I figured I could manage the four-hour, round-trip drive, despite my aches and pains. I printed out the bus schedules and the map, grabbed my purse, and headed out.
The Mustang had been sitting for more than a week, so it took a couple of tries to start it. On the way to I-95, it ran so rough, I had to brake with one foot and give it gas with the other at stoplights to keep it going. Once I reached the interstate, it was smooth sailing.
I kept checking my rearview mirror for the black Lincoln, but I never saw it. I hoped that meant that it wasn’t there.
As the sun got higher, it got hotter. I could see the outlines of puffy clouds and the barest hint of blue sky behind the haze. I kept the convertible top down for the breeze, donning an Orioles cap and sunscreen for protection. By the time I reached Breezewood, I felt windblown and decided to raise the roof for the trip back.
Breezewood was exactly the way I remembered it—ugly and snarled with traffic from the interstate, which literally runs through the town. This makes I-70 the only interstate with a traffic light, as far as I know.
It wasn’t hard to find the cafeteria, high on a hill overlooking the jumble and hubbub of commerce below. Several buses had parked diagonally, face in, along the side of the building. Melanie’s bus wasn’t scheduled to arrive for almost twenty minutes.
Inside, a clattering mass of lunchtime customers filled the industrial-sized dining room. I did a quick tour through the cafeteria and the gift shop. A few women were traveling alone, but none that resembled Melanie. I didn’t see her in the bathroom either.
I bought a sandwich and a cup of coffee and took a seat. Another bus must have arrived because a throng of gawky teens came in. Within minutes, they’d formed a queue around the room, while a couple of adults moved back and forth along the line with a supervisory air.
Bus depots get a bad rap, but I thought the cafeteria had an interesting mix of people—different ages, different walks of life. Bus travel is a great equalizer. No first class or coach. No special compartments. Everyone treated the same. A guy with a briefcase here, a family of four there. A couple of elderly women. And two Pennsylvania state troopers.
Bus stops are favorite pl
aces for cops to do random drug searches. Breezewood had something of a reputation for that. Maybe these guys had just stopped for coffee. It was also possible the cops in Maryland had asked them to keep a look out for Melanie. It didn’t seem likely that Pennsylvania would send officers to Breezewood just for that purpose, but they might be keeping a routine eye out for her.
Thinking it might be best to snag Melanie in the parking lot, I finished eating and wove my way among the tables to the door. Outside, I stood in the shade of a large awning that ran the length of the building to escape the searing heat. According to my watch, the next bus was due in about ten minutes.
After a while, a bus going to Detroit pulled up and wheezed to a stop. The doors opened. Behind the tinted windows, I could make out the passengers rising, getting ready to file off. As I waited, a second bus eased in, two spaces away from the first. This one was en route to Memphis.
Melanie was going to Chicago with a transfer in Cleveland. Either of the buses could have been going through Cleveland, and my schedules didn’t tell where they went after that. I kept my eye on both sets of passengers as they disembarked.
Then a third bus appeared, parking several spaces down. Its destination was Des Moines. For all I knew, it was going through Cleveland, too.
“Shit,” I said. The passengers spilled out of the first two buses, descending en masse on the cafeteria. I scanned the crowd for a dark-haired, thirtyish woman. I wondered if she might have disguised herself.
The flow of passengers from the third bus joined the others. I tried to keep my eye on everyone, but it was hard. Still no sign of Melanie.
When the last person got off, I walked into the cafeteria. The crowd was thick now. People walked every which way, many joining the long line for food. I looked for the cops. They were at a table eating lunch. Circling the room, I checked the line and the tables. Maybe Melanie had changed her plans. Or maybe she was still on the bus.
I checked the rest room again, then went outside. I checked the Detroit bus first. Then the one to Memphis. Finally, the one to Des Moines.
An elderly man sat up front and a woman nursing an infant was a few rows behind him. I almost missed Melanie. She was way in the back, slouched in her seat, her hair tucked under a baseball cap, wearing sunglasses and gazing out the window. As I walked up the aisle, she turned toward me and did a double take.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking off her sunglasses. Her face was pale, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“You have to come back with me.”
“Wait a minute. How did you know I was here?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, we need to get out of here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand,” she protested.
“No, you don’t understand.” I slid onto the seat beside her and said in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear, “You’re in danger. The Mob is after you.”
“I know, but who told you?”
So she knew about the Mob. “That can wait. We have another problem. The state police are here. They might be looking for you.”