Prodigal Son

Chapter 2

The town of Harvest isn't what anyone would consider a bustling metropolis. About a two-hour drive from Chicago, it's a farming community with a population under seven-hundred. Melancholy rings through Jeremy as he maneuvers Casey's Oldsmobile through the empty streets. It's almost startling how diminished the town is in comparison to a big city; Jeremy's grown accustomed to sky-high buildings, neon lights, and the endless rattle of the L-train passing through.

As the quaint township rolls by in a midnight scroll of flatlands, naked trees, and one-story brick buildings, long-buried memories spring out of the dusty parts of Jeremy's brain. Driving down Main Street, he is assaulted with tactile recollections of his youth: sneaking off with Eddie to smoke pot and fool around by the frozen-over Harvest Lake. Reading comic books with Mike at the fluorescent-lit diner. Summer picnics at the park.

It's just past ten p.m., and there's barely any activity on the streets. Most of the storefronts have closed up for the night.

"Home sweet home, huh? This is where you grew up?" Casey asks from the passenger seat.

"Thinking of relocating?"

"Not just yet." Casey snorts a laugh. "Do you miss it?"

"No."

Sounds good, rings false.

The Harvest police station is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it building wedged among others of the same type. Inside, fuckery abounds. Two plainclothes cops hassle Eddie behind the observation glass of the interrogation room.

"Un-fucking-believable," Casey mutters under his breath before charging into the room. The door swings open, and the two men step away from Eddie. One of them, a bearded redhead who looks like a stretched-out leprechaun, is dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks. His rolled-up sleeves are tourniquets around his meaty forearms. The other man is square-faced man and appears to be in his mid-fifties. Jeremy recognizes him as Chief Robert Parks, the head honcho of Harvest's law enforcement for the last ten years.

Casey notices the bruise on Eddie's cheek and above his eyebrow. "Whoa, whoa! What happened here, fellas?"

"Calm down, fat Elvis," Leprechaun says. "We didn't touch him."

Casey gives them a tired glare, like he's heard it all before. His gaze shifts to Eddie. "Kid, what's with the bruises?"

Eddie's holding something in his lap underneath the table, and as Jeremy moves closer he recognizes a familiar plaid cap wringing between Eddie's hands. In Jeremy's head, Eddie is eternally frozen at eighteen, so seeing him now is somewhat disorienting. His black hair hangs just past his chin in greasy waves. His youthful face bears a five o'clock shadow, which Jeremy finds oddly appealing on him. Eddie's fashion sense hasn't changed over the years though, his wiry body still clad in grungy overalls and a flannel shirt.

"He pushed me into the wall," Eddie answers meekly.

Leprechaun's eyes become spiteful slits. "Horseshit. He hit himself on purpose so it would look like we did it. It's the oldest trick in the book."