The sun was setting by the time the announcement for boarding rang out over the PA system. I shuffled along with the other lost souls as we were herded through a set of sliding glass doors toward the waiting buses.
Cops were everywhere, weaving through the crowd outside. There was one stationed on each side of the glass doors.
My heart stuttered and began to pound again, even harder this time. They couldn’t possibly be here for me, could they? I mean—I hadn’t done anything violent. Hell, I hadn’t done anything, period—but surely they didn’t make a habit of staking out area bus and train stations for someone with no criminal record who was wanted for small-scale embezzlement and tax fraud.
Did they?
It didn’t matter. There was no real choice here. I could either go through those doors and try to get onto my bus, or I could back out and run. If I ran, then what? I’d already bought the ticket with cash. The bus was the only transportation to Chicago I could afford. And even if I had enough for a plane ticket out of Lambert Airport, security would be far tighter there than a bus station.
No, I had no choice. I had to try to brazen it out.
They probably didn’t know what I looked like, and they didn’t seem to be checking IDs. They were just wandering around, looking at people. I’d keep my head down and it would be fine.
I hoped.
Surrounded by the steady stream of people, I felt reasonably certain I could make it through without incident. I’d managed to sneak under the radar all day by blending in with the crowd and acting as normal as possible. As I reached the open doors, I walked through without slowing down, being sure not to look anybody in the eye.
Hood up. Eyes down.
My feet carried me along the cracked concrete walkway between lines of buses. My heart was still galloping, but hope grew in my chest as my flickering gaze landed on the overhead sign with the route number for the bus to Chicago. It was right there, less than fifty feet away. I hurried my pace, unable to stop myself.
A few short yards from salvation, a heavy hand closed on my upper arm, pulling me roughly to one side. My breath caught. No, no, no...
“Zorah Elaine Bright,” said a gravelly voice. “Come with us, please.”
ELEVEN
TWO COPS FLANKED ME. They were large, towering over me, their blank expressions giving nothing away as they hustled me out of the flow of people. I was aware of nervous passengers shooting us sidelong glances before scuttling off to their buses, faces caught between curiosity and relief that whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with them.
“Let go of me!” I grated as the police officers penned me against the grimy cinderblock wall of the building. I jerked against the bruising grip on my arm, to no avail—my eyes darting past them to the line of buses that had been my only hope of escape from this nightmare.
“I’m not the person you’re looking for,” I tried. “You’re making a mistake. I’ve never heard of Zorah Bright.” Even I could hear the pitiful quaver in my voice.
All the energy was draining out of me, fading into hopelessness as the steamy summer air tried to suffocate me. I felt like I was in real danger of passing out. My chest hurt, a stabbing pain behind my ribs.
“Turn around,” one of the cops said in a flat voice, and then they were manhandling me again, pressing me face-first into the wall. Rough hands jerked my arms back and zip-tied my wrists behind me. The thin plastic was tight, cutting into my skin and blocking the circulation. Once I was restrained, they spun me around and marched me out of the transportation center.
“Am I under arrest? You’re supposed to read me my rights!” I said, a bit desperately. As long as they acted like police were supposed to act, I could convince myself that things would eventually be okay. That I would eventually get a chance to prove my innocence, and all of this would go away, leaving only a bad memory.
The cop on my right glanced down at me with cold, emotionless eyes.
“You have no rights,” he said, the words flat with finality.
They were still dragging me away from the crowd. Panic gripped me, and I started fighting. Screaming for someone to help. But the people shooting us uncomfortable glances only saw a crazed criminal in police custody. No one was going to leap forward and rescue me. Nobody realized that this was all wrong. Nobody knew that I was an innocent person being dragged off to god-knew-what fate.
Nobody cared.
Not even the cops. To them, it was clear I was just another lamb being hauled off to the slaughter. Why were they acting like this? Surely they realized that if they were caught treating an arrestee like this, there would be consequences?
“Why are you doing this? I’m a citizen! I do have rights!” I yelled as they dragged me further into the shadows of a deserted parking lot behind the station. It was almost dark now, only a streak of lighter gray through the heavy clouds above the western horizon remaining.
They didn’t grace me with a reply, and my stomach sank. They weren’t taking me out the front door to a waiting squad car. They were taking me out the back, to a dark, secluded place. This was bad... so very bad, and none of my struggles had any effect. None of my cries had attracted any attention, and I could see no sign of bystanders nearby. We were entering a poorly lit area. I thought the big building to our right must be the Civic Center, which put Triangle Park at my left. There were train tracks ahead of us—the white gravel of the verge a pale swath in the fading light—and a mostly
