Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Amazed Dean even had to ask, Sam said, “You had Led Zeppelin II in the tape deck. I know better than to try to hold an intelligent conversation with you when ‘Whole Lotta Love’ is playing.”

  Dean opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Yeah, okay, fair enough.”

  They crawled ever more slowly toward the bridge, and Sam realized that they were approaching a toll booth. Dean saw that some lanes were moving faster, and he inched into them.

  “Uh, dude, those are the E-Z Pass lanes.”

  “Aw, crap.” The bane of the Winchesters’ existence had been the proliferation of things like E-Z Pass, Fast Lane, I-Pass, and assorted other services that involved sticking a piece of plastic on the windshield that a scanner would read, deducting the toll from a credit card or from payments made with a check. The former required a consistency of use with a card that Dean and Sam couldn’t afford, since their credit cards were all phony. Sam had considered setting something up with the checking account he’d had when he was at Stanford, and through which he maintained his cell phone and Internet, but now, with he and Dean wanted by the law, it wasn’t prudent for them to attach something to the car that could be used to trace their movements.

  However, the cash lanes were considerably slower, which, Sam knew, would only increase Dean’s dark mood.

  Sure enough, the realization that he’d be stuck in slow traffic while dozens of other cars zipped through the E-Z Pass lane undid all of Sam’s distraction work, and Dean was now holding the steering wheel with an iron grip in his right hand while punching the inner driver’s side door with his left and muttering curses to himself.

  Recognizing a futile endeavor when he saw one, Sam pulled out his Treo and made use of its web browser. It was slow—basically as fast as dial-up—but he was eventually able to find and call up the website of Ash’s friend’s band, Scottso.

  By the time he was done reading up on it, they were next in the toll line. “Dude,” Dean asked suddenly, “you got any cash?”

  Sam whirled around. “Excuse me? I thought you were the keeper of the lucre, Mr. Pool Hustlin’ Poker Player Man.”

  “Remember that girl in South Bend, the Notre Dame student who—”

  Under no circumstances did Sam ever want to hear the end of any sentence of Dean’s that began with the words “Remember that girl.” “Fine, whatever.” Sam tried to straighten his lanky form as best he could in the front seat and dug his left hand into his pants pocket. He pulled out a ball of fluff, three quarters, several business cards that read sam winchester, reporter that he’d made up in a print shop back in Indiana, and his monogrammed money clip, which had four bills in it, one of which stood out as being a ten dollar bill, since they were all a different color now. He gingerly yanked it out and handed it to Dean.

  Dean paid the toll with the ten, waited for the change, responded to the toll taker’s request to have a nice day with an incoherent grunt, and then stuffed the four singles into his own shirt pocket.

  Sam considered objecting, then decided that life was just too damn short, instead saying, “We wanna take the Henry Hudson Parkway, so stay in the right lane.”

  Dean nodded as they started over the bridge.

  For a moment Sam just took the time to admire the view. The George Washington Bridge was one of the most famous bridges in the country, and while it didn’t look quite as distinctive as, say, the Golden Gate—which he’d visited on a trip he and Jess had taken to San Francisco—or the Brooklyn Bridge right here in New York, it still had a certain grandeur that he admired.

  As the Impala rolled over the bridge—still moving at less than twenty miles an hour, but that was an improvement on their pre-toll-booth pace—Sam turned to his right. It was a clear day out, so he could see the most famous skyline in the world: skyscrapers in gray and red and silver and brown all reaching upward, all different sizes and shapes, with the pinnacle of the Empire State Building rising above all of it. It was a complex mélange of constructed life, a monument to human achievement over nature.

  The scholar in him wanted desperately to explore the inner workings of that monument, whether to play tourist and see the sights, like he and Jess had done in San Francisco, or to check out the underside of the place, see if the thousands of legends that had grown up around the city were true: the alligators in the city sewer system, the phantom subway conductor, the missile silos in eastside apartment buildings.

  He sat back in the passenger seat with a sense of melancholy. Their lives didn’t allow for that sort of thing. They came in, they did the job, they left. Hell, now Dean was on the feds’ radar, and, while Sam couldn’t find any specific warrant out for his own arrest (and didn’t Dean love giving him crap about that?), he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be ignored if they got the attention of law enforcement, either. They had to keep their heads down—which meant no self-indulgence. Seeing the Statue of Liberty, going to the top of the Empire State Building, exploring Central Park, even going underground to check to see about the alligators and the ghosts and the missiles, none of that could afford to be on the agenda. Them doing the job saved lives, which meant time spent not doing the job meant people might die.

  That’s the job. And it needs doing. One of the items on his eight-mile-long list of regrets was that it took Dad dying for him to realize that.

  The exit for the Henry Hudson was right after the bridge ended, and to Dean’s loudly expressed relief, most of the traffic that took the exit was going southbound, which would take them into Manhattan. Almost nobody else was going north.

  However, Dean’s desire to speed was tempered by the parkway itself, which was hilly, twisty, and turny, and Sam found himself once again holding the dashboard in a death grip.

  Feeling the need to distract himself from the fact that Dean was using the lane markers as a guideline more than a rule, Sam said, “So I checked out this guy’s band on the web. I’m starting to see why Ellen thought of us—they’re a cover band, and they do seventies rock.”

  For the first time since the cars started moving slowly on I-80, Dean’s face brightened. “Really?”

  “Yeah, they named themselves after a DJ who died a couple years ago named Scott Muni.”

  “Dude,” Dean said in a familiar tone. It meant that Sam didn’t know some arcane and pointless piece of musical lore that Dean thought was essential to being alive. Sam steeled himself for the tirade even as Dean said, “It’s pronounced ‘myoonee,’ not ‘money.’ They called him ‘the Professor,’ he was one of the greatest rock DJs of the sixties and seventies. You know Van Morrison’s ‘Caravan’? The ‘Scottso’ he’s talking about is Muni.”

  Sam just nodded, despite not knowing the song or DJ in question, and not caring all that much. He’d gotten enough of a tongue-lashing on the subject of Robert Johnson’s music during that Hellhound job.

  “Well, Ash’s friend,” Sam said once he was sure Dean was done chastising him, “Manfred Afiri, is the lead singer, and he plays guitar. There’s four other guys, a keyboard player named Robbie Maldonado, another guitar player named Aldo Emmanuelli, a bass player named Eddie Grabowski, and a drummer named Tom Daley. They play weekends at a place in Larchmont called the Park in Rear.”

  Dean shot a sidelong glance at Sam. “Seriously?”

  Sam shrugged. “That’s what the website says.”

  The road finally straightened, just in time for a sign indicating another toll.

  “Oh, you have got to be freakin’ kiddin’ me! Bad enough we had to pay six bucks to get into this town, now we gotta pay more?”

  Raising his eyebrow at the use of we in that sentence, Sam pointedly said, “You’ve got four bucks in your pocket.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Dean pulled in behind several other cars in the one and only lane labeled cash only, while other cars zipped through one of the six E-Z Pass lanes. Sam was starting to think it was a conspiracy.

  Once they got through and went over another, smaller bridge that welcomed them to the Bronx,
Sam said, “We wanna get off at 246th.”

  “Okay.”

  The road continued to curve menacingly past several exits, most for streets numbered in the 200s, before they reached the right exit.

  Within seconds they were completely lost. They drove up and down several hills, and went on several roads that did not go straight, and were frustrated by jumps in the numerical sequence of streets. The area was also surprisingly suburban looking, with some really big houses that had yards—neither were images that Sam associated with being in New York City, especially after the view of crammed-together skyscrapers he got from the GWB.

  “I thought this city was on a grid,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

  “That’s Manhattan, Dean,” Sam said patiently.

  “Great.”

  The road angled down and to the right, nearing a T intersection. Sam caught sight of a green street sign that identified the upcoming street as East 248th Street. “There!” he said pointing, “that’s 248th. Turn right.”

  “I swear to God, Sammy, if it’s not on this block, I’m turning around and going back to Indiana.”

  Sam refrained from pointing out that regardless of whether they were going to Afiri’s house or back over the bridge, they were still lost. Besides, he got a look at one of the house numbers they passed. “We’re on the right block. There, that’s his place.”

  There weren’t any parking spots on the street, but there was a driveway next to Afiri’s place, so Dean parked the Impala there.

  Once the car came to a stop, Sam hopped out, grateful for the chance to stretch his long legs for the first time since they’d gassed up in Scotrun, Pennsylvania. His knees popped as they straightened.

  “Nice,” Dean said, and Sam had to agree. The house was a three-story Colonial, with a stone chimney on the side, a wooden front porch, complete with porch swing, and a dark wood front door with a small stained-glass window.

  All Ellen had provided Dean was a name and address, as well as the name of the band the guy was in, so they had no way of knowing if he’d be home. A ring of the doorbell followed by a full minute of waiting indicated that he wasn’t.

  “Fine, let’s break in,” Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket for his lock picks.

  Sam put a hand on his arm before he could remove the paper clip in question. “Let’s not. We’re supposed to be helping this guy, remember?”

  “We’ll tell him Ash sent us.”

  “And if he doesn’t believe us and calls the cops? Dean, we can’t afford to commit felonies unless we absolutely have to, and we’re not there yet. Hell, we just got here. Look, he probably has a day job. Let’s check out the Poe thing and come back in the evening when he’s more likely to be home.”

  Dean stared at Sam for a second. The way Dean’s eyes were going back and forth, Sam could tell that his older brother was trying to figure out a way to be right and for Sam to be wrong and was failing miserably.

  Finally, Dean turned around and went back to the car. “Fine, but we ain’t goin’ nowhere until you figure out how to get us out of this nuthouse.” He opened the driver’s side door. “Which crime scene you wanna hit first, the house with the bricked-up guy or the street where the monkey spanked back?”

  Sam smiled. “Neither. The orangutan that killed those two kids was from the Bronx Zoo. We should start there. Say we’re with, I dunno, Wildlife Conservation magazine or something.”

  “No, not that—National Geographic.”

  “Uh, okay.” Sam shrugged. “Not that it matters, but why not Wildlife Conservation?”

  “’Cause that’s run by the WCS, who’re the people who run the Bronx Zoo. It’d be like investigating something on the Skywalker Ranch and saying we were with Star Wars Insider. They’d know we were bogus right off.” With that, Dean got into the car.

  Sam opened his door and folded himself into the front seat. “Since when do you know so much about animal magazines?”

  “Cassie was a subscriber.”

  That got a grin out of Sam. Cassie was one of Dean’s ex-girlfriends. Given Cassie’s crusading character, based on the one and only time Sam met her in Missouri, he wasn’t at all surprised that she supported the Wildlife Conservation Society.

  Sam pulled out the maps to figure out the best route to the zoo. While he did so, Dean asked, “Hey, does the Bronx Zoo have penguins? Like in Madagascar?”

  Without even looking up, Sam said, “That was the Central Park Zoo. I mean, the Bronx Zoo probably has ’em, too…”

  “Yeah, but they’re probably not as cool as the ones in Madagascar. I mean, I doubt they can take over a freighter or do hand-to-hand combat.”

  “Well, Dean, if they can, then we’ll have three jobs…”

  FOUR

  The Bronx Zoo

  The Bronx, New York

  Thursday 16 November 2006

  Clare Hemsworth brushed the bits of grass off the Wildlife Conservation Society logo on her blue shirt as she headed out into the pavilion in front of the Wild Asia ride. The crowds were a bit sparse in November, but visitors to the Bronx Zoo still wanted to go on Wild Asia.

  Clare remembered her mother talking about how thrilling Wild Asia was back when it first opened in the late seventies. For her part, she couldn’t imagine why anybody would make such a fuss. The monorail was so retro, and it wasn’t as if it was that big a deal to see animals wandering around free. Of course, back in the stone age when Mom was a kid, she guessed it was a big deal not to see animals in cages, but there wasn’t any novelty to it now. The monorail was a cheesy piece of plastic that Clare was convinced was gonna fall off the rail any day now.

  Then again, she was in a bad mood generally. Ever since what happened with those two kids, she’d been talking to reporters, to police, and to lawyers representing Fordham University, and she was really, really sick of it. The lawyers were the worst—okay, cops and reporters were doing their jobs, but why should she have to listen to crap from Fordham’s legal eagles just because the two kids who died happened to be their students? They weren’t even killed on campus!

  “Excuse me, Ms. Hemsworth?”

  Clare closed her eyes and let out a breath. She’d had about fifty conversations that started with those four words this past week, and they were always like having root canal, only without the anesthetic. If it wasn’t someone from law enforcement or from the WCS, she was going to tell them to screw off so fast…

  She turned, and saw the hottest man she’d ever seen in her life.

  There was another guy with him, but Clare didn’t pay much attention to him, she was focused on this one guy. He had such amazing brown eyes, and, if he was the one who’d called her name, the sexiest voice she’d ever heard. Right there and then, she decided that she would do whatever this guy asked. He was tall, too, but not intimidating the way some tall guys were. His semishaggy dark hair was combed neatly, and he had an adorable small nose. “Uh, yeah, I’m—I’m Ms. Hemsworth. Uh, Clare.”

  The other, shorter one, said, “Nice to meet you, Clare. My name’s John Mayall, and my friend here is Bernie Watson—we’re with National Geographic.”

  Clare blinked, and tore her eyes away from Bernie Watson—what a wonderful name!—to look at the shorter one with the close-cropped hair, blue eyes, and mouth that looked like it was in a permanent smirk. John, was it? “Uh, okay.” Then the text message she’d gotten from Frieda, her boss, came back to her. “Right! Frieda said you guys’d be talking to me. What do you need?”

  “We’re doing a story on the orangutan that killed those two students, and we were told you were the one who cared for them.”

  Bernie added, “If it’s too much trouble—”

  “Oh no!” she said quickly, not wanting Bernie to go away, but also still not entirely clear as to why NG would be doing this kind of story. Frieda’s text had said that they were cleared by the press office, as long as they stuck with the questions in the memo that had gone around on Monday, but Clare was confused as to why
they’d bothered in the first place. “This isn’t really, I dunno—typical of you guys, is it?”

  John grinned. “Hey, we can’t have all our stories be naked pictures of pygmies.”

  Rolling her eyes, Clare ignored John, and looked up at Bernie’s tall form and soulful eyes. “So what is it you guys want to know? I mean, I’ve already told this story, like, a thousand times. You can probably get whatever you want from the newspapers.”

  “They’re being very sensationalistic,” Bernie said. “We’re trying to print the truth, and make it clear that this wasn’t the orangutan’s fault.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Dean’s fault at all!”

  The short one suddenly developed a coughing fit, and then said, “Dean? That was the orangutan’s name?”

  “Well, that’s what I called him. We’ve got two on loan from Philadelphia for a while, and I named them Hank and Dean—y’know, after the Venture Brothers.”

  Looking at John, Bernie said, “Actually, I think Dean’s a great name for a big ape, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” John said in a low voice, and Clare started wondering what was going on. But then John looked back at her. “So, Clare, can you tell us in your own words what happened?”

  “Yeah, okay.” She was feeling a little exposed, so she led the two reporters to one of the wooden tables near a food stand. Taking a deep breath, and trying not to get lost in Bernie’s eyes, she went through the whole story: how Dean suddenly went crazy and started jumping up and down, before retreating under a rock. “Nobody saw him for a while after that—we don’t really keep an eye on them 24/7, y’know?—and then when I went to feed him and Hank, I couldn’t find him. Now you gotta understand, both these guys never miss a feeding—like, ever.” She found her eyes misting up, and she wiped them with the cuff of the sleeve of her blue shirt.

  John said, “You must care about Hank and Dean very much. That’s really admirable—I’ve always been impressed with the work people like you do.”