotted the Washington Redskins fresh from a hunting trip.

We were given up-to-the-minute information. "It appears they're already out of the woods," an agent told us. "Kyle Craig is on his way here now. We're setting up roadblocks, but they'll be hit and miss. There is some good news, though. We might have caught a break on the tour bus."

Moments later, we were being patched in to a woman from Tinden, a small town in Virginia. Supposedly, the woman had information on the whereabouts of the bus. She said she would only talk to 'the police," and that she didn't much care for the FBI and their methods.

Only after I identified myself was the elderly woman willing to talk to me. She seemed nervous and hyperactive.

Her name was Isabelle Morris and she had sighted a tour bus in the farmlands out in Warren county. She'd become suspicious because she owned the local bus company and the bus wasn't one of hers.

"The bus was blue with gold stripes?" Betsey asked without identifying herself as FBI.

"Blue and gold. Not one of mine. So I don't know what the tour vehicle would be doing here," Mrs. Morris said," No reason for a bus like that to be out in these parts. This is redneck territory. Tinden isn't on any tours that I know of."

"Did you get the license number, or at least a part of it?" I asked her.

She seemed annoyed by the question. "I had no earthly reason to check the license number. Why would I do that?"

"Mrs. Morris, then why Aid you report the bus to the local police?"

"I told you, if you were listening before. There's no reason for a tour bus out here. Besides, my boyfriend is on the local citizens' patrol hereabouts. I'm a widow, ," see. He's the one actually called the police. Why are you so interested, may I ask?"

"Mrs. Morris, when you saw the tour bus, were there any passengers on board?"

Betsey and I glanced at each other while we waited for her to answer.

"No, just the driver. He was a large fellow. I didn't see anyone else. What about the police? And the infernal FBI? Why are you all so interested?"

"I'll get to that in a minute. Did you notice any identification on the bus? A destination sign? A logo? Anything you might have seen would be a help to us. People's lives are in danger."

"Oh, my," she said, then. "Yes, there was a sticker on the side: Visit Williamsburg. I remember seeing it. You know what else? I think the bus might have said "Washington On Wheels" on the side panel. Yes, I'm almost sure it did. "Washington On Wheels." Is that any help to you?"

Betsey was already on another line talking to Kyle Craig. They were making a plan to get us to Tinden, Virginia, in a hurry. Mrs. Morris continued to talk my ear off, literally. Bits and pieces were coming back to her. She told me that she had seen the tour bus turn on to a small, country road not far from where she lived.

"There are only three farms on the road and I know 'em all very well. Two of the farms border a deserted army base built in the eighties. I've got to check this funny business out for myself," she said.