Supernatural 10 - Rite of Passage

by John Passarella

  “We gave you what you asked for,” the woman pleaded. “Now go. Please.”

  “Don’t give me orders,” Jesse said.

  The man was still curled up, moaning. Annoyed, Jesse brought back his foot and drove his steel-tipped boot into the man’s belly.

  As the man gagged, the woman cried out, “No! Stop hurting him!”

  “What the hell did I just say to you?” Jesse demanded, his face flushed with anger. Lunging forward, he backhanded the woman so hard he split her lip open and she fell on her ass, crying. “You wear too much makeup, bitch!”

  He raised the tire iron over his head, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. He was panting, his arm trembling with the urge to cave in her skull.

  Somebody grabbed his shoulder from behind. “Dude!”

  Jesse spun around, enraged, but caught himself when he saw Bart staring at him as if he were insane. “What … ?”

  “Let’s go, man!” Bart whispered urgently.

  “Right,” Jesse said. “Yeah, right. Don’t know what got …”

  With Bart tugging him, they ran down the alley and jumped into the car.

  Jesse’s last glimpse of the couple was encouraging. The wife was huddled over her husband, not trying to get the make and model of their car or memorize the license plate number.

  “That was messed up, man,” Bart said, shaking his head. “What happened to intimidation?”

  “Yeah, Jess,” Keith said. “What the hell … ?”

  “Bad day, that’s all,” Jesse said. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Are you sure, man?” Bart said. “If you start breaking bones, nearly killing people, we’re looking at serious jail time. You’d better let us handle the next one.”

  “I’m okay now,” Jesse assured him. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” Bart said. “Should we take this stuff to Mickey’s? Cash in?”

  Mickey owned a pawnshop and had a back door arrangement with them—completely off the books and the security cameras. He probably gave them ten cents on the dollar, but it was a simple way to convert jewelry and other valuables into quick cash. After converting the goods to cash, they would split the haul three ways.

  “Sure,” Jesse said, massaging his forehead. The damn headache wouldn’t go away, not after he ate and not after he vented his frustrations on a couple of easy targets.

  “Jess, me and Bart had an idea,” Keith said hesitantly.

  “Really?” Jesse said, amused. Combined, they had the equivalent of half a brain. The simpler the operation the better. “What’s that?”

  “Burglary,” Keith said. “Parents working two jobs, kids at school. Why not hit some homes? Go in the back door, out of sight, walk out with the good stuff. Quick and easy. No fuss, no muss.”

  “Less chance of the cops catching us in the act,” Bart said. “Out in the open is risky, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “I’ll think about it.”

  Now that he had a chance to look back on his violent actions, Jesse was surprised to realize how much he had enjoyed the display of power. Power gave him control. Fear bent others to his will. And what an incredible rush! He wasn’t sure he wanted to give that up. Ever.

  Maybe he wouldn’t need Bart and Keith backing him anymore. With their lack of ambition, they held him back from his true potential. Let them sneak into houses and make Mickey rich while the pawnbroker doled out scraps in return. Jesse would keep the power.

  Soon everyone would fear him.

  Ryan rang the doorbell at Sumiko’s house and heard her yell to her mother that she’d get the door. Her father, some sort of corporate consultant, traveled by airplane as frequently as most people commuted by car or train, and was rarely home. Ryan guessed that in ten years Roger Jones would consult primarily via video conferencing calls. But maybe he needed to tour facilities to recommend manufacturing renovations or massive layoffs. Usually Sumiko and her mother had the house to themselves. Sometimes Ryan ate dinner with them, but he was careful not to become too dependent on their generosity, too needy. He liked to retain the appearance of self-sufficiency, even though he often felt as if his world had jumped the rails and was careening out of control. Lately, panic nibbled at the corners of his day-to-day existence and he had the sensation—premonition?—that he would soon lose everything that meant anything to him. He was self-aware enough, however, to pin his anxiety on the imminent end of his senior year of high school. Every day it became harder to see a meaningful future.

  Sumiko yanked the door open and beamed at him.

  “You made it!”

  “I only live ten minutes away.”

  She hadn’t changed out of her red and black school clothes, but she had ditched her boots and stood in bare feet with her toenails painted crimson. Without footwear, she appeared even smaller and more fragile next to him.

  “Come in,” she said, tugging him into the house by his hand before pushing the door closed with her foot. Of course she was clutching her smartphone in her other hand. By this time, he pretty much considered it to be surgically attached to her palm. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “In front of your mom?” Ryan joked.

  “Ha!” she caught the back of his neck and tugged him down for a quick kiss on the mouth. Her lip gloss tasted like strawberry.

  “Hi, Ryan!” Mrs. Jones called from the kitchen, which had a counter with a pass-through opening to the dining room. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Thanks, but …” He felt his stomach rumble. “I really shouldn’t …”

  “Nonsense,” she said as she filled a pot with water to boil on the stove. “I’ll set a plate for you. We’re having pasta with meat sauce.”

  “She was gonna make yakitori,” Sumiko whispered, “but forgot to buy skewers.”

  “I’ll eat anything that isn’t squirming on the plate,” Ryan said.

  “Eww!” Sumiko said. “Gross.”

  “Do you two have homework?” Mrs. Jones called.

  “No, mother,” Sumiko said. “I want to show Ryan my blog.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “You’re so very funny, mother.” Sumiko rolled her eyes. She tugged Ryan’s hand again. “C’mon!”

  “Door open. Two feet on the floor!” Mrs. Jones commanded with the weight of parental authority.

  “Two feet each,” Sumiko asked as they climbed the steps, “or combined?”

  “You’re so very funny, daughter,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “Daring,” Ryan said to Sumiko.

  “I’m flexible,” she replied with a wink.

  “And bawdy,” he added.

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m excited.”

  “And I’m right behind you,” Ryan said, patting her rear for emphasis.

  She let out an involuntarily squeal and raced up the last few steps.

  Fifteen

  Sam opened the door to Roy Dempsey’s cabin and Dean walked through ahead of him carrying the grease-stained brown paper bag containing their sandwiches and an order of fries from Famous Andy’s. While the sandwich shop boasted a healthy takeout business with a quick turnaround, the cramped interior featured only three small, circular tables and no counter seating. So rather than wait a couple of hours for a table to become available, Sam and Dean had followed the consensus and taken their order to go.

  Dean removed the wrapped sandwiches from the bag along with a fistful of napkins and spread them out on the breakfast nook table. With anticipatory gusto, Dean unwrapped his sandwich: a foot-long roast-beef sub, dripping with gravy. Sam’s grilled chicken on a multi-grain roll was positively Spartan in comparison, other than the few spots where the roast-beef juices had seeped through the paper into his roll.

  Sam watched as Dean patted his hands dry with a couple of paper napkins, then picked up the dripping sandwich and soaked them all over again.

  “Do you need a bib?” he enquired.

  “This
,” Dean said, nodding toward his sandwich, “is ‘famous.’ What you have there is… unknown and best forgotten.”

  “Famous last words.”

  As Dean took an ambitious bite out of his sub, Sam raised his roll to his lips and paused, about to open his mouth.

  Lucifer sat across from him, next to Dean.

  “Sam? C’mon, buddy! I specifically asked for the meatball sub.”

  Ignoring him, Sam took a bite of his sandwich.

  “Now that’s just rude,” Lucifer said, “eating in front of company. I thought we were pals, down in the foxhole, toasting our tootsies.”

  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 da
ncing 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.