Cochran closed his laptop. It was 130 miles to Little Rock. They could be there in a couple of hours; time enough for needed sleep. Though if the governor didn’t want them there, it seemed likely the highway patrol would intercept them somewhere along the way.
* * *
“All right, folks, let’s get it loaded! We got a hundred forty miles to Little Rock, and the sooner we get there, the sooner y’all can shower down and get to bed!”
The midsummer tour of Donnie Jamison’s Christian Singers had drawn poorly, very poorly. Because whether or not Ngunda Aran was for real—something Donnie rejected as a matter of Christian principle—the “Dove Tour” had totally attached the public’s attention. So money was tight, morale was low, and Donnie Jamison was worried about meeting his expenses. Usually he did a pretty good job of trusting in God, but his credit was tighter’n a mosquito’s ass stretched over a rain barrel. He’d arranged in advance to park in the YMCA lot, and the night watchman was to let them in to use the gymnasium shower rooms. They’d have to sleep on the bus though, with seats that tipped back only eight or ten inches. A few might spring for a room out of their own pockets—he wouldn’t blame them—but he’d sleep in the bus with the others.
After tomorrow night’s performance, they’d leave Little Rock and drive home to Knoxville, some 600 miles. They’d have to overnight somewhere along the way, at some motel for the driver, but he couldn’t afford to put his own folks up.
Celebrity Tours! The outfit that hauled Rhonda McCrory and groups like hers, but not in a bus like this one. Only the logo was the same.
With the instruments, equipment and bags stowed, Jamison and the others who’d helped with the stowing, boarded the bus and settled into their seats. A minute later it pulled out of Memphis State University’s auditorium parking lot, found its way onto Poplar Avenue, and headed west.
Donnie tried closing his eyes, but there wasn’t any sign at all that he was going to fall asleep, so after a couple of minutes he opened them again. It was past midnight, and there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Pretty soon he saw the river. They’d started across the bridge, when something slammed the bus and exploded. There were screams, smoke, a stink of explosive. Donnie found himself on the floor, in the aisle, the bus rocking back and forth as the dying driver tried to steer. It hit something, and careened along the rail. Metal tore, screeching, and the bus jerked to a stop.
Some of the screams became articulated. “My God!” someone cried, “help me!” And “Billy! Billy! Don’t be dead, Billy.”
But that was brief, cut short by a series of explosions that started from the rear and worked to the front. After that, there were no more screams, not even moans. Just the reek of burning diesel fuel.
* * *
By night, the flat, midnight-shrouded farmlands of eastern Arkansas offered little of visual interest to the casual traveler. Lee soon drew her window curtain and lay back to sleep. When she awoke, they’d left the interstate; the road was rough, and the bus moved slowly. Construction, she thought, a detour, and slept again. The next time she awoke, her watch read 2:05, and they had parked. A truck-stop parking lot, she thought sleepily. She wobbled back to the ladies’ room, then returned to her seat and to sleep, without opening her curtain to peer outside.
It was daylight when next she awoke. They were moving again, slowly, and she opened her curtain. They were on a dirt truck trail along the edge of a floodplain woods. It occurred to her they’d hidden out for the final hours of the night.
Minutes later they were on a blacktopped county road. Half a mile ahead she could see the interstate. The summons from the Monroe County court popped into her consciousness, along with an expletive, not quite voiced. She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the situation though. Lor Lu would handle it.
* * *
Lor Lu waited till they were back on I-40 before phoning Little Rock’s network affiliates and the Democrat-Gazette. They’d done well not to be spotted the night before. Or, more accurately, Dove had done well. But now it was time. A roadside sign announced a restaurant at the next exit. He noted the exit name and number, and got back on the phone again.