Bone Key

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  "Captain?"

  "Have you and your sibling conferred?" he asked snidely.

  "Look—can you haunt one of the other bungalows? I mean, Sammy and I—we'd like our privacy, y'know?"

  "I might be willing to accede to your request, young man, assuming you can explain to me why you have responded to me so differently from everyone else."

  "Couple reasons," Dean said. "One, my brother Sam and I, we're hunters. We fight demons and vampires and the like."

  "This is a common practice in this century, is it?"

  "Uh, no, actually—we're kind of under the radar."

  "Under the what?"

  Recalling that radar wasn't developed until the twentieth century, Dean amended his statement.

  "We're a secret society."

  Naylor rolled his eyes. "Like the thrice-damned Freemasons, I suppose."

  "Uh, sort of." Dean figured that was as good an analogy as any, though he would've killed for the Freemasons' resources.

  "You said a 'couple' of reasons. What is the other?"

  "Normally, spirits like you aren't able to contact living people so—so precisely. I've been doing this most of my life, and I usually can't have a conversation with a spirit like this. Which means there's someone or something on this island that's messing around with the dead."

  "And you intend to take arms against this someone or something?"

  "That's the plan, yeah."

  Again, Naylor folded his arms. "And what becomes of me should you be successful?"

  Dean let out a breath. "You go back to what you were before. Or—" He hesitated. "Or we salt and burn your remains, and you move on to whatever afterlife you're supposed to go to."

  "Then I will enter into this agreement with you, young man."

  Fed up with feeling like he was in the principal's office, he said, "My name's Dean. Dean Winchester. Not 'young man.' "

  For the first time, Naylor smiled. "Very well, Mr. Winchester—the terms of the agreement are thus: I will not disturb your privacy for the duration of your stay in my house. In return, I request that, should you and your brother be successful in your endeavors, that you retrieve my remains from under the walnut tree in the garden, salt and burn them as you say, and free my soul from this wretched place."

  Unable to help himself, Dean said cheekily, "I thought this was the most important place in your life."

  "It was. But my life is over, and this is no longer my home. It is past time I moved on, don't you think, Mr. Winchester?"

  Since that plan had been in the back of Dean's mind in any case—leaving aside any other considerations, the spirit would be bad for Nicki and Bodge's business—it was easy enough for him to say, "Sure, no problem."

  "Normally at this juncture, I would spit on my hand and offer it to you."

  "Let's not and say we did," Dean said, as Sam slid the door open with one hand while placing his phone back in his pocket with the other. "What'd Bobby say?"

  Sam cut his eyes toward Naylor, but Dean waved him off. "He's cool."

  After giving Dean a we'll-talk-about-this-later look, Sam said, "Bobby hasn't heard of anything like this, either, but he said he'd dig through his library and see what turns up."

  Dean liked it better when Bobby knew everything off the top of his head, which meant Dean could cut right to the part where they kicked ass. Sam continued: "He also said that this is the first time Yaphet's been right about anything since he said the Beatles would break up."

  That got a laugh from Dean. "C'mon, let's check across the street, then track down Yaphet."

  "Best of luck, gentlemen," Naylor said. "May God be with you—for all our sakes."

  Then the spirit disappeared. No fading, no movement—one second he was there, the next he wasn't.

  Dean looked at Sam and grinned. "Spooky."

  To his credit, Sam didn't dignify that awful joke with a reply. "Why's he wishing us luck?"

  As they left, Dean explained his conversation with the captain. He finished with: "It's weird."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, we salt and burn these people 'cause they're causing a fuss. Never really thought about it from the spirit's side. Remember that job in New York we did about a year or so back?"

  Sam smiled as they went into the main house through the back door. "I remember you geeking out over the guy's vinyl collection."

  Ignoring the dig—although Manfred Afiri did have an amazing record collection that Dean seriously envied—he said, "We didn't salt and burn the bones because we needed the body to prove that she'd been killed."

  "I remember, yeah. You think we should've?"

  After giving a quick wave to Bodge, sitting at the front desk, they went out the front door. "I dunno. I mean, Manfred has both our numbers, and he woulda called if the spirit acted up again, but—"

  He shook his head as he swung the wrought-iron gate open with a low squeak. "Did we do her spirit any favors by not letting her move on?"

  Sam peered down at his brother. "Since when are you the whiny emo bitch of this partnership?"

  Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Kiss my ass, Sammy, you know what I mean."

  "I do, I'm just stunned to hear you say it."

  "What, I can't be philosophical once in a while?"

  Sam smiled. "As long as it's only once in a while, I guess."

  "Gee thanks."

  They crossed Eaton and approached the house with the turret.

  Unfortunately, the door was locked, crime-scene tape flapped in one of the bushes in front of the house, and the sign in the window read CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  "Guess a double homicide really is bad for business," Sam muttered.

  "Yeah. I'd rather wait until there's a few fewer folks on the street before we try going at it with our mad lockpicking skillz."

  Sam gave Dean a withering look. "Right. So what, we talk to this Yaphet guy?"

  "May as well." Dean chuckled. "Remember how Manfred was a trip back to the sixties?"

  "Yeah."

  "Yaphet's worse."

  Shuddering, Sam said, "Okay, now I'm scared."

  At that, Dean just grinned as he led Sam toward Duval Street.

  Ah, this is the life, Dean thought as he felt the cool breeze blow through his short hair, the very un-January-like warmth, and the sounds of music blaring from all around. Just by moving the half block to Duval Street, it was like they entered a whole different place. Eaton Street was quiet and mostly residential. Duval was commercial, with stores, restaurants, and bars—and people. Both the sidewalks and the streets were filled with pedestrians, some traveling in drunken groups. Cars inched down the road, making appallingly slow progress. Dean could hear half a dozen bass lines vying for his attention, not to mention the occasional wail of someone crooning along to a karaoke machine.

  "God, I missed this place," Dean said, looking over at Sam.

  "Why am I not surprised?" Sam said with mild distaste.

  Dean shook his head. "College was wasted on you, dude."

  They walked across Duval and at the corner of Caroline Street came upon the Bull—which was the downstairs part. Upstairs was the Whistle, which had a pool table and a jukebox and people out on the balcony. The Bull was downstairs and had a small stage where music acts played. Like most of the places on Duval, the Bull was open-air, with huge windows open on both the Duval side and the Caroline side. Through those windows, Dean could see two guys with acoustic guitars playing, and the tables full of people sipping drinks. As they got closer, he could make out the strains of The Who's "Pinball Wizard" from the two guys on the stage.

  >Much as he wanted to go in and listen to them for a while, they had business, especially since, as promised, their quarry was sitting on the Caroline Street sidewalk. Dean had been hoping he wouldn't be there, so they'd have an excuse to walk farther down Duval to the Hog's Breath, passing even more bars on the way. But it was not to be.

  Yaphet the Poet looked exactly the same as he did four years ea
rlier: long gray hair that started with a sharp widow's peak at his forehead and hung loosely around his shoulders at the other end; a thick gray beard that went down to his chest; round glasses with no lenses that he still wore even though they did nothing to correct his vision; rheumy brown eyes; a tie-dyed shirt that had several holes and looked like it hadn't been laundered since the last time Dean saw him; cutoff denim shorts that covered bony, hairy legs; and bare feet that were covered in calluses and sores.

  He was seated on the sidewalk, back up against the wall of the Bull. Next to him, also leaning against the wall, was a large piece of battered corkboard. Brightly colored pushpins kept several sheets of paper attached to it, each of which contained a poem written in flowery-yet-legible handwriting, as well as a sign on top that said YAPHET'S POEMS, $1 EACH. In front of the corkboard was a small bowl with flowers painted on it, and several dollar bills and coins inside it.

  At the brothers' approach, Yaphet's head tilted up. "Dean! Wow, man, it really is you!"

  "Toldja we'd be down, Yaphet. This is my brother, Sam."

  "Totally groovy to meet you, Sam."

  "Uh, likewise."

  Dean chuckled. "So, we've already seen our first ghost."

  "Wow, and you, like, just got here, man. That's cool. Who was it?"

  Quickly, Dean filled Yaphet in on their encounter with Captain Naylor.

  "Far out, man. Lookie, there's more than just those three people who croaked. We got us a celebrity spook, too. Papa's at the Hemingway pad."

  Sam's eyes went wide. "Ernest Hemingway?"

  "Right on, brother. Papa, he went and scared off all the kitty-cats, and some'a the turistas, too. Nobody croaked yet, but a whole lotta bruisin'."

  Dean looked at Sam. "We'll have to check it out."

  "Easy enough," Yaphet said. "Papa's pad is still open for business."

  "You're kidding," Sam said. "Even after people were injured?"

  Yaphet shrugged. "Don't look at me, man, I just live here."

  Sam said, "We should go there right now, then, before somebody else gets hurt."

  "Yeah." Dean looked back at Yaphet. "What about the girl whose throat was cut?"

  "I saw her, actually. She didn't buy no poems or nothin', but least she was polite about it. Went into the Hog's Breath. Didn't see her leave, though—prolly went out the back, since they found her on Front. Sulfur in the wound, too, so you know what that's all about. Ain't heard nothin' beyond that, except the spooks went into overdrive after she kicked the bucket."

  Sam blew out a breath through his teeth. "That fits. Like you said, Dean, major mojo, and if a human sacrifice was involved, that'd make the spell powerful enough to do what this one's done."

  "Waitasec," Dean said, remembering something, "I thought you said the spooks kicked it up a notch six months ago."

  "They did, man—it was just normal hauntin', though, like usual, just lots and lots more of it. After that girl got dead, it went up another notch. Totally uncool, man."

  "So they're escalating," Sam said. "Hate to think what stage three is."

  Dean nodded. "C'mon, let's lock and load, then pay a visit to a dead writer." Reaching into his pocket, Dean pulled out a ten-dollar bill and dropped it into the bowl.

  "Hey, thanks, man! That means you get yourself ten poems!"

  "I'll pass, thanks," Dean said.

  Sam, though, peered down at the corkboard.

  "I'll take one, if that's okay."

  Dean rolled his eyes. "You are such a geek."

  Yaphet, though, said, "Absitively, man. Pick any one you want."

  After glancing up and down the board, Sam looked down at Yaphet. "Which one do you recommend?"

  Leaning to his left, Yaphet pulled out a red pushpin and removed the poem that was on the top left.

  "This one's called 'Ode to Bong Water.' I think it truly speaks to the hearts and minds of everyone, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Dean had to hold in a guffaw at the look of distaste on Sam's face. "Uh, no, that doesn't sound like it's for me." He looked at the corkboard again and pointed at the one in the center. "How about this one?"

  "That's my latest—'Sonnet for a Sunset.' Play on words, man, you dig?"

  Smiling, Sam took that one off the corkboard and gave Yaphet a dollar.

  "Hey, man, you don't gotta do that. Your brother covered you."

  "It's okay—an artist deserves to be paid for his work."

  Rubbing his forehead with a combination of amusement and pity, Dean said, "Catch you later, Yaphet. We're at the Naylor House, so if you hear anything, let Nicki or Bodge know."

  "Groovy, man. Keep on truckin', you hear?"

  Grinning, Sam said, "Absitively."

  SEVEN

  Jorge smiled at the look of glee on his brother Reynaldo's face as they approached the Little White House.

  Reynaldo had always hated the tropics. He joked that he had to have his tolerance for humidity removed when he moved from Puerto Rico to New York. As a result, it was damn near impossible for Jorge to get Reynaldo to visit him and his boyfriend Silas on Key West. They'd gone up to New York several times for Christmas—Silas, a native Floridian, had never seen snow in his life until their first visit—but Jorge kept making excuses for not coming down.

  That changed when Reynaldo's son, Pablo—who, everyone agreed, was the only good thing to come out of his marriage—started learning about the presidents of the United States in school. With the obsessiveness that only an eight-year-old could have, Pablo became the world's biggest president geek, wanting to know everything about all of them—how they were elected, what they did while in office, and so on. Reynaldo had had to read a ton of material in order to keep up with Pablo's questions.

  But while Pablo's obsession burned out fairly quickly as he moved on to other things, Reynaldo kept up with the reading, and became an even bigger geek than his offspring.

  That, in turn, finally got him to visit Key West. Reynaldo had said he'd tolerate the tropical heat and humidity only if Jorge and Silas promised to take him to the Little White House. He waited until after the New Year because he got a cheaper flight (Reynaldo had child-support payments and a low-paying civil-service job; he had to cut corners where he could).

  So now they were standing at the entrance on Front Street, and Reynaldo looked like the Rapture had come and Jesus just told him his room in heaven was all reserved.

  They paid their admission and joined the rest of the tour group—which was pretty small, all things considered. Just the three of them, plus a woman and a little boy with her coloring, so probably a mother and child. Their guide was a perky young blonde named Laurie, who gave the history of the building in a high-pitched, squeaky drawl.

  "Originally the Little White House was built for the U.S. Navy. The naval base here was a very important part of the United States' defense against sea attack from our enemies. What is now the Little White House was quarters for important people who served the base. By the turn of the century, it was converted into a single-family dwelling for the base commandant. "

  The woman raised the hand that wasn't holding that of her son and spoke in a small voice, thick with an accent that sounded Russian. "Excuse me—did not Thomas Edison live here?"

  "Yes, he did!" Laurie practically squealed, as if the woman was a first grader who'd gotten a tough question right. "During the First World War, Thomas Edison—the father of modern electricity—lived here while helping the U.S. Navy in their effort against the evil Axis powers."

  Jorge rolled his eyes at Silas. Reynaldo, though, had to say something, as usual. "Uh, excuse me, ma'am, but we fought the Axis powers in World War Two."

  Laurie just stared at Reynaldo for a second, then moved on. "President Harry S Truman first visited here in 1946, looking for a place for rest and relaxation. For President Truman, the buck didn't stop at Camp David." Laurie smiled at her half witticism, which was more than Jorge was able to manage.

  Reynaldo, though, had to comment again.
"It wasn't called Camp David back then, it was called Shangri-La. That's what FDR named it. Eisenhower renamed it Camp David after his grandson."

  Silas whispered in his ear, "Your brother came down just to get pissed off?"

  Jorge just shrugged. Silas grabbed his hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

  Laurie, having decided just to ignore Reynaldo, led them through various rooms, giving the history of the place. Truman apparently signed some bills and worked on State of the Union addresses here, among other things. "In addition, after President Truman left office, other presidents used this site, from President Eisenhower, who came here to recover from a heart attack, to President Kennedy, who came here after the Cuban Missile Crisis, to President Carter, who held a family reunion here. It's still available for any president to use, and in fact Secretary of State Colin Powell held peace talks here between the presidents of Armenia and Uzbekistan."

  Reynaldo winced. "That was Azerbaijan," he said in a tight voice.

  Again, Laurie stared, then led them through another room. This was a huge space with plenty of chairs, a large window that overlooked the sea, and a big table in the center. As she walked in backward, Laurie was droning on. "President Truman loved to play poker, and he had a table in this room that he used for games. But he had to be careful, because of course the president couldn't be seen to be gambling, so there was a cover for the table for when reporters came by."

  Jorge, though, wasn't really listening to what Laurie was saying, and only partly because she was vapid and annoying. Instead, he was staring at the poker table and felt his jaw drop open.

  Laurie actually noticed this, and her pert face scrunched into a frown. "What are you all staring at?"

  The young boy answered. "There's a man there!"

  Turning around, Laurie saw what Jorge saw: an old white man with short gray hair, large round glasses, and a bright smile. He was wearing a straw hat, a white button-down shirt, and white pants, and he was shuffling a deck of cards. Reynaldo's Rapture look came back. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, that's Harry Truman!"

  "It—it can't be!" Laurie looked as if her brain had short-circuited, a feeling Jorge could sympathize with. "Isn't he, like, dead?"