Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern

he muttered. He’d held a strong dislike for high-school-age youth ever since his abortive career as an English teacher shortly after he’d been disability-discharged out of the army because of his eye. He tried to remember if he’d ever told Bess the real story behind the loss of his eye. He couldn’t remember. There would be no chance ever again, he realized. Jessica Pace seemed asleep in the passenger seat as Frost walked up to the car. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles; the muzzle of her Walther PPK/S .380 rose above the window level before she turned her eyes.
    â€œYou do that real good,” Frost told her as she cranked down the window and the gun disappeared.
    â€œWhat was with those bikers—? Almost clipped you.”
    â€œYou weren’t sleeping—just a bunch of rowdy kids though,” Frost said, dismissing the subject. “Come on—here’s the map. Help me find the campsite—up that way.” Frost pointed down the gravel drive into the darkness, then handed the milk and orange juice to the girl through the open window. He walked around the front of the car, standing by the door a minute before getting back in. When he opened it, Jessica looked at him. “I’m a little stiff, that’s all,” Frost answered to her unasked question.
    â€œYeah—well, I’ll make you a good meal. Pull your shoes off—just take it easy once we get hooked up.”
    â€œYeah—once we get hooked up,” Frost groaned.
    â€œHey, don’t bother unhitching the trailer—we’re leaving in the morning, no need to. Just do the electrical plug.”
    â€œTerrific,” Frost agreed. He got the car going and meandered through the darkness down the gravel drive, looking for the numbers. The campground was half-empty and with so many of the campsite hookups unfilled, it was hard to determine which set of numbers belonged to which plot of earth. After missing the spot once and driving around the campground in a circle, they found the spot and Frost angled the trailer in. It was, mercifully he thought, a pull-through. He’d spotted more bikers, including the original three who’d almost run him down, but mentally dismissed their presence. There were a lot of bikers in the world, he thought, and most of them were fine people—or at least as fine as people usually could be expected to be.
    They stopped. He and Jessica climbed out, and Frost unplugged the electrical connection between the car and trailer. Having opened the door to the trailer, Jessica set the milk and juice on one of the tables then came out to help him hook up. She began working the electrical connection while Frost fumbled the hose connection into place; he had gotten a pressure valve in Phoenix on Jessica’s advice and he first connected this to the trailer intake, then the hose to the valve, then the other end of the hose to the water supply where they turned on the water. They’d used the camper for lunch. Both of them had used the camper bathroom several times, and as he secured the accordian-style sewer pipe under the trailer and then ran out the other end into the sewer outlet, Frost decided that he should open both the gray and brown water tanks. He did this, muttering, “Yuck!” He had soon discovered that the job he liked least in trailer hook-ups was working the sewer connection.
    â€œI’ve got the electricity—didn’t need the dogbone.”
    Frost stood up, looking at the girl. “The what?”
    â€œThe dogbone—it’s the adaptor, but they’ve got the right size outlets.”
    â€˜Ohh—good,” Frost told her.
    One more task remained as Jessica disappeared inside the camper to switch the refrigerator over from gas to electrical current and Frost raised the awning over the front window of the trailer—he had to light the hot-water pilot. At least, he thought, it wasn’t like