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Sheriff Jacob Huston ran a hand through his hair and gulped down his second cup of black coffee that hour. It was days like this that made him believe that criminals actually conspired with each other to overload the police department. In twenty-four hours, there had been no fewer than four confirmed homicides, eight assaults, two controlled substance possessions, and one attempted robbery.
It was that last item that was threatening to tip Huston over the edge. Apparently, some cowboy-wannabe had walked into the Wells Fargo over on 122nd, pointed a revolver at one of them tellers, and demanded the money in the register. By the time the cops had tracked him down, the money had disappeared. Now he was sitting in a cell, stoutly refusing to speak to anyone other than the sheriff himself.
Huston downed the rest of his coffee and grabbed one of the officers that was walking by. “Douglass, get our John Wayne in the interview room for me. I’ll be there in two.”
Douglass nodded, muttering a “yes, sir.” He left, and Huston opened the case file.
There wasn’t much, just the crime scene photos and some interviews with the witnesses. Some of the photos showed the robber’s revolver, a two-hundred year old antique that belonged in a museum exhibit about the Old West. From what the pictures showed, the gun had been very well taken care of. The wood grip shined, and the hinge mechanism was completely rust-free.
Sighing, Huston closed the folder and got up. His back cracked in a few places, and he silently reminded himself to get out of the chair more often.
The robber was sitting in the interview room when Huston walked in. He looked up at the sheriff, light hazel eyes staring out of a weathered face. Huston had seen the guy move. He couldn’t be any older than 25, 30 at the most, but the wear on his face made him look at least twenty years older than that.
He was still decked out in his cowboy gear, all of which looked just as worn as him. From the dark red woolen shirt to the scuffed up cowboy boots, Mr. Wayne looked every inch as if he’d just stepped out of a Louis L’Amour novel.
Huston sat down across from him, setting the folder down on the table.
“Sheriff?” the man asked, his voice rough and gravelly.
Huston nodded and opened his mouth to ask who the cowboy was, but he didn’t get the chance. The man jumped to his feet and grabbed Huston’s hand, pumping it up and down.
“You’ve got no idea how glad I am to see yer, sheriff. I’m Ben Bright, remember? I explained to yer about the cash. Remember?”
Huston blinked and extracted his hand from Bright’s grip. “W-what?”
Bright squinted. “I spoke wich ya ‘bout, ya know,” he lowered his voice, “hidin’ the money.”
Huston leaned back and shook his head violently. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
The cowboy looked confused and then his mouth formed an ‘o’. “Dammit. I’m too early. Sorry ‘bout this, Sheriff.”
Pain exploded on the side of Huston’s face.
***
When he woke up, head throbbing and cheek swollen, Officer Joe Douglass was sitting next to his bed eating a bowl of red Jell-O.
“Morning, Huston.”
The sheriff touched the side of his face and winced. He was in the hospital. He remembered… he frowned. He actually didn’t remember much.
“Douglass? What happened?”
The officer swallowed a mouthful of gelatin. “That crazy guy you were interviewing? He decked you. Knocked you out cold. He was yelling something about being in the wrong year. I mean, he was really off his rocker.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, he escaped…”
“What?” Huston made to get up.
“Relax, boss.” Douglass took another bite of Jell-O. “He got out and tried to hijack this kid’s car and the kid shot him with his own gun.”
“He got his gun back?”
Douglass nodded. “Grabbed it on the way out. It’s disappeared. The kid doesn’t have it.”
Huston leaned back, sighing and covering his eyes. “And the money?”
Douglass intently scraped the rest of the Jell-O out of the bowl. “Dunno. It’s gone, like the gun. Maybe the guy had a partner, huh?”
“Yeah,” Huston muttered absentmindedly.
Douglass left after eating the rest of Huston’s food, leaving the sheriff alone.
He hadn’t meant for Bright to be killed. Arrested, sure, even jailed, but not killed. He’d liked the cowboy, especially when Bright had come to him with the idea, and Huston had agreed to help him hide the cash.
Huston drifted off to sleep with a pleased little smile on his face, thinking about what he was going to do with the money the time-traveling cowboy had stolen for him.
Ben Bright hadn’t been in the wrong year. He’d been right, and Huston had known, and chance had disposed of Bright’s extra weight. The sheriff was very happy everything cleaned up so well.
Somewhere in the streets, a kid put a stolen gun to his head, pulled the trigger, and woke up in New York, 1923.
It was that last item that was threatening to tip Huston over the edge. Apparently, some cowboy-wannabe had walked into the Wells Fargo over on 122nd, pointed a revolver at one of them tellers, and demanded the money in the register. By the time the cops had tracked him down, the money had disappeared. Now he was sitting in a cell, stoutly refusing to speak to anyone other than the sheriff himself.
Huston downed the rest of his coffee and grabbed one of the officers that was walking by. “Douglass, get our John Wayne in the interview room for me. I’ll be there in two.”
Douglass nodded, muttering a “yes, sir.” He left, and Huston opened the case file.
There wasn’t much, just the crime scene photos and some interviews with the witnesses. Some of the photos showed the robber’s revolver, a two-hundred year old antique that belonged in a museum exhibit about the Old West. From what the pictures showed, the gun had been very well taken care of. The wood grip shined, and the hinge mechanism was completely rust-free.
Sighing, Huston closed the folder and got up. His back cracked in a few places, and he silently reminded himself to get out of the chair more often.
The robber was sitting in the interview room when Huston walked in. He looked up at the sheriff, light hazel eyes staring out of a weathered face. Huston had seen the guy move. He couldn’t be any older than 25, 30 at the most, but the wear on his face made him look at least twenty years older than that.
He was still decked out in his cowboy gear, all of which looked just as worn as him. From the dark red woolen shirt to the scuffed up cowboy boots, Mr. Wayne looked every inch as if he’d just stepped out of a Louis L’Amour novel.
Huston sat down across from him, setting the folder down on the table.
“Sheriff?” the man asked, his voice rough and gravelly.
Huston nodded and opened his mouth to ask who the cowboy was, but he didn’t get the chance. The man jumped to his feet and grabbed Huston’s hand, pumping it up and down.
“You’ve got no idea how glad I am to see yer, sheriff. I’m Ben Bright, remember? I explained to yer about the cash. Remember?”
Huston blinked and extracted his hand from Bright’s grip. “W-what?”
Bright squinted. “I spoke wich ya ‘bout, ya know,” he lowered his voice, “hidin’ the money.”
Huston leaned back and shook his head violently. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
The cowboy looked confused and then his mouth formed an ‘o’. “Dammit. I’m too early. Sorry ‘bout this, Sheriff.”
Pain exploded on the side of Huston’s face.
***
When he woke up, head throbbing and cheek swollen, Officer Joe Douglass was sitting next to his bed eating a bowl of red Jell-O.
“Morning, Huston.”
The sheriff touched the side of his face and winced. He was in the hospital. He remembered… he frowned. He actually didn’t remember much.
“Douglass? What happened?”
The officer swallowed a mouthful of gelatin. “That crazy guy you were interviewing? He decked you. Knocked you out cold. He was yelling something about being in the wrong year. I mean, he was really off his rocker.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well, he escaped…”
“What?” Huston made to get up.
“Relax, boss.” Douglass took another bite of Jell-O. “He got out and tried to hijack this kid’s car and the kid shot him with his own gun.”
“He got his gun back?”
Douglass nodded. “Grabbed it on the way out. It’s disappeared. The kid doesn’t have it.”
Huston leaned back, sighing and covering his eyes. “And the money?”
Douglass intently scraped the rest of the Jell-O out of the bowl. “Dunno. It’s gone, like the gun. Maybe the guy had a partner, huh?”
“Yeah,” Huston muttered absentmindedly.
Douglass left after eating the rest of Huston’s food, leaving the sheriff alone.
He hadn’t meant for Bright to be killed. Arrested, sure, even jailed, but not killed. He’d liked the cowboy, especially when Bright had come to him with the idea, and Huston had agreed to help him hide the cash.
Huston drifted off to sleep with a pleased little smile on his face, thinking about what he was going to do with the money the time-traveling cowboy had stolen for him.
Ben Bright hadn’t been in the wrong year. He’d been right, and Huston had known, and chance had disposed of Bright’s extra weight. The sheriff was very happy everything cleaned up so well.
Somewhere in the streets, a kid put a stolen gun to his head, pulled the trigger, and woke up in New York, 1923.
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For ~JuuniLee 's contest "Bank Robber"
This is also the prologue to a story of mine called "1983" that I have absolutely no clue when I will be writing. anyway... due to lack of internet and general family troubles, I don't know how frequently I'm going to be able to post my stories this week. Sorry
Edit: This placed second in the contest! Here's a link to the journal: [link]
This is also the prologue to a story of mine called "1983" that I have absolutely no clue when I will be writing. anyway... due to lack of internet and general family troubles, I don't know how frequently I'm going to be able to post my stories this week. Sorry
Edit: This placed second in the contest! Here's a link to the journal: [link]
© 2013 - 2024 Ambiguous-Catharsis
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Ooh, interesting Congrats on DLD!