Dean left his coffee alone, having always preferred it to be as black as his car. Sam, of course, dumped half a ton of sugar and then filled it almost to the brim with milk. For his part, Manfred just poured a bit of milk into his.
Sam picked up his coffee but didn’t drink it. Dean, being no kind of fool, waited until after his brother took a sip before trying it himself. “So,” Sam said, “this spirit is tied to the band, you think?”
“Damfino, Sam, that’s why I called Ash. I knew he was into that spooky jazz. Me, I’m just a carpenter for the city who plays rock and roll. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout crap that goes bump in the night.” He gulped down about half his coffee, which made Dean think his throat was lined with ice or something, since it was still boiling, even with the milk cutting it a bit. “Gotta tell ya, it’s seriously interferin’ with my life. I mean, there are times when I wanna bring someone home after a gig, know what I mean? It messes with the mojo, havin’ some broad screechin’ in the house.”
“Have you ever seen it?” Sam asked. Then he took a sip, and cut off Manfred before he could answer. “Wow. This is great coffee, Mr. Afiri.”
“Please, it’s Manfred. Mr. Afiri is what my kids’ teachers used to call me those few times I went to parent-teacher conferences back in the day.”
“You have kids?” Dean asked, immediately sorry that he asked.
“Not to hear them tell it. Far as they’re concerned, the only father they care about ain’t me, it’s that jackass Becky married in ’ninety-two. Nicest thing they ever say to me is, ‘Ain’t you got a haircut yet, Dad?’”
“Sorry to hear that,” Sam said in a quiet voice.
Manfred shrugged. “Nothin’ I can do about it. I do what I can for ’em, but they don’t need me much. And hey, I just screwed their mom—that don’t make me a father, since we split when they was just babies.”
Dean might have said something in response to all that, but he was too busy savoring the taste of the finest cup of coffee he’d ever had in his life. Admittedly, his standards weren’t all that high. Generally he and Sam made do with whatever they could get from cheap diners, motel lobbies, and gas stations, which usually amounted to caffeinated dishwater. Their father had taken to using the phrase “a cup of caffeine,” since what they usually had was so bad, Dad didn’t want to insult it by calling it “coffee.”
Not this, though. Dean would drink this flavorful wonderfulness even if he didn’t need a caffeine jolt after a day dealing with New York traffic, Bronx Zoo bureaucracy, and women hitting on Sam instead of him.
“So you’ve never seen the spirit?” Sam asked.
Shaking his head, Manfred said, “No, but I ain’t looked, either, y’know? I mean, I hear that yellin’, and I get outta Dodge. I don’t even come home no more, just wait till sunup. That’s a bitch on Mondays, though—I gotta get to work.”
“You said you work as a carpenter for the city?” Sam asked.
Manfred nodded.
“If you don’t mind my asking, then—how can you afford this place?”
Dean blinked at Sam’s question, but now that he thought about it, it was a legit question. If Manfred was divorced, he probably had child support, and he couldn’t believe that a city carpenter got paid enough to buy this place, especially given how much property cost in New York. True, he had the music, but if that was anything great, he wouldn’t need the day job.
Another grin. “It’s handy being the son of two really rich lawyers. Well, Dad was rich—Mom was always doing pro bono work, but still. I was the shame of the family—doin’ the whole Summer of Love–antiwar–goin’ to Woodstock thing while Dad was representing oil companies—but I was also an only child, so I got the house when they croaked.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, again in a quiet voice.
“Nah, s’no biggie. Listen, I’m really grateful to you two for helpin’ me out.”
Dean sipped some more coffee. “We haven’t done anything yet, Manfred. We’ll check it out, though, see what turns up.”
“Great. And hey, listen, you guys got a place to stay in town? ’Cause if you don’t, I got a couple guest rooms upstairs.”
That almost made Dean sputter his coffee. He managed to hold it in, which was good, as that would’ve been a waste of a fine beverage. “Seriously?”
“That’s very kind of you, Manfred, but—”
“We’d be happy to,” Dean said quickly, before Sam’s politeness got them shoved into yet another motel room. He wasn’t sure what excited him more, the prospect of sleeping in the same house as that record collection, being able to wake up to this coffee, or not having to share a room with Sam. He loved his brother more than anything in the world—except maybe the Impala—but they’d been sleeping in the same room (or, all too often, the same front seat of the car) with each other virtually every night for over a year now. If the opportunity to get separate rooms—for free, no less—presented itself, he was for damn sure taking it.
“Great! Listen, I got practice tonight—we usually rehearse in Tommy’s garage. He’s the drummer. We used to rehearse here—I got tons’a space in the attic—but the neighbors started bitching. Didn’t want ’em callin’ the cops on us, what with the weed and all, so we moved to Tommy’s.”
Sam shot Dean a nervous look at the mention of weed, and Dean just rolled his eyes. Jesus, Sammy, didja think a musician’s house was only gonna have coffee in it? Especially a guy who was at Woodstock?
“And tomorrow night, you guys can come up to the Park in Rear and hear us. I’ll get you two in as my guests, so you ain’t gotta pay the cover. Still gotta buy the beer, though, but they got some good stuff on tap up there.” Manfred gulped down the rest of his coffee in one shot, then put the mug in the sink. “You fellas make yourselves at home. Rooms’re upstairs. The one all the way on the far end from the staircase, that’s mine. The other three all got beds, so pick whatever you want.”
“Thanks.” Dean looked at Sam. “C’mon, let’s unpack.” He took a final sip of his coffee, then headed back through the hallway to the front door.
Sam followed him, waiting until they reached the front porch to speak. “Dean, you sure this is a good idea?”
“What’s the problem, Sammy?”
“This guy’s got a spirit. Maybe this isn’t the best place to stay the night.”
Dean stuck the key in the Impala trunk. “Dude, we’re the guys who kill the spirits. ’Sides, it’s Thursday. Spirit won’t show till tomorrow night, so that gives us time to give the place an EMF once-over and research the house. Maybe we’ll even figure out the Poe thing.”
“The thing is, Dean—” Sam hesitated.
After hoisting his backpack out of the back of the trunk, Dean said, “What is it?”
“I’m a little freaked out.”
“C’mon, Manfred’s an okay guy.”
“It’s not Manfred, Dean, it’s you. It’s like we’re in Dean Disneyland in there with the Fillmore East posters and the amps and the record collection. I’m worried we’re never gonna get you outta there.”
Assuming Sam was just giving him crap, Dean grinned. “Dude, I can focus.”
“Hope so. ’Cause we got a spirit we know’s gonna show Friday night, and a murder that we know’s gonna happen Monday night, and we’re staying with a guy whose house is full of illegal narcotics when we’re both wanted by the feds.”
Dean slammed the trunk shut. “Anybody ever tell you you worry too much, Sam?”
Without missing a beat, Sam smirked and said, “You, about four times a day.”
“Then consider this time number five. We’ll be fine. C’mon, let’s get settled.”
SIX
The Afiri house
The Bronx, New York
Friday 17 November 2006
…Mom pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
They’re with Dad, following every one of his commands. “Boys, don’t forget, you salt the entrance, they can’t get
in,” he orders. “Sam, I want you to shoot each of those bottles off the wall,” he yells. “Dean, stay with your brother,” he barks.
…Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
Learning how to field-strip an M-16 before ever kissing a girl. Unable to get through Moby-Dick or The Scarlet Letter for school, despite having already read the collected works of Aleister Crowley—not to mention Jan Howard Brundvand. Knowing the exorcism ritual in Latin, but unable to remember the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, which earns a detention sentence at one of the (many) grammar schools.
…Cassie pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
“I gotta find Dad.” “He wants us to pick up where he left off—saving people, hunting things.” “Can we not fight?” “You’re after it, aren’t you? The thing that killed Mom.” “I don’t understand the blind faith you have in the man.”
…Sarah pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
The fear never dies, never goes away, never leaves, no matter how many times you put on the brave face, no matter how many times you lie to people that everything will be okay, no matter how often you tell people that you’ll fix it, no matter how close you come to dying or being caught or being put away forever, and then you won’t be able to protect anyone ever again…
…Ellen pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
“All right, something like this happens to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me.” “Call you? You kiddin’ me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence. All right? Sam called you when I was dying. But gettin’ you on the phone, I got a better chance’a winnin’ the lottery.”
…Jo pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her…
“He’s given us an order.” “I don’t care! We don’t always have to do what he says.”
…Sam pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly—
—but the fire doesn’t consume him. Instead, his eyes open, and they’re yellow.
“You have to kill me, Dean. Dad said so.”
“No!”
Dean shot upright, drenched in sweat, pants damp, sheets twisted and soaked.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
Untangling himself from the sheets of Manfred’s guest bed, he walked over to the bureau, on which sat a giant circular mirror with a peace symbol etched into it in red. A haggard, sweaty face looked back at him. Hell, even his hair was mussed, and he barely had enough hair to do the job, but that nightmare—latest in a freakin’ series, collect ’em all—had done the trick.
Since he was a little kid, Dean had seen every kind of horrible thing. Stuff that would make H.R. Giger throw up his hands and go into aluminum siding. Stuff that made Stephen King look like Jane Austen. Stuff that could—and had—driven other people to drink heavily, or blow their brains out, or both. And never once did he have nightmares. Sure, he had bad dreams, especially as a kid, but not the kind of bone-chilling, sweat-inducing, full-on nightmares he was getting now.
And it was all Dad’s fault.
Years on the road. Years of training, of fighting, of hunting. Years of obeying Dad’s orders to the letter, no matter how ridiculous.
Years of being the one stuck between Dad’s immovable object and Sam’s irresistible force, trying desperately to keep family harmony.
Years of living up to the first command Dad had given him after Mom died: “Take your brother outside as fast as you can—don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!”
After all that, what were Dad’s last words to him before he let himself be taken by the same demon who’d killed Mom and Sam’s girl? “Good job, son”? “Keep up the fine work”? “I’m proud of you, Dean”?
No, it was an order for him to protect Sam—and if he couldn’t, he’d have to kill Sam.
Christ almighty.
Dean stared at his reflection, partly colored red by the peace-symbol etchings, making it look like blood was streaking down the center of his face.
On the one hand, he had to tell Sam. Leaving aside the fact that it was only fair to Sam, he didn’t want to keep carrying this by himself. But Dad had said one other thing: “Don’t tell Sam.”
Bastard.
Most of the time he was able to distract himself, lose himself in the job. They did important work, him and Sammy. All the lives they’d saved, all the souls they’d avenged—it was necessary. And dammit, they were good at it.
Most of the time. But then something like this…
Dean shook it off. He knew he couldn’t let it get to him. They had a job. In fact, they had two.
He looked over at the clock radio next to the guest bed, which told him it was 6:30 in the morning. He heard the sound of a high-performance engine in need of a tuneup, and walked over to the window, pulling back the brightly colored curtains. He saw Manfred’s four-by-four back out of the driveway. His heart sank when he realized it was heading straight for the front of the Impala, which was still partly in the driveway, but at the last second Manfred veered out to the right. The two right-side tires clunked down the sidewalk lip while the left tires remained in the driveway, easing out onto the dark pavement of the street.
Forcing himself to breathe regularly again, Dean turned away and looked at the rumpled bed. No way in hell I’m going back to sleep. Much as it pained him to be up at this hour, it seemed he was stuck. Besides, he had the world’s best coffee waiting for him.
One piping hot shower in Manfred’s incredibly cool claw-foot bathtub later, Dean changed into the last set of fresh clothes he had and, making a mental note to ask Manfred where the nearest Laundromat was, went downstairs in search of coffee, being sure to grab Dad’s journal on the way.
Of course, once the coffee was made, he just had to explore Manfred’s vinyl collection in more depth. He’d taken a glance last night—well, okay, more than a glance. Sam had yelled at him for only checking the EMF readings in the living room and neglecting the rest of the house, to the point where his younger brother almost took the EMF reader away from him.
They hadn’t actually found any EMF, but that wasn’t completely unexpected. The spirit hadn’t shown since Sunday. Not all spirits left a ton of EMF around, and this one wasn’t a constant presence, but a recurring one. Tonight, after Scottso’s show, would be the acid test.
Until then he intended to hear music the way it was meant to be played.
The problem was picking just one. Every time he saw one LP, he was all set to put it on when another caught his eye. He’d made a pile that included Dark Side of the Moon, The Most of the Animals, Houses of the Holy, Dressed to Kill, Metallica, The Who By Numbers, the Australian version of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, Thick as a Brick, and In-A-Gada-Da-Vida—and he hadn’t even gotten to the blues albums yet. He kept flipping through the records even after he settled on putting In-A-Gada-Da-Vida on, playing air guitar to the classic riff that opened the seventeen-minute title track.
Sam’s voice came from upstairs, getting louder alongside the creak of the old wood of the stairs under his brother’s weight. “Yeah, okay. Thanks so much, I really appreciate you letting me come on such short notice. Yeah. Great. Thanks! ’Bye.”
Dean looked up to see Sam pocketing his Treo and walking into the living room while saying, “You’re up early. Not used to you walking around before ten.”
“Yeah, I been up for a little bit.” Dean looked down at his watch and realized that it was almost nine-thirty. He’d completely lost track of time looking at the albums. While he intellectually understood the value of digital recording, the death of the vinyl record had seriously messed with the ability of artists to create cool album covers. No booklet in a dinky CD jewel case was ever going to match the artistry of the woodcut in Stand Up or the complexity of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Would anybody have remembered the prism on the cover of Dark Side of the Moon if it had only been a few inches big?
&
nbsp; He didn’t bother sharing these thoughts with Sam, though, as it would only serve to piss him off. The boy didn’t appreciate real music. So he asked, “Who was that on the phone?”
“A guy named Anthony who works for the Bronx County Historical Society and gives tours of the Poe Cottage. I looked it up on the web—Manfred’s got a wireless network, and he gave me the key—and they’re only open by appointment. So I called, and they’re free today. I’ll be heading over around noon.” He grinned. “I’d ask if you wanna come with, but seeing as how you’ve been reunited with your one true love and all…”
Dean pulled down Zoso and said, “Look, Sammy, you can have your CDs, your MP3s, your AVIs, but I’m telling you—”
“AVIs are movies, Dean,” Sam said with a grin.
Ignoring him, Dean went on: “But I’m telling you, there is no substitute, none, for the beautiful sound of a needle on vinyl.”
Just then the record started to skip, Doug Ingle singing “always be” over and over again.
Sam’s grin practically split his face in half. Dean scowled at him, then walked over to the turntable and nudged the needle, and it skipped ahead to a guitar chord.
“Let me guess,” Sam said, “next you’re gonna extol the virtues of leeches as a method of healing the sick? Or, I know! Why horse-drawn chariots are better than cars!”
“Bite me, Sammich.” Dean went over to the easy chair. “I’m gonna go through Dad’s journal, see if I can find anything that matches this ritual.”
Sam nodded. “After I’m done at the cottage, I’ll check the house where the guy was bricked up and the street where the kids were beaten to death.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, “maybe you’ll find something the cops missed.”
“I doubt it,” Sam said sincerely. “Dude, we’re talking about the NYPD here.”
“So?” Dean had a lot more experience with cops than Sam, and his considered opinion was that they were fine as long as a case followed a pattern. The thing was, what he and Sam dealt with didn’t follow any kind of pattern—or at least not a pattern any cop would ever look for—so police always looked in the wrong places, didn’t see the right things, and jumped to the wrong conclusions. “Sam, cops go for the familiar. Don’t believe the crap you see on TV—most of the time, the first suspect they have is the one they arrest. Something like this, they’re not gonna see the forest or the trees. Trust me, I’m willing to bet you ten bucks you find something they didn’t.”
Nevermore Page 5
