There were only three addresses. The high school, a local pizza place, and the downtown Greyhound bus terminal.
The bus terminal. 402-B.
It fit perfectly. The terminal had walls of metal storage lockers for travelers. It was open twenty-four hours, poorly monitored, and completely anonymous.
I walked quickly back to Toby’s room.
“Put your coat back on, Toby,” I said. “We’re going to visit Mrs. Gable for a little while.”
Mrs. Gable was an eighty-year-old widow who lived three miles down the road. She had known my family since I was a kid. She baked cookies and watched old game shows, and most importantly, her house sat at the end of a long driveway with a clear line of sight in all directions.
I dropped Toby off, telling Mrs. Gable I had an emergency plumbing issue at the house. I promised Toby I would be back before dinner.
I got back into my truck and drove directly to the downtown bus terminal.
The terminal was a depressing concrete structure, smelling heavily of diesel exhaust and cheap coffee. The waiting area was sparsely populated with tired travelers sleeping on plastic chairs. I walked past the ticket counter and headed toward the back corridor, where rows of grey metal lockers lined the walls.
I walked down the aisles, reading the painted numbers. 300s. 400s.
I stopped in front of locker 402-B.
I looked around. A janitor was mopping the floor fifty yards away. An elderly woman was reading a magazine on a bench. Nobody was paying attention to me.
I took the heavy silver key out of my pocket, slid it into the lock, and turned it.
The mechanism clicked heavily. The metal door popped open.
Inside the narrow metal box sat a thick, leather-bound ledger book and a small, black waterproof case.
I pulled the ledger out first and opened it. The pages were filled with Elena’s meticulous handwriting. It was a complete accounting of Sterling’s illegal payouts. Dates, amounts, bank routing numbers, and the names of city officials who had been bribed to ignore environmental regulations.
I opened the black waterproof case. Inside sat a standard silver USB flash drive.
This was it. This was the proof she had died for.
I closed the locker and turned to leave.
As I stepped out of the aisle, two men blocked my path.
They weren't police officers, and they weren't teenagers. They were large, heavily muscled men wearing dark raincoats. One of them had a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. The other had his hand resting inside the deep pocket of his coat.
“Pass the book, Vance,” the scarred man said quietly.
I didn't answer. I tightened my grip on the heavy ledger.
The man stepped forward, pulling a short, heavy steel baton from his coat. He swung it in a vicious, horizontal arc aimed right at my knee.
I didn't retreat. I stepped inside the swing.
I slammed my left forearm into his wrist, blocking the strike before it could build momentum, and drove the heavy spine of the leather ledger directly into the bridge of his nose. He stumbled backward with a muffled grunt.
The second man lunged, grabbing the collar of my canvas jacket. He tried to throw me against the metal lockers, but I dropped my weight, broke his grip, and drove my shoulder into his chest. We crashed heavily into the row of metal doors. The noise was deafening in the quiet terminal.
He threw a heavy punch that clipped my jaw. The impact sent a flash of white light through my vision, tasting like copper. I pushed through the pain, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and threw him hard onto the concrete floor.
I didn't wait to see if they were getting back up. I sprinted toward the terminal exit, shoving past a startled traveler, and burst out into the freezing rain.