He’d asked for assistance and the universe, in its mercy, had provided.
Something else his mother had often said, God helps those who help themselves.
He crouched beside the unconscious man—Bob was still breathing—and reached into the chest pocket of his suit jacket, removing a black leather billfold. Ignoring the credit cards—he had no inclination toward identity theft; he merely wanted a handout—Albert plucked out a twenty. “What’s that you say, Bob? ‘Have another.’ Don’t mind if I do.” Albert took a second twenty, nodding. “Really? All mine? That’s very generous of you, Bob.” Albert took the rest of the cash, nearly two hundred dollars, mostly tens and twenties, and returned the wallet.
Next, he sidled over to the woman—never caught her name—and probed under her jawline with trembling fingers, searching for a pulse. “You’ll be fine… Mrs. Bob. Just a scratch. Your doc can patch that right up. Eh—what’s that? You’d like to donate? Again, very generous. Appreciate it.” He searched the designer purse but, aside from credit cards and loose change, only turned up thirty-two dollars. He took the folding money and stuffed it into the pocket with Bob’s more substantial contribution.
“Good day—night—to you both,” Albert said, nodding with a smile.
He walked past the town car, pleased with how the slow night had turned around for him, taking the shifting ground, literally, in stride. When something darted toward his eyes, he squinted and waved it away, peering further along the sidewalk where he spotted another man, sprawled on the ground as if he’d decided to take a nap on the spur of the moment. The universe continued to smile on him.
A good night indeed.
* * *
After a week of vacation spent camping, boating and hiking in the Mark Twain National Forest, Tom Gruber headed home, exhausted but refreshed at the same time. Endless days of small-town law enforcement tended to narrow one’s focus to claustrophobic tightness. He’d welcomed the fresh air and plentiful opportunities for physical exertion in the wide-open spaces of the national forest. No computer screens, mind-numbing forms or repetitive citations to consume his time. Instead, he’d spent a fleeting but marvelous week under the big sky, reestablishing his essential connection to nature while the other drones he’d left behind handled the tedious procession of minutiae.
Though disappointed the week of freedom had passed in a relative blur, he looked forward to familiar surroundings and his own bed. Something to be said for the comforts of home. As he guided his black jeep down the interstate off-ramp at the Moyer exit, he could almost feel himself slipping into auto-pilot mode. Familiar streets and surroundings, roads driven so many times that the individual trips slot into a master memory of the route. Nearing the town limits, he wondered if it was possible to see Moyer with fresh eyes.
This close to midnight, he thought, maybe not.
But really, it was a combination of things and exhaustion only played a part. Mostly, he decided he really had adopted a vacation frame of mind and doffed his police officer’s hat, so to speak. Officially “off-duty” in mind, body and spirit. And yet, he knew the state of constant wariness swam right below the surface.
His jeep’s tires hissed along the blacktop as he passed the “Welcome to Moyer, Missouri” sign, a lulling white noise that could easily tug him from auto-pilot driving to light sleep. He’d encountered more than one motorist who had nodded off behind the wheel. Some had drifted up or down an embankment until their vehicle stopped, harmlessly, but others hadn’t been so fortunate. A few had caused multivehicle crashes, slammed into barriers or crashed into homes. Sifting through those memories gave him an espresso jolt, made him sit straighter in his seat, widen his eyes.
As he drove past The Finer Diner, he thought of stopping for a cup of coffee, but mentally vetoed the idea and kept driving along Central Avenue, wondering how long it would take before Officer Gruber rose through his mind fog and asserted himself. Turns out the thought itself was enough to wake the sleeping cop within.
Even though the business district conducted limited business at 12:09 AM, he decided he’d drive through to “check in” on his town. His home was on the other side, so the only time-cost involved sitting through any red traffic lights he could have avoided by taking the roundabout path home. He found himself checking side streets even as he peered ahead to the first string of storefronts.
He thought he might notice furtive movement in a doorway or someone lurking in an alley, or possibly a brief glimpse of a flashlight beam through a dark storefront window. Something subtle to trigger a law enforcement intervention, but he stared agape at what he saw on the road ahead as he came around a bend.
An SUV rumbled in a ditch on the side of the road, headlights piercing the darkness, several toppled mailboxes in its wake. Further ahead, a three-car pileup, a jumble of headlights and taillights glaring in every direction. At least two pedestrians lay unconscious or dead on a nearby sidewalk. In the distance, he saw a house fire and two car fires. After veering to the curb, he slammed the gearshift into park, grabbed a first-aid kit from under his seat and a flashlight from the glove compartment and jumped out of the jeep. He could hear the repetitive whoop of dueling car alarms but no emergency vehicle sirens.
“What the hell—?” he wondered aloud.
Whatever had happened, it was more than he could handle alone.
He tucked the first-aid kit under his arm and hurried toward the nearest fallen pedestrian, reaching for his cell phone to dial 911. As he started to kneel beside the man, and noticed his bleeding forehead in the harsh light of the flashlight beam, the man’s eyes flickered open and he sat up, woozy.
Squinting into the light, palm pressed to the flesh wound, the man asked, “What—What happened?”
Gruber exhaled forcefully, taking in another sweeping gaze of the mayhem in Moyer. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
TWO
When Dean Winchester tugged on the hose, he bumped the bucket of soapy water with his boot and cursed under his breath. Once he had enough slack, he dropped it, then carried the foamy sloshing bucket along with a rinse bucket across the concrete floor of the bunker’s garage to the right rear quarter panel of the Impala. He dipped the microfiber mitt in the soapy water and sloshed it across the panel, determined to remove every bit of road grime. Sure, he could have taken the classic car through a gas station car wash, but those contraptions were hit and miss. Baby deserved better.
Down on one knee, he rubbed vigorously, attempting to erase the abuse of endless miles. Most of the caked-on mud ended up near the tire wells so those areas always needed a little extra elbow grease. Dean dunked the mitt in the rinse bucket to shake off some of the dirt, before plunging it in the wash bucket again to apply a fresh arc of soapy water to the car.
After he was convinced he’d left not a single square inch unwashed, he dropped the mitt in the rinse bucket and picked up the hose. He adjusted the spray nozzle to a thin, powerful stream and cleared the suds and any lingering dirt.
With the car wet and gleaming in the shine of the overhead lights, Dean released the handle of the spray nozzle and flung the hose aside. Then he carried both buckets out of the way. Over one of the half-walls that separated the motorcycle stalls, he’d tossed two fluffy towels and a chamois for detail work. He’d purchased some premium car wax but wanted to make sure Baby was as clean as possible before applying the wax finish.
“Give you that showroom shine.”
He’d been talking to the car the whole time. Not surprising since Sam and he weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye lately. At least where the British Men of Letters were concerned.
Dean grabbed a towel and began a circuit around the car, wiping off the excess water, taking extra care with the headlights and taillights. He had window cleaner for the windshield. He’d save that for last.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam rounding the catwalk to come down the stairs. Dean heard his sigh.
“Dean,” Sam said. “What are yo
u doing this early?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Looks like you’re washing the car.”
“No,” Dean said. “I’m drying the car. Finished washing it.”
“Dude,” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s the third time this week.”
“You’re counting?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”
“Baby gets dirty out there.”
“She hasn’t been outside the garage since the last time you washed her.”
“Look around, Sam,” Dean said, waving his arm for emphasis. “All this dust dulls the finish.”
Sam sighed again, crossed his arms and leaned against a support column. “So, that’s it? You’re gonna wash the car every day now?”
“Not every day,” Dean said. Then, hedging, “Unless she needs it.”
“Or,” Sam said, “you could talk about what’s really bothering you.”
Dean switched from the plush towel to the chamois. He shook his head, emitted a dry chuckle and said, “What’s bothering me? You want the full list or the highlight reel?”
“Your choice.”
Dean paused, hand pressing the chamois to the roof of the Impala. “What happened to us, Sam?”
Unsure how to answer the question, Sam’s eyebrows rose, creasing his forehead. Then he shook his head. “Dean, what hasn’t happened to us?”
“We’re hunters, Sam,” Dean said. “We hunt. Plain and simple.”
“Not always simple.”
“Fair enough,” Dean said. “But straightforward. We hunt monsters. Track them down. And kill them. At least, we used to. Until the British Men of Letters decided to cross the Atlantic.”
“We still hunt.”
“We take assignments,” Dean said, frowning. “File reports. We’re…middle management. Unappreciated middle men. Worse—we’re lackeys. Completely expendable.”
“We’ve always been on the front lines,” Sam said. “That hasn’t changed. But they can…”
“What?”
“See the big picture,” Sam said, pushing himself away from the support column. “You’re right. We hunt and hunt and hunt some more. Like a broken record. Always has been. But I feel like we can finally make a difference.”
“We’ve made a difference,” Dean said. “More times than I can count. We stopped a frigging apocalypse, Sam.”
“I never said we didn’t matter, that we don’t matter,” Sam said. “But this feels more like progress. That we could put an end to this if we work together.”
“Never gonna happen.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sam said.
And Dean knew Sam needed that hope, at least a glimmer of the possibility that there would be more to his life, if only in the distant future. Dean hated to spoil the delusion, but he saw no end to it. “Hunters end, Sam. The hunt goes on. We’re… links in a chain.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way.”
But Dean could tell by his brother’s tone that he was having trouble convincing himself, let alone Dean. And that was fine. Dean had no illusions about the life. Or how it ended. No pension plan. No gold watch. No retirement party. Sudden and brutal. That was a hunter’s end.
“We’re still hunters, Dean,” Sam said. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Doesn’t it bug you?” Dean asked. “Taking orders from them?”
“Common goals, Dean.” Sam shrugged. “We’ve worked with Crowley. More than once. When our interests aligned.”
“Well, I trust them about as much as I trust Crowley,” Dean said. “Scratch that. I might trust Crowley more. And he’s the frigging King of Hell.”
“Look, I get it. Mick is a stickler for following their rules—though he may be coming around. And, yes, Ketch is an ass. But ignore the personalities. Focus on the job.”
“You get that from their recruitment poster?”
“Makes you feel any better,” Sam said, “I’m sure we rub them the wrong way.”
“Well, Mom doesn’t have a problem with them.”
Mary Winchester, murdered by the demon Azazel when Sam was six months old and resurrected thirty-three years later, had decided she’d rather spend her time with the British Men of Letters than with her own sons. She’d partnered with them long before Sam signed on, dragging Dean along for the ride.
“Dean, this has to be weird for her,” Sam said. “When she died, I was a baby. You were just a kid. Suddenly it’s thirty years later. We moved on. And she hasn’t changed. She needs space, some time to adjust.”
“Runs off to work with them,” Dean grumbled, “and half the time I can’t get her to answer a text message.”
Sam stepped back and leaned against the support column again. “Give it—Give her time, Dean.”
“Then there’s Cass,” Dean said, shaking his head as he resumed circular motions with the damp chamois. Though aware the roof was already dry, he needed something to occupy his hands. “First, he comes here and steals the Colt to kill Kelly and Lucifer’s unborn hell-spawn, which—okay—I can maybe understand. Doubts we’ll have the stones to pull the trigger when push comes to shove—or come up with a Plan B. But then he goes on the lam with her. Off the grid. Until he shows up supercharged, torches Dagon and puts us to sleep. Now, instead of killing Evil Junior, he’s its protector? No way. Whatever was wearing that Cass suit wasn’t Cass.”
“He must have some reason—”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Demon seed’s bouncing around his angel skull, rearranging the furniture.” He shook his head. “And what if Fetus Lucifer turns Super Cass against us? You like our chances?”
“No,” Sam said, “but he had his chance and passed. Yeah, he turned off our lights, but here we are, unharmed.”
“With more questions than answers.”
“True.”
Disgusted, Dean balled up the chamois and tossed it in the soapy bucket.
“I don’t know, Sam,” he said. “This Men of Letters thing feels like a hostile takeover, Mom jumping sides… and now Cass. None of it makes sense.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
Dean sighed forcefully and, after a moment, shrugged. If he could answer that question, would he lie awake at night or spend hours in the garage on wash, rinse, repeat? “Don’t know, man.” He spread his arms. “At least this makes sense. I can’t bring back Mom or control Cass—even if I knew where the hell he was. But I can keep Baby clean.” He turned his back to Sam and placed his palms along the edge of the car’s roof, head lowered. “Everything else…”
He heard Sam approach, felt his brother’s hand clamp down on his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out, Dean,” he said. “We always do. Sometimes it just takes a little longer.”
* * *
After Sam left, Dean waxed the Impala from front to back, top to bottom, staying in the moment so his mind wouldn’t race off in a hundred different directions for answers he’d never find. While those answers remained as elusive as ever, a calm settled over him and he enjoyed the satisfaction of a job well done. Sometimes the simple things were the best cure for unresolved anxiety.
And yet nothing good ever lasts.
Once he’d coiled up the hose, dumped the buckets and put away his cleaning and waxing supplies, his mind began to wander right back into the problem areas of his life, like picking at mental scabs. So, don’t be surprised, he thought, when blood wells up to the surface.
“Stay out of your head,” he chided himself. “Stay in the moment.”
And, at that moment, his flannel shirt and jeans were damp and uncomfortable.
Before swinging by his bedroom to change into dry clothes, he stopped by the library and saw Sam at one of the wooden tables, staring intently at his laptop screen. Dean smiled. “Hey, if this is a porn moment, I can go.”
“What—?” Sam looked up, confused, shook off the comment with a frown. “No, it’s not a—I may have something for us.”
“You mean the Men of Letters—”<
br />
“No,” Sam interrupted. “This is mine. Ours, if you want it.”
“Depends,” Dean said, although he doubted he’d turn down anything remotely interesting. Staying in the moment was a lot harder when you had nothing to do but wait around for the other evil shoe to drop. “What is it?”
“Moyer, Missouri,” Sam said. “Mass blackout.”
“Town forgot to pay its electric bill?” Dean asked. “How’s that a—?”
“Not a power blackout,” Sam explained. “At midnight, everyone in the town blacked out.”
“Everyone?”
“Looks like,” Sam said, skimming the information on his screen. “Lasted about ten minutes.” Sam shook his head, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t matter what they were doing. Walking, driving, shopping, eating…”
“Eating?”
“Local all-night diner.”
“Insomniacs, people watching late-night TV, raiding the fridge,” Sam said. “They all dropped.”
“So, at midnight the whole town took a ten-minute nap?”
“Sleep, possibly. Or, I don’t know, an altered state of consciousness?”
“You mean, an altered state of unconsciousness.”
“Seemed to happen instantaneously. No gradual nodding off. More like someone flipped a switch in their brain.”
“So, what happened during the group power nap?”
“You can imagine,” Sam said. “Anyone driving crashed. Anyone walking, running or dancing fell over. Tons of bruises and sprains, some broken bones and concussions. Several fatalities.” He looked up at Dean. “Silver lining. At least it didn’t happen at rush hour.”
“Hasn’t happened again?”
“So far, only one time,” Sam said. “Since then… usual police blotter stuff except…”
“Except?”
“Weird,” Sam said. “Some vandalism and pranks early in the morning.”
“In other words, the usual police blotter stuff.”
Sam shook his head. “Dean, it’s not the what. It’s the who. Fifty-year-old elementary school teacher caught spray-painting her neighbor’s garage door. Middle-aged bank manager slashing car tires.”
Supernatural--Joyride Page 2