Supernatural 10 - Rite of Passage (18 page)

Sam set his sandwich down and lowered his hands under the table.

“Tell you what, Bunky,” Lucifer said, “pop a cap in Deano here, and I’ll finish the roast beef. Deal?”

With his thumbnail, Sam pressed the scar until pain flared.

“Sam,” Dean asked, “something wrong with your boring-on-a-bun special?”

When Sam didn’t reply right away, Dean put down his sandwich and leaned forward. “Sammy! You in there?” He waved a gravy-smeared palm in front of his brother’s face.

After pressing his eyes closed, Sam shook his head. Lucifer was gone.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Dean,” he said. Then to cover, he added, “I was just wondering how the bowler guy triggered the bus driver’s heart attack. They had no contact on the bus, then the heart attack happens blocks away from where our guy gets off.”

“Contact’s unnecessary,” Dean said. “The guy just needs to be in the general vicinity.”

“So how does he pick his victims?” Sam said. “Hell, why pick Laurel Hill?”

Dean took another generous bite out of his sandwich and mulled over the questions as he chewed. Then he patted his hands dry again and stood. “I’m getting a beer. You want one?”

Sam nodded. His two questions represented the roadblocks to completing the job. Unless they could determine where the guy in the bowler would strike next, they had to depend on serendipity to find him. Laurel Hill was not a small town and he could be anywhere.

“The worst part is, we may need to wait for another big attack, like the pedestrian overpass, to have a shot at him.”

Dean placed an open beer bottle in front of Sam before returning to his own seat.

“Random attacks in a random town,” he said, shaking his head at the futility of it. “And we don’t know what he is, how he operates, or how to gank him.”

“We haven’t ruled out bullets.” Sam took a swig of beer.

“We were close,” Dean said, referring to the overpass
collapse.

His cell phone rang. “Bobby,” he said after a glance at the display.

“Hey,” he said into the phone.

“Roy’s cabin.”

Dean listened for a moment then said to Sam, “Turn on the news. Channel ten.”

Sam powered on the television set and changed channels. A blonde anchorwoman spoke, a reproduction of the grainy traffic camera photo of the bowler guy in a graphic over her shoulder. Sam raised the volume.

“… wanted for questioning by the police concerning the recent spate of severe accidents. If you see this man, do not approach him. Contact police immediately. He is considered extremely dangerous.

“In other news, an explosion rocked the Cedarbrook truck station when this Haddonfield man”—a photo of a middle-aged man wearing a Phillies cap appeared over her shoulder—“Alex Bryant, drove away from a fuel pump while the hose was still pumping gasoline into his fuel tank.” Footage of the fire, as seen by a news helicopter, replaced the anchor’s face on the screen for the rest of the story. “Five people were killed in the explosion, including Bryant. Two others suffered third-degree burns.”

The anchor looked up from her monitor and back into the camera lens with a sympathetic shake of her head. “Another fatal accident today involved twenty-eight-year-old Corey Tourand, who fell ten stories when his window-washing platform collapsed outside the Laurel Hill Towers
corporate office building. A spokesman for Tourand Clean cited the company’s impeccable safety record and promised a full investigation to determine the cause of this tragic accident. Martin Tourand, father of the victim and owner of the twenty-year-old company, was unavailable for comment.”

The camera switched to her perfectly coiffed male coanchor, who stared earnestly into the lens. “On the medical front, the staff of the Laurel Heights Medical Center have their hands full. Over three dozen adults have been admitted with a deadly strain of the influenza virus—with five deaths reported already. In addition, at least eighteen children with life-threatening MRSA infections have been admitted to the hospital. Authorities are tracking the source of the outbreaks. Meanwhile, additional patients have been shuttled to nearby Evesford General.

“Coming up later in the broadcast, our very own Dr. Charlotte Kinzie has some important tips you won’t want to miss on how to protect you and your family from these…”

Sam turned the volume low and rejoined Dean at the table.

Dean, who had been listening to Bobby during the news reports, finally disconnected the call. “Bobby’s headed to the hospital with McClary. He’ll stop back later.”

Sam jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the TV “No mention of the missing plumber or the van?”

“McClary’s worried civilians might approach the van,” Dean explained, “get themselves killed. And he doesn’t want to tip off bowler guy that we know about the carjacking. But every cop in town is on the lookout.”

“If somebody spots bowler man,” Sam said, “maybe we can get the jump on him.”

“It certainly improves our odds,” Dean said. “Bobby talked to the plumber’s bookkeeper. She says he’s dependable. Not the type to blow off work with no explanation.”

“Anything else?”

“He talked to a lady walking her dog who witnessed the pile-up,” Dean said. “She saw our guy. Said he seemed fearless at the accident scene. No ducking for cover, no jumping out of harm’s way.”

“So, not worried about personal safety.”

“Maybe. She did say he looked sick.” Dean picked up his sandwich again. Sam noticed he had gathered some loose strands of roast beef into a little pile on a napkin and had a good idea why, but kept silent. “Or in pain. He was massaging his temples.”

“There’d be lots of moving pieces in a pile-up,” Sam said. “Maybe he was straining? Or maybe that’s how he flexes his bad-mojo muscle?”

He had heard the pulse-pounding bass of Club Elektric from the street outside and the urgent rhythm called to him. The name of the nightclub flashed in red and purple neon script above the open door. Red was his favorite color. People in their twenties and thirties flowed freely in and out of the club, which offered no pretense at exclusivity in the form of a forbidding bouncer.

Inside, Tora found a woman in a slinky black dress at a reception counter collecting an admission fee in the form
of a two-drink minimum. She handed him two coupons redeemable for drinks inside. Briefly, her warm hand brushed against his and he considered cutting his night short and taking her, but he had time. After his recent success, he was in the mood to celebrate before commencing the second part of his plan.

He sat on a padded stool at the corner of the bar, redeeming his first coupon for a mojito, and took several sips, nodding his approval. Then he spun the stool around to face the growing crowd. Colorful neon tubes snaked around the walls of the multi-tiered nightclub, which included several lounge areas with black banquettes, mirrored columns, and three large black parquet dance floors. Chrome and glass predominated, reflecting the neon tubing in dizzying fashion wherever he looked. Cocktail waitresses in short, iridescent blue dresses circulated through the lounges, balancing drinks on clear trays. The throbbing music called to mind ancient tribal rhythms and he imagined the frenetic dancers as primitive supplicants praying to their gods for rain or a bountiful harvest. Or fertility.

As he watched, the distillation of the dancing and mingling as a courtship rite became obvious to him. No longer hunters and gatherers, these humans were driven by their mating instinct to one degree or another, whether the intent was purely recreational or a step toward a longterm commitment or something between those extremes. Some small groups of men and women discussed business, ostensibly networking to enhance their financial status, but in a place where the music’s volume overwhelmed and
discouraged prolonged discourse, the mind’s focus shifted to visual information and the not so subtle cues of gyrating body language.

He found himself at ease in a place that welcomed frank observation, his mind set to a similar purpose, to find a suitable candidate for a unique bonding ritual. Unfortunately, he had ignored his own imperative for too long, and this particular female selection carried more meaning than any before. He needed to proceed with caution and choose carefully.

His gaze traveled methodically across the nightclub, shifting from small groups of conversing women to candidates on each of the dance floors. Eventually, his attention settled on one dancing shape, a seductive young blonde woman wearing a revealing, red sequined dress that fell to mid-thigh. The snug material glimmered in the reflected light, appearing almost liquid, as if the woman’s body was drenched in fresh-spilled blood, and she awaited him on a sacrificial altar.

He found her mesmerizing.

For a few carefree moments, Ryan forgot about his directionless future and enjoyed the present. But the feeling of buoyancy couldn’t last. By the time he joined Sumiko in her bedroom, his forehead was throbbing in pain. He thought that by getting out of his lonely house and away from the damning grades and ponderous textbooks, he could relieve the pressure weighing on him, but his mind circled back in desperation.

Sumiko led him to the chair next to her computer desk and instructed him to sit. Aside from the folders and piles of paper stacked on her desk, her bedroom was neat, no clothing slung over chairs, doorknobs or bedposts, and no trash on the floor. She had decorated her walls with a bunch of movie posters, including
Tron, War Games, The Matrix, Source Code,
and
Inception.
Several framed watercolors of flowers interrupted the movie theme, but Ryan knew Sumiko’s mother had hung those years ago.

“Have you got any aspirin?” Ryan asked before she could call up her blog. He didn’t want to face it without a pain reliever in his system. Though he tried to muster enthusiasm for the Lion Truth blog, he would never be as excited about it as she was. He had hoped it would be a passing fad with her, but the hobby had morphed into an obsession. “I can’t shake this headache I’ve had since the bomb threat evacuation.”

“Sure,” Sumiko said. “I’ll be right back.”

With her gone, he sagged in the chair, bowing his head and cupping his temples in both palms. The skin across his scalp was pulled tight, as if from a nasty sunburn. His pulse throbbed insistently and the pressure seemed to swell behind his eyes. An insane idea crossed his mind, that if he cut his flesh and let some of his blood escape, he could relieve the pressure.

“You’re in luck, big guy,” she called from down the hall. “We’re down to our last two Excedrin.”

“Great, thanks,” he called, pushing himself against the chair back.

A moment later, she entered the bedroom with two
aspirin in one hand and a paper cup of water in the other. He swallowed the aspirin and finished the water, crumpling the cup and tossing it toward her trashcan. Of course, he missed.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said.

She pushed his knees apart and came close, placing her hands on his shoulders. With him sitting and her standing, their heights were almost equal. “Are both your feet on the floor, Bramble?”

“Yes.”

“Are both my feet on the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “Then I can do this.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. This time, she lingered and their mouths opened and the taste of strawberry lip gloss gave way to the sensation of her tongue darting across his lips.

Ryan’s hands encircled her waist and began to drift down, seemingly of their own accord.

She pulled her head back and frowned. “I forgot what I was doing.”

“I’ll remind you,” Ryan said, a little breathlessly.

“The blog,” she said. “I wanted to show you what I’ve done.”

“Of course,” Ryan said, “the blog.”

“Oh, don’t be grumbly,” she chided. “My mom’s fifteen feet away!”

“I thought we were good with all four feet planted.”

“I guess I’m not as daring as I thought.”

She slipped from his grasp and sat in her chair, spun
to her computer screen and brought up her blog. “So, I’ve expanded the blog,” she explained. “Before it was all about school stuff, which is fine, short term. But we’ll be gone soon and that will be irrelevant.”

As will I,
Ryan thought darkly.

“The bomb threat got me thinking,” Sumiko continued, ramping up to full blog engagement, “with all the bizarre accidents happening around town, I thought maybe there’s a pattern.”

“A pattern? To accidents?”

“Granted, the sample size is small,” Sumiko said, “but this is not a normal distribution pattern: too many accidents, too many fatalities. I think some kind of force is at work here. Maybe it’s man-made, or a government experiment, or a terrorist cell.”

The pain in Ryan’s head was driving him to distraction, and Sumiko’s voice was a harsh counterpoint to the throbbing in his skull. He felt his hands trembling, and clutched them together to stop the involuntary movement.

“Terrorists? Don’t you think that’s a stretch?” Ryan reasoned. “The bomb threat was a fake.”

“Right,” Sumiko conceded. “Jesse Trumball called it in.”

“You know that for sure now?” Ryan’s right eye had begun to twitch. He pressed his fingers against it. His forehead felt clammy to the touch. Stress compromised the immune system. That made sense.

“It’s the only explanation for why he was there,” Sumiko said. “Big bozo.”

“What?”

“Jesse. A bozo.”

“Oh.” For a fleeting moment, Ryan had thought she was insulting him and his fists had clenched.
I was about to hit her,
he realized.
What the hell is wrong with me?

“So it was a hoax. How do you get terrorists in Laurel Hill out of that?”

“Terrorists are one option,” Sumiko said. “They’re not the only option. Remember the big pile-up on Wednesday?”

Ryan nodded. “You mentioned it before. So?”

“Well, you know Teresa Pezzino? Her brother is a junior patrol officer. Get this—he told her that none of the vehicle airbags deployed during the pile-up. Not one. You don’t think that’s bizarre?”

“It’s … it’s unusual, yes. But …”

A sharp pain knifed across Ryan’s forehead. He staggered to his feet, knocking the chair over. It fell to the floor with a muffled thump. Ryan stood with his legs spread, hands clutching his forehead.