Washington was pink with cherry blossoms. Irritating as hell to a man like Cal McAffrey. Usually he liked spring but nothing was going his way. His plan was to get moving on his investigation of the strange-named men in Vermont … but life had other plans for him. Life? Could he call it that? It sure as hell wasn’t his life, not the one he knew. An investigative reporter by nature, he was used to working with the Washington Post. Everything he’d been writing and selling had been picked up everywhere but the Washington Post. He knew well about the old boys club there and swallowing the fact that he was no longer one of the old boys was like eating nails. Oh, he’d been getting paid well for the stories he was writing but there was a missing seasoning in the concoction. Even though he was forced to research every goddamn thing he wanted to write about since the world went strangely askew and didn’t seem to want to shift back to the reality he knew, he didn’t feel much like a reporter these days.

Over the past weeks he’d sold twenty-eight stories to various publications and newspapers. The only place that seemed to bite as far as offering him a real position was the Smithsonian Magazine. In Cal’s mind, the Smithsonian was elegant, educated fluff, but fluff all the same. Their offer was good, something any reporter without a place to live or a car or even a real identity should have jumped at. But … it was fluff. It turned his stomach.

He’d taken a motel room and was doing okay. The money was coming and seldom did he submit a piece that was turned down. Things just didn’t feel right. Cal McAffrey needed to feel right. He’d been too long on the edge of confusion. Answers. He needed fucking answers.

He was fairly okay in the money department, bought himself a 1990 Saab, unfortunately it was red but comfortably familiar all the same. It even came already scattered with candy wrappers and old McDonald’s napkins. He could afford to eat in restaurants and stock his motel room with junk food that made him feel normal. Generally he was making progress, but there were way too many facts missing for him to simply shrug it off and move on. His original plan to go check things out in Vermont became more and more solid.

He toyed with the idea of pitching the story idea to Smithsonian and maybe getting funding for the trip. The story pitch? How far had these men gone to give the illusion they were someone else … someone fictitious … someone from a movie? As far as legally changing their names? As far as having some minor or even major plastic surgery to look like the person in question? As far as to create an entire society of nut bags who’d do the same thing? Would he uncover some psychological phenomenon no one ever thought of before? Was it a Pulitzer Prize winning idea? Would it gain a publishing contract? Make the New York Times best sellers list? Would this put his life on a completely different path than it was on before … whatever happened … happened to him? And, how’d he feel about that new path? Or the story idea for that matter?

Something in the pit of his stomach started talking loud and clear. It came from that place where all his best instincts came from; just above his belly, behind his heart, thudding against the nerves along his spine. No. He wouldn’t look for money from the Smithsonian people. If it became an assignment, it would belong to them, not him. Cal needed something that belonged to him.

Fake driver’s license and equally fake social security card tucked in his wallet with all his cash, nearly eight thousand bucks worth, he scavenged for necessities. He liked what he saw in the used clothing stores. It was his taste and served his needs. So, sue him. Cal liked comfort. The jacket was tweed and loose enough to move around in and the shirts fit just fine. He never was one for fashion. Next, to the 7-11 for road food; cheetos, chips, soda (the real stuff, none of that diet shit). He bought a Triple-A Road Atlas and filled the tank. In the parking lot he tossed his purchases onto the back seat with his new/used wardrobe, pulled a pen from his pocket and plotted his route. Washington D.C. through Maryland then Pennsylvania (with a planned stop off at Penn State and the University Creamery for peach ice cream). On through New York (he’d decided how to investigate Manhattan-based Terry Thorne after getting as much as he could in Stowe, Vermont). A tiny jaunt through Connecticut and then the long drive up to northern Vermont; Burlington specifically, where he planned to stay a few days and do a little digging before taking the hour drive to Stowe and the hotbed of strangeness that had him obsessed.

Needless to say … none of his trip went quite as planned. Did anything these days?

Violent spring thunderstorms slowed his progress. He passed on the chance for ice cream; only God knew if the University Creamery still existed and he didn’t think his heart could stand the disappointment. He stayed in cheap motels, and bought a used laptop so he could get online and do his research in coffee shops along the drive. What should have been a two day journey took four. When he neared Burlington, even though it was nightfall, he chose to keep moving. His only stop was for gas and a payphone to make reservations at the 1876 Manor at Mount Mansfield. Lucky for him, he’d be checking in with a few great deals. It seemed the place was desperate for business and he grinned. At least something was going his way. But he was still a bit leery about just plowing into his investigation, so he decided to spend his last night at a Super 8 on route 108, just minutes from his destination.

Tuesday morning glowed with sunlight and promise so he fired up the old Saab and chugged his way into Stowe. The town was … quaint. It had an eerie Stephan King feel about it; all that Norman Rockwell normalcy and floating around it were a few weirdoes pretending to be movie characters. It generally gave him the creeps.  He drove past flower-festooned Victorian houses and tiny gift shops. Still craving ice cream he parked on Main Street and went into a shop boasting Ben & Jerry’s. Not as good, but it hit the spot. He walked up and down the street, seeing nothing out of the ordinary; people shopping, a pretty lady cop ticketing a pulled-over driver, Starbucks, bars, restaurants, a small town park. Around noon he stopped in at Kennedy’s Corner Pub. Nothing odd there, except that the place wasn’t on a corner. The bartender was affable, a dude with a thick Scottish accent. His waitresses were extra pretty and the food wasn’t bad. Cal ate a chili burger and fries at the bar and listened to the chatter around him; always a good way to pick up a few tidbits of information.

It seemed the blogs were truthful; John Biebe was actually running for mayor of Stowe but something unclear had delayed the election. There’d be a town meeting that night and Cal made a mental note to be there. The pub patrons occasionally mentioned Sheriff Ben Wade, and one old fuck, a man so bald Cal wondered if he ever had hair, even struck up a casual conversation.

“Don’t you think it’s kinda funny,” Cal asked, sipping the last of his beer and watching arrivals through the mirror behind the bar. “Having a sheriff named Ben Wade?”

“Why’s that, young man?”

“Oh.” Cal shrugged and turned his full attention to Willy Willard. “Ben Wade … like in the movie … you know the one.”

Old Willy blinked.

“3:10 to Yuma? Ben Wade? The outlaw?”

“Huh, never saw that. Never liked movies. Don’t even watch them on television. It’s a shame Ed Sullivan’s gone. Now that was entertainment.”

“Right,” Cal sighed, glancing around for someone a few decades younger than Willy to talk with.

“’Nother beer?” the bartender chuckled as Willy wandered off.

“You heard of Ben Wade, the outlaw from the movie, right?” Cal sipped through fresh white foam.

“Sure. We got a sheriff named Ben Wade. Good man,” volunteered a pretty waitress wearing tight jeans and an equally tight Kennedy’s Corner Pub tee shirt. “Damn good looking too.”

“You don’t think it’s odd? Ben Wade was an outlaw in the movie.” Cal was searching for more than a story. His eyes were scanning for nipples. It was a bit chilly in the pub.

“Ben Wade is no outlaw!” sniped a passing woman. She looked and smelled like a dairy farmer. Her hair was mussed and she never even had to ask for her shot of Irish whisky. The bartender had it already in hand as she reached between Cal and the waitress. “Ben Wade saved our bank!”

“Uh-huh,” Cal grunted. Probably wanted to rob the damn thing and something went real wrong, he thought.

“Why do you want to know about Ben?” The bartender’s eyes were sparkling blue and fiercely focused on the covert reporter.

“Uh …”

“I’m Gerry Kennedy, I own this place. You want to know something about Ben, you should ask him. He stops by some evenings. Or … you can always just go on across the street to the municipal building and see if he’s in.”

“Thanks … I might just do that.”

So, why was he scared to cross the street? Cal stood still as stone in front of the pub for a good fifteen minutes. Finally, unable to determine what had him so paralyzed, he decided to just go check into the Inn. Maybe he needed some rest. It had been a rough drive. Sheriff Ben Wade would be the sheriff tomorrow … unless he got lucky and the world went back to its original, logical and acceptable state of being.

Parking at the massive Inn, another wave of terror swept through him, and for the first time in Cal’s life he suddenly knew he was getting into something way deeper than expected. Something maybe dangerous. Something he just might not want to know.