The bus station was long past its prime. Nothing about it caught the eye. Even the once-polished metal looked abandoned and ready for demolition. When Mayor Gates built it in 1965, Wheaton’s residents were in a fugue of excitement, anticipating that the new interstate would revive the economy. As happens in so many other towns, they didn’t realize that the speedy conduit would rocket people away from their respective hometowns and rupture their connection to home. When 1970 came, no one noted that the town had passed its zenith.

Zeke stood along Main Street, his eye carefully absorbing the details of the surrounding businesses. Most were long-shuttered, and none of the marquee signs were freshly-painted or modern. He only returned this time to sign away his parcel of land along Sherman Street. The house had been demolished years ago. His distant cousin Jermaine wanted it to build another house across two lots. Zeke was happy to reward him for staying and keeping roots here. Few could do so.

Zeke departed Wheaton for the Army the week after high school. Vietnam was a concern, but college was not an option for him. He witnessed a few people come back as completely different people. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Zeke loved the Army. He stayed in for eight years until he met Sally Jenkins. They married and moved back to her hometown in Mississippi. To Zeke’s surprise, her hometown was exactly like Wheaton, a declining farm town with few jobs. She died in 1992 of an inoperable brain tumor. Zeke never remarried, though a couple of women asked him. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he stayed in Sally’s hometown. Zeke appreciated it in a way that he couldn’t love Wheaton.

Zeke’s mind drifted back to 1965.

The day the bus station opened, Zeke was ten years old. His Mom told him he was going to witness history and insisted that he accompany her downtown. She also made him dress up, including a tie and hat. All he remembered were people talking excitedly about an old bus as it pulled into town. The town newspaper sent out a junior reporter who animatedly took pictures of the ribbon-cutting and people stuffing hot dogs in their faces. The diner next door, owned by Mayor Gate’s brother, gave out free soda, coffee, and hot dogs. Zeke quickly consumed four hot dogs, much to the embarrassment of his Mom. She stopped him as he went for number five.

Zeke escaped his Mom’s rebuke and sat on an extended bench on the side of the building. The relief driver who came in on the bus sat there, too, smoking a long cigarette. He offered Zeke a drag. After carefully considering that someone might see him, he declined. Zeke acquired a taste for smoking when he was seven. His uncles gave him cigarettes regularly when his Mom wasn’t paying attention. To his Mom’s credit, she pretended that she couldn’t smell the stench of tobacco on him. She was a mix of disciplinary contrast, and it was her voice of conscience he heard in his dark moments of indecision.

“What’s so special about a bus station?” Zeke asked the middle-aged and weary driver.

“They think it will save them. It won’t. It will siphon all of you out of here. I’ve driven all over the United States. That is what happens.” He took another long drag of the absurd cigarette and laughed. “Can’t tell adults anything, though, right?” He asked. Zeke couldn’t tell if he was serious.

Zeke sat on the bench with the bus driver, talking, for at least thirty minutes until the crowd realized that no further excitement would ensue. A few minutes later, the bus pulled away from the new bus station without any additional passengers. Zeke waved enthusiastically as the tired passengers from other places watched him recede from view. He had a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes in his pocket, a departing gift from Petey, the driver.

Zeke thought about the intervening years, fifty-five incredible years. In the interim, the town dwindled by two-thirds. Zeke’s return trips gradually declined. After his Mom passed, he stopped coming for obligatory funerals, too. His hometown had become a reunion base for those who refused to leave. With each visit, a little bit of vitality disappeared from the buildings and the faces of those there.

Another bench now stood against the side of the old diner building. Though it probably had been replaced repeatedly, the bench there looked to be one hundred years old. Zeke could still picture the relief bus driver in his uniform, sitting there and smoking in the early May afternoon sun. He could almost taste the mustard-covered hotdogs he had indulged in, too. Zeke found himself walking toward the bench to sit down. As he did, he stretched his legs out in front of him.

His imagination filled his head with the remembered murmur and the excited chatter of the people assembled here in 1965 to witness the new bus station being christened by the arrival of a tired Greyhound bus.

Zeke decided to sit there for just a minute. He felt exhausted, and his memories weighed on him like nostalgic sandbags.

Two hours later, one of the residents walking her dog found Zeke sitting on the bench, his hat askew, his eyes wide open to the receding sun.

He wouldn’t leave Wheaton after all. He would have been happy to know he hadn’t escaped. No one escapes where they are from, and if you consider the implications of this truth, a big piece of your heart will swell and float away.

Alex sat in the nondescript sedan, huddled into the driver’s seat, hoping the shivers would soon subside, and cursing under his breath. Two hours standing against a wind-swept building in January made him question his choices. The man he was supposed to meet didn’t appear at 9 p.m. A friendly black cat kept him company, sitting at his feet as if it were waiting for someone as well. Alex waited another hour until the cold seeped into his joints. Knowing that texting their mutual acquaintance would be pointless, he carefully walked back to his borrowed car. As the car warmed, some of Alex’s ability to reason returned. He knew he would need to go back and wait, even if the person he was to meet took all night to make an appearance. So, he sat and felt the warmth of the vents surround him. Twenty years of this job made him cynical. And also practical. Five more minutes.

As he shut off the ignition and opened the driver’s door of his car, a gunshot echoed through the alleys of the nearby buildings. Unlike what happens in tv shows, Alex’s pulse quickened involuntarily, but he did not react. And he didn’t rush to hurry. Only fools or rookies barge into gunshots. Also, he knew in his gut that the man he was supposed to meet undoubtedly was the one receiving the bullet. Men like him invited such calamity. Alex calculated the odds of the police arriving in less than five minutes. He shut the car door and walked back toward the place he’d waited previously. As he neared the spot, Alex saw a body on the ground. A light above one of the stores’ rear doors provided enough illumination to see the body slumped against the bricks and cement. The friendly black cat sat a few feet away, watching. It didn’t surprise Alex that the gunshot hadn’t scared the cat. Like Alex, it had undoubtedly seen a lot.

Alex paused and listened for approaching cars, voices, or footsteps. Silence. He moved along the edge of the wall, face tilted down in case of clandestine cameras. He pushed against the slouched body with the tip of his right shoe. Dead. Alex crouched to his knees and carefully put on a nylon glove, which resisted stretching in the cold. Using his left hand, he pulled the torso of the body toward him and over.

For a few seconds, Alex’s mind went blank. Nothing in his twenty years of this crazy life prepared him for what he saw. He always considered himself prepared for anything. Alex remained crouched, staring at the face on the ground. It was his own face, detailed down to the bullet scar across the bridge of his nose. Alex reached down and inside the corpse’s coat. He removed the wallet and flipped it open. He saw himself in the driver’s license photo. Everything in the wallet looked identical to the same wallet he had inside his coat pocket.

Alex didn’t notice the approaching figure, stealthily moving behind him. He didn’t see the arc of the baton as it descended on the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. The cold cement welcomed him as he fell.

The black cat, having seen enough, meandered away into the darkness.

*

From somewhere across the plaza in the revitalized small-town downtown, the sounds of a soft piano wafted into the air. Alex shifted uncomfortably, without realizing the piano brought unwelcome anxiety as it reached him. He nervously took a large sip of his bitter coffee, burning his throat a little. He relished the distraction of the pain. Across from him at the nearest table, a couple sat quietly in the fading afternoon light. Neither had spoken for the last twenty minutes. He knew they were both wrestling with ending their marriage, though for different reasons.

Alex felt their pain. It gave him no comfort to know that he would end their stagnant conversation for them: the husband wouldn’t leave this place alive. Seventy thousand dollars in Alex’s bank account guaranteed that Steve wouldn’t walk away. Though he didn’t know the details, he studied Steve’s life just enough to understand that he had crossed the line with a business partner. His wife Kathy was blameless.

Alex and the couple were the last three people in the plaza. The approaching chill encouraged the others to leave. The restaurant attendant tasked with keeping the shared area clean moved to clear the remainder of the tables. Alex indicated that he could take his coffee cup and saucer, as well as the $10 bill for the tip.

Just as Alex prepared to stand up and do what he came for, Steve looked across the small table and said, “I love you, Kathy. I’m not having an affair. My partner Mark is embezzling. He’s ruined us.” Kathy unexpectedly reached across the table and grabbed her husband’s hand. “I’m so sorry! I love you.”

Alex rarely saw anything to surprise him. They still loved each other.

Alex stood up, stretched slightly, and walked over to the couple’s table. “Have a good evening, both of you. And great lives,” Alex said to them. They look at either confusedly, and then both said, “You too!” reflexively.

Alex walked across the plaza to find his car. His plans had changed. He would kill Mark, the partner.

He hoped Kathy and Steve would consider it a belated wedding present from an interested bystander.

~One~

It had been a typical Friday night until his cellphone rang. All calls routed through the office system caused his phone to ring with the sound of a baby crying. Sheriff Taylor learned through experience that the sound would wake him from the dead. If it failed to rouse him, it certainly woke everyone around him.

Sheriff John Taylor sat on his plush living room couch, with plans to stay there until the next morning. His wife Jamie often told people she’d find the Sheriff loudly snoring, with the television still playing an endless list of home improvement shows. It was true. The Sheriff loved all of them. He didn’t need the woods, bar, or a fishing pole, which suited Jamie just fine. Before coming back home to take the Sheriff’s job, John caused her many nights of worry.

Because his back and hip hurt a lot, sitting up to sleep sometimes was his only recourse. He knew if his cell was ringing that one of his deputies decided to ignore his do-not-disturb order for a good reason. Even Burt Reynolds, his bloodhound mutt, raised his head in protest of the cellphone ring. Dogs weren’t fans of babies crying, as it turns out. “Okay!” the Sheriff grumbled as he reached for his phone on the table.

“Go,” John said to the voice on the line. He nodded his head a few times as he listened. “Will be there in twenty.” Sheriff Taylor preferred concise work-related communications. Except for Deputy Barnes, all of his deputies diligently adhered to his taciturn way of speaking. Barnes graduated from college with a Master’s in English and Latin.

When the Sheriff pulled into the long driveway, he saw that two of his six deputies were parked on each side of the drive while leaving ample room for other vehicles. As he’d trained them, neither had their lights flashing. Unless someone was in danger, lights were a ridiculous distraction. Most days, the Sheriff didn’t even require that his deputies wear uniforms. They were fiercely loyal.

He walked up to the porch as Deputy Hensley told him the little bit he knew. “Call thirty minutes ago, anonymous. Gunshot. I arrived, front door open. Jimmy next to the kitchen table with a gunshot wound to the head. Dead.” The Sheriff nodded and went inside as he opened the screen door to the house. It banged shut behind him.

His other deputy took pictures as he walked around carefully inside the house. Jimmy was on the dirty linoleum floor. Blood pooled around his head and shoulders. The Sheriff noted the small hole in Jimmy’s left temple. He couldn’t see the exit wound. A dark spray pattern was visible across the fridge. Every inch of counter space contained dirty dishes and empty beer cans and bottles.

Deputy Barnes walked into the small kitchen behind the Sheriff. “Suicide?” He asked. “Or did Jimmy succumb to the unnaturally unkempt condition of his own residence?”

Ignoring Deputy Barne’s flowery language, the Sheriff said, “Too soon to say. But if it is a suicide, someone will have to explain why there are two other water rings on the ends of the table.”

Deputy Barnes looked at the table, surprised that he had missed that detail. He picked up the half-empty beer bottle from Jimmy’s presumed place at the table. A water ring formed there from the beer bottle’s condensation. “I surmise the bottles aren’t in the trash. Someone outwitted themselves, didn’t they?” The Sheriff nodded affirmatively.

It was going to be a long night.

Someone would have to find Jimmy’s dad, Tiny. They’d start with the dives and bar parking lots in Evansville. And the Sheriff would find a way to sober him up enough to tell him someone probably murdered his son. Jimmy was Tiny’s youngest son. Both other boys had died in the last eighteen months. Counting Jimmy, this was the Sheriff’s first murder case in his six years on the job. He was beginning to get a tickle in his brain, one that told him that Jimmy’s brothers might have been murdered too. The Sheriff never ignored those tickles in the back of his head. They saved him several times at his last job. The last time he ignored one, he got six bullets to show for his carelessness. Not to mention a furious wife. The Sheriff knew that the wife had been a more significant risk to his health than six bullets.

As the Sheriff turned to Deputy Barnes, the deputy said, “Protocols commenced, boss.”

~Two~

The night did indeed drag on. By the time Sheriff Taylor drove back to his own house, the sun was over the horizon, blinding him. His right hip flared with a pain that he couldn’t ignore. A dark sedan sat next to his mailbox, engine idling. The tint was so dark that he couldn’t see the occupant. The car screamed, “Federal Government.”

Sheriff Taylor exited his vehicle and pocketed his keys. Instead of going inside, he turned and walked back to the mailbox. Without seeing the occupant, he made the universal sign to “roll down the window.” The dark window slithered down, revealing a shockingly young face. The agent inside smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth, the best that money could buy. He held up his identification card, one emblazoned with “Special Agent” on the front. “Agent Shatner. Get in.” He tilted his head quickly to the right, indicating that the Sheriff should get in the passenger side.

Instead of arguing and asking needless questions, the Sheriff walked around the front of the car. As he did, he looked up to see his wife Jamie watching from the porch. He motioned that he was going to be a while longer. Jamie waved and went back inside. Years of being married to a mercurial cop taught her to conserve her commentary for later.

The Sheriff opened the door and climbed inside, shutting the door behind him.

Agent Shatner put the car in gear and accelerated away. “It’s better for you to see this first, Sheriff Taylor.” The agent was surprised to see that the Sheriff only nodded and remained quietly watchful from the passenger seat. They drove in silence for ten minutes. Agent Shatner turned off Highway 47. As they neared Hunnington Creek, Sheriff Taylor noted that a red pickup truck was parked near the bridge on the creek’s Evansville side. Beyond was Hunnington County, outside the Sheriff’s jurisdiction.

Agent Shatner pulled over, turned off the ignition, and climbed out. The Sheriff followed suit. A man dressed in blue jeans and a Georgia Tech t-shirt got out of the red truck as they did. “No issues, Agent,” he said and nodded to the creek. Agent Shatner wordlessly walked to the bridge.

“That’s going to be a problem, Sheriff,” he said, as he pointed to the opposite creek bank.

When the Sheriff peered over, he saw two dead bodies, men at least forty years old. He recognized neither of them.

Because Sheriff Taylor didn’t believe in coincidences, he asked, “These two murdered Jimmy last night?”

“Yes, they did.” Agent Shatner said.

“Do you know why?” Sheriff Taylor asked.

“You’re not going to believe this one, Sheriff.”

~Three~
…