THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND, by Kaye George

The small group lined up on the hot sidewalk to get onto my JumboBus that summer day in Knoxville. They didn’t look much different from my normal passengers. But never in a million miles could I have told you what would happen with that bunch.

I drove up the slight hill and pulled to the curb where they all stood, waiting patiently. There was a black family with three young kids—I’d seen them before and thought the two girls were twins, cute as little ladybugs.

There’s always college kids on the DC route. This time there were three of them. Two girls were traveling together, and the other one looked like a frat boy. He wasn’t with them, but was hanging near, like he wanted to get to know them. Looked like he was a little older than the girls, maybe a senior or even a grad student.

Two middle-aged white ladies, all dolled up for the ride, wearing sundresses. Most people don’t get fancy for a JumboBus ride, but a few do. They concentrated on their chatter so hard, I wasn’t sure they’d seen the bus pull up.

Then there were three guys, all traveling alone. They were white, one maybe around the age of the ladies. The second one wore a suit and carried a briefcase, looked like a lawyer. The third looked like a bum. I thought about not letting the last one onto my bus. I would smell his breath and see how recent his last binge had been, and how much of it he had left in his system. Didn’t need a drunk riling up the passengers.

I hopped out and opened the luggage compartment under the seats. Everyone had bags except the old stumble bum white guy. He carried a paper shopping bag with handles, but took it on the bus with him instead of letting me stow it below.

Taking up my station by the steps, I collected their reservation numbers as they filed on. It was going to be a beautiful, early spring day. No rain in the forecast. Birds twittered in the small bushes next to the building. Should be an easy drive.

The family went up top so the kids could use the tables for games and coloring books. They’d been on my bus a few times. They had grandparents in the DC area and went to visit them now and then. Their last name was Holt, according to my list.

The older ladies in their sundresses were next. They both had blond hair, dyed to cover the gray. The one with short hair jangled the bangles on her wrist when she showed me her printout. The other one flicked her long hair back so her big hoop earrings danced just above her bare shoulders. She called the first one Sky. Her printout said Sky Meadows and the long-haired one’s reservation said she was Brandi Bergman.

The two college girls, loaded down by their backpacks that looked to weigh forty pounds or so, barely looked up from their phones long enough to give me their reservation numbers, thumbs going like sports cars on the interstate. One was a blond honey—Tunisia Fish; the other—Mia Chang, was a cute little Asian.

Kelly Booke—I thought of him as Mr. Joe Cool—followed them. He held a phone, but his eyes were on the rump of the Asian college girl.

Then the three men got on, with the bum getting on last. His last drink of whiskey hadn’t been very long ago, I’ll tell you that. His hands shook and the whites of his eyes glowed red like a sunset. But he walked straight enough and he politely thanked me, although I hadn’t done anything for him yet because he hadn’t had any luggage. So I decided to let him on.

I climbed the steps and waited for the clock to say it was time to go, studying my load in my convex mirror.

Lawton Beane, the man dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase, had taken a seat directly behind me, two rows back, leaving the first row vacant. The drunk staggered past him. The suit stared at him as he passed and I caught the suit mutter to him, “Still drunk, Stoney?”

“Still a stuffed shirt, Lawton?” The guy didn’t sound extremely drunk.

No shit. The drunk’s nickname was Stoney? I checked my manifest. Yep. Stoneham Sharp. The nickname fit, not the last name.

I pulled my microphone over and thumbed the switch. “Welcome to JumboBus. Our goal is to get you to Washington DC with as few wrecks as possible.”

I usually got a few chuckles, so I paused. The “blond” ladies obliged me with some titters.

“The only problem we have is all those mountains between Knoxville and DC. Don’t be alarmed if we slow down going up the mountain and speed up coming down. You can be alarmed if we run off the road, though.”

The two backpack college girls had looked up and started paying attention after my first bit. The hanger-on college kid, taking his cue from them, watched me, too. He cracked a slight smile at my last funny. One of the girls smiled and shook her head.

“Departure is in about five minutes, so make yourselves comfortable. The restroom is that part of the bus that sticks out and has a door labeled ‘restroom’ in the middle there. Any time after we get going, feel free to use the facilities.”

* * * *

All was quiet for the first fifty miles, except for the sounds of the kids upstairs, playing what sounded like a board game. Probably something on their parents’ tablet. One of the little girls had a cute squeal when, it sounded like, she won or made a good move.

The suit, the one Stoney called Lawton, jumped up and clomped to the foot of the stairway.

“Can you keep those damn kids quiet up there?”

Everyone raised their heads to stare at him.

“Sir,” I said, with my authoritarian voice, “take your seat.”

“They’re making too much damn noise.”

“Sir, don’t talk to children that way. If you can’t ask them nicely, just take your seat.”

“I’ll ask them nicely, all right.” He stomped up the stairs.

Before he could start hollering up there, I heard Mr. Holt’s voice. It was quieter than Lawton Beane’s had been but still clearly audible from my seat. “Do not curse in front of my children. I’ll thank you to express yourself decently.”

“Are you going to keep them quiet?”

“They’re playing. Kids don’t play without saying anything.”

“I’m warning you!” I heard Lawton Beane clatter back down the stairs and watched him plop into his seat from my rear view mirror.

For the next fifty miles, the kids were quieter. Poor little tykes.

Kelly Booke, the college kid, had tried to engage the coed closest to him, the non-Asian one, in conversation. He’d gotten her name, Tuni, short for Tunisia, but was having trouble connecting much further than that. They’d gotten onto the subject of pets. Tuni said she kept rabbits and Kelly told her he’d had a dog when he was a boy, but a neighbor asshole had shot her. I could tell he was overplaying it, his voice getting an emotional quaver in the telling. I thought I even detected extra dampness in his eyes. It didn’t work. She turned back to her phone and ignored him.

Beane’s next victim was the frat boy, who sat across the aisle and back one seat. The college girls were behind Beane, so Joe Cool was across the aisle from them. Tiny, tinny sounds came from the kid’s earbuds. I could barely hear it, but it wasn’t bothersome.

Beane whirled in his seat to face the boy. “Shut that noise up. Why do you think the whole bus wants to listen to a song about some damn mutt?”

The kid had been smiling and nodding his head along with his tunes. I saw his face tighten after the attack. He fumbled for the controls and turned down the volume, looking daggers at Beane after he turned to face the front. Beane mumbled, loud enough to be heard by the girls behind him. “I suppose he’s trying to impress those skanks. Why he’d want to do that is beyond me. Especially the fat skank.” The kid didn’t take his eyes off Beane for quite a few miles. I thought he was trying to drill a hole in the back of Beane’s head with his dark look.

I started to consider putting Beane off the bus at the stop thirty miles ahead. Before we got there, he managed to sling more insults. One of the sundress women, the one with bangle bracelets, got up to use the restroom. She jiggled them down toward her wrist as she made her way up the aisle.

He turned to sneer at her. “Jesus Christ, woman. Why the hell would you want to advertise how cheap your junky jewelry is? Quit jingling like a sleigh bell.”

The woman, Sky Meadows, stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you bullying everyone? We’re all complete strangers.”

I thought Beane said something like, “Not complete.” I studied the passengers. Stoney and Beane knew each other, unlikely as that was. I wondered if anyone else knew him.

Stoney Sharp had struck up a card game with the other male passenger, a guy with thick glasses named Clark Kenton. If you wanted to find someone to play the least likely Superman alter identity, it would be this guy. He was quiet and well-dressed and intent on the cards Stoney was dealing.

Beane turned around again and stared at Stoney. “Watch that guy,” he said to Kenton. “He’ll cheat. What are you losers playing anyway?”

Kenton looked at Beane with owl eyes through his lenses. “Draw poker.”

Beane chuckled. “A game for losers.” He turned to face the front and I could see his face. He was a sour, unhappy son of a bitch, that’s for sure. I guess he wanted to make everyone else as miserable as he was. I decided I would definitely put him off at the half-way rest stop. I’d done it before with unruly passengers and I could do it again.

As we approached, I gave my talk about not leaving valuables on the empty bus, and warned them to be back in their seats in thirty minutes. I sat and filled out my paperwork, putting down distance and time, while the first of the passengers filed out. The two chatty women breezed past, then the two college girls, noses in their phones.

When my paperwork was done, I went to stand outside the door while the rest came off. The last to leave were the Holt family, the cute little girls skipping toward the concession building. The reason I was waiting was to tell Beane to make sure he had everything with him, since I wasn’t letting him back on the bus. I hadn’t noticed who had left and who hadn’t and also had neglected to count heads, so I got back in and inspected. No one upstairs. No one down. Nothing was left in Beane’s seat, so he must have gotten past me. I locked up and went to get my lunch.

My passengers milled around the place, getting snacks and burgers. The counter clerk had my usual ready and waiting for me, a pepperoni slice and a diet soda. I handed her the money, which included a nice tip. She gave me her usual million-dollar smile and I found a corner to wolf down my lunch. Beane didn’t come into the small building unless he did it while I was in the john.

I was usually back in my seat in twenty minutes, counting heads as the passengers re-entered. Today, though, after I unlocked the door, I stood at the foot of the steps so I could intercept Mr. Lawton Beane. No way was I letting him back on my bus.

The two women, Sky Meadows and Brandi Bergman, were the first to return. As is always the case, they took the exact seats they’d had before. Next came Stoney Sharp and Clark Kenton. They seemed to have struck up a friendship. The Holt family clambered on board and the kids swarmed up the stairs. I could hear them singing, “The wheels on the bus go round and round.” At the last minute, the three students ambled up, the two girls still absorbed in their electronics, the guy still eyeing their bottoms as they ascended the steps in front of him.

I waited five extra minutes. Mr. Beane was a no-show. Maybe he’d gotten past me and was stuck in the bathroom taking a dump. Not my problem. Now I wouldn’t have to put him off the bus. I hopped up the stairs, closed the door, and took off.

The rest of the ride to DC was so much better. It was like my JumboBus breathed out a sigh of relief and settled into contentment. The kids sang and played upstairs, the two men played cards half the journey, then Kenton leaned back for a nap and Stoney watched the scenery go by. The two young girls never quit playing with their phones. Mr. Joe Cool, across the aisle, seemed to have lost interest in them. He wasn’t even wearing his earbuds, just staring out the window. The two middle-aged women chattered without restraint. It was a good ride. Right up until we were almost there.

The guy with the thick glasses, Clark Kenton, got up to use the bathroom. No one had used it since lunch. Kind of unusual, since people drank sodas and tea when we stopped.

I watched Clark get up and slowly navigate his way, on the rolling bus, to the door. The next time I glanced back in my mirror, he was standing in the aisle holding the door open, with a mighty strange expression on his face. His mouth and his eyes made perfect Os. He stood there for a few seconds. Then he slammed the door and ran up the aisle to me.

“There’s… there’s… he’s on the floor… in the… he’s not moving.” He was whispering. Maybe he was afraid to say it too loud.

I frowned and put on my blinker. Someone must be sick, I thought. There happened to be a rest area in half a mile. I pulled off and stopped the bus. I announced that there was a slight problem, but we would be back on the road soon.

“Show me,” I said, getting up and shooing Clark ahead of me. I had a bad feeling about what we’d find. Sure enough, I opened the door and Mr. Lawton Beane greeted me, sitting on the closed toilet lid, slumped against the wall, his tongue sticking out of his purple face.

I took a closer look, not wanting to touch anything. It looked like something was buried in the flesh of his neck. I stooped to get a better look. The guy had been killed. Strangled. The weapon was a cord with earbuds attached. Was it Joe Cool’s? But why would he kill Beane? Anyone could have used his cord, I told myself. It didn’t have to be the college kid.

I had to keep all the passengers on the bus until the police arrived. One of them was a killer. I announced that we would have to spend some time at this rest area, then I went to the front and quietly called the cops.

Mr. Holt came down the stairs. “Can I let the kids out to run around?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holt. I have to keep everyone on the bus.”

A collective groan went up at that news.

“What the problem?” asked Brandi Bergman.

“I’m not at liberty to—”

“That asshole guy is dead in the bathroom!” yelled Kenton.

They all started yammering at once.

I held up both my hands, palms out. “Calm down, everyone. The police are on their way. As soon as they have a look and release the vehicle, we’ll get back on the road.” I was lying. I’d had a murder on my bus once before, years ago, and I knew we’d be here for a good long time.

One college girl, Mia, stood up. “I have a test tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” said Kelly Booke, Mr. Joe Cool.

“We won’t be here all night,” I said, as reassuringly as I could. “Relax. Just pretend we’re still on the road.”

“But, but,” stammered Brandi Bergman, shaking so that her hoop earrings trembled next to her neck, “there’s a dead guy? In the bathroom?”

“It’s the asshole,” Kenton helpfully repeated.

“He just died there?” “What is he dead of?” “Are you gonna call someone?” “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yes,” I said. I might as well tell them. “Mr. Lawton Beane has expired and he’s in the bathroom.”

“Ha, expired,” said Stoney Sharp. “It’s about time his expiration date came due.”

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” said Brandi’s companion, Sky.

“Did anyone see him go into the bathroom?” I asked. It had to have been before the stop. They shook their heads in unison. “Did you see anyone at all go in there within, maybe, twenty or thirty miles of our stop?”

“We were waiting for the rest area bathroom,” Brandi said.

“Us too, right, Tuni?” Mia spoke and Tuni, her friend, nodded.

Mr. Joe Cool shrugged. Stoney stared out the window. I knew Mr. Holt had been upstairs. No one had seen anything?

* * * *

The cops got there in record time. Luckily, no one had tried to force their way off the bus. I didn’t know what I would have done if they had.

They questioned all of us separately, pulling everyone off the bus two or three at a time. When my turn came, the policewoman asked me if I’d seen him get off the bus. I thought for a moment. The only thing I could say was the truth. No, I hadn’t. I told her I had locked the bus at the half-way stop and he must have been already dead then because he definitely didn’t get back on.

She continued to ask me some more questions about the passengers, like had I noticed any friction. Yes, with everyone. Had I noticed that anyone on the bus knew him? I hesitated only a moment, but had to tell her that Stoney Sharp had obviously been acquainted with Mr. Beane.

“How do you know?”

“They traded insults right off the bat. I mean, Beane insulted everyone, but he said something about Sharp, like, was he still drinking. And Sharp, I remember, asked Beane if he was still a stuffed shirt.”

“Did you recognize the weapon?”

I hesitated. “It’s from a set of ear buds. But I couldn’t say whose.”

She wrote in her notebook, flipped it shut, and told me I could get back onto the bus.

“Excuse me, but do you know how much longer we’ll be here? I can call another bus to take the passengers on to DC if it will be a long time.”

She cocked her head and considered. “Ask me in an hour. Can you do that?”

I didn’t want to, but an hour wasn’t too much of a delay. Hell, we sometimes were delayed an hour because of traffic.

When Stoney Sharp’s turn came, they kept him out of the bus for a long time. The sun had set some time ago and a chill wind picked up. It puffed in through the door every time I opened it to let someone off or on.

Finally, everyone had been interrogated. The one who seemed to be in charge, a big bull of a guy in a gray suit, knocked on the door and I admitted him. He stood at the front, silent, eyeballing the passengers with a steely gaze. “Mr. Sharp?” His voice was soft, but gruff.

Stoney Sharp jumped up. The homicide cop motioned him to the front with a jerk of his head.

“Look, that high school stuff was a long time ago,” Stoney said, standing beside his seat.

Mr. Cop dangled a pair of handcuffs. “Come forward, Sharp.”

“No, I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, long ago. Lawton made sure I took some of the drugs he was dealing the day the football scout came to our high school game. I missed out of the scholarship. I blamed him for years, but I didn’t kill him.”

“Get over here.” Mr. Cop’s voice was getting louder.

“Can I say something?” I asked. “Outside?”

He squinted at me, but followed me off the bus for a one on one.

“What was that around Beane’s neck?”

“A cord.”

“But was it a headphone cord? Were there earbuds on the end of it?”

He didn’t answer.

“One of my passengers might be missing a set of earbuds.” Much as I hated to, I had to mention it. Joe Cool hadn’t used his since the stop.

They pulled the kid, Kelly Booke, off the bus. I watched through the window as Kelly gestured and protested as hard as he could. At the end of the discussion, the policewoman slapped the handcuffs on him.

I opened the door and stepped down. “What was that about?” I asked the homicide detective.

“Booke says he recognized Beane pretty soon after the ride started. Beane shot his dog when he was a little boy. He’s never forgotten. He said that Beane had only gotten meaner and nastier over the years. He’s been looking for him for a long time. When his chance came, he took it.”

“When did he do it?”

“Beane went to the john and didn’t lock the door. Booke followed him in and surprised him. Strangled him from behind. Didn’t think anyone saw or heard. They were all absorbed in themselves, he said. He made a full confession. Don’t tell anyone I told you this.” He gave me his hard look. “I’ll deny it. But it’s your bus. You should know. And you’d better call a backup. Crime Scene is going to have to go over this vehicle.”

I was surprised two people fit in the bathroom. Joe Cool, Kelly Booke, must have been determined. The voices of the little girls floated down from the top of the bus, singing, “The wheels on the bus go round and round.” So did the wheels of justice, I reflected. They crushed both Lawton Beane and Kelly Booke, poor bastard.