Edge of Midnight by Charlene Weir Page A

she saw when she got off the bus? Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe she shouldn’t have listened to Arlette. A heavy loneliness crept into her soul.
    The bus trundled around a corner and pulled into Hampstead, Kansas, a little before noon. Ida gathered her things and swung out of the seat. Cary wished her good luck in her studies and slowly made her way to the exit, bobbing her head and peering through windows for a glimpse of Mitch. No sign of him, but that didn’t ease her anxiety. That wouldn’t be his way. He’d pounce when she let her guard down.
    A boiling blast of heat smacked her as soon as she stepped off the air-conditioned bus. Inside the depot, she look around. Still no Mitch. “Call,” Arlette had told her, “Kelby will pick you up.” Cary fumbled coins in the slot. Receiver pressed against her ear, she turned and scanned the room. Weary travelers milled about.
    Kelby’s answering machine kicked in with instructions to leave a message. “Uh—this is…” For God’s sake, idiot. Don’t leave your name. “Uh—your guest. I’m at the bus station.” She hung up.
    Okay, now what? Think. Don’t panic. She was never good at thinking on her feet. Sit, then. This is a bus station, people sit all the time. Maybe Kelby went out to lunch with a friend. Went to work. Stepped out to pick up the mail. Arlette never promised Kelby would be standing by the phone day and night just waiting for Cary’s call. Maybe she went shopping.
    A hand came down on her shoulder. Cary whirled.
    â€œAre you all right?” It was Ida. “You look sort of pale.”
    Cary nearly dropped to a heap, her heart pounded in her throat, her mouth felt frozen in a startled O. “I always look that way.” The lighthearted tone was stretched thin.
    â€œListen,” Ida said, “why don’t I give you a ride. If my friend remembers. He’s not real happy with me at the moment, but—” Ida looked up. “Well, it’s about time.”
    A thin, lanky young man with a white bandage on his temple ambled up, straw-colored hair and a strong resemblance to a scarecrow.
    â€œOsey, mind if we give my friend a ride?”
    â€œNo problem.” Osey picked up Ida’s tote bag and backpack, held both in one hand and said to Cary, “Where’s your bag?”
    Cary dithered, like she always did when faced with the unanticipated. “I—it’s coming later.” What kind of idiot traveled with bags coming later? “Thanks anyway,” she said, “but a friend’s picking me up.”
    â€œWhere does she live?” Osey said.
    Ida jabbed him with her elbow. “Hey, you dope, maybe the friend’s a he.” She turned to Cary. “Osey knows everybody.”
    His lazy posture seemed to change, and when his gaze sharpened like a hunting lioness who spotted the weak antelope of the herd, Cary was startled by the glimpse of keen intelligence. “Nice meeting you.” She excused herself and walked toward the restrooms, feeling two pairs of eyes watching as she pushed open the door.
    After washing her hands, she splashed water on her face. The thought of a shower pulled at her like the Holy Grail. With one day, eighteen hours and fifty minutes of bus-riding, she felt ripe as a bag lady. She waited long enough for Ida and her friend to be gone, then went out and tried the phone again. Answering machine. She sat down, waited two hours, called again. The machine. She waited, tried once more. Same result.
    Now what?
    Sit here in the bus station until the janitor throws her out with the rest of the trash, or spend some of her cash on a taxi? Cary went up to the man at the ticket counter and asked where she could get a taxi. He made a call on her behalf and she waited out front until a cab screeched up. Another thing to hope for, she thought as she climbed in, was that she remembered the address