Bone Key

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Then she saw him.

  He was a big man, dressed like something out of an old painting of an Indian brave. He had on war paint and a red, white, and black mask over his face, wild black hair, and a belt made of bones. He was wearing a loincloth, and nothing else—except the mask, anyhow. He was pretty hot, actually.

  "Sheesh," Chris said. "I thought Halloween was two months ago."

  "Great," Shannen said, "the crazies are starting in already." In general, Shannen was supportive of Native causes. After all, they were pretty much wiped out, and so had reason to be cranky. But even the most noble causes attracted their share of loonies, and Shannen figured this was some fruitcake who decided to stir up trouble on the site.

  The fruitcake spoke in a scary loud voice. "We are the Last Calusa, and we will have our vengeance."

  Lindenmuth was staring in openmouthed shock. "The last who?"

  Shannen knew all the tribes that currently lived in Florida, and the Calusa wasn't one of them. If she remembered right, they were an old tribe that used to live down here, but they were wiped out a long time ago. So this was a Grade-A fruitcake.

  "Once these islands were ours. We were mighty warriors, who lived off the land and sea. Those who tried to fight us died in the trying. Those who enlisted our aid were better for our help. We were the Calusa, and none could destroy us."

  Suddenly, Shannen realized that this fruitcake wasn't speaking English or Spanish—the only two languages she knew—but she still understood every word he said.

  She also had a Walther PPK .380 in her purse—fully licensed, thank you very much—that she was slowly pulling out, being careful not to move too quickly and spook the fruitcake.

  "But then came the outsiders and their sickness, and they brought low the Calusa. Now is the time of our vengeance. You will be the first to die."

  When the .380 was fully out, she dropped the purse and held the weapon with both hands, clicking off the safety. "Screw you, pal. Only one's gonna get hurt is you if you don't get your loin-clothed ass off this site."

  "We are beyond pain. Beyond suffering. Beyond death. We were taken from this life, and our last act will be for you to join us in the afterworld."

  The fruitcake took one step closer to Shannen, and she squeezed the trigger, her wrists bending back a bit from the recoil.

  The bullet went right through him.

  Chris and Harry rushed the guy after Shannen fired, the former wielding a wrench. Harry liked to get his hands dirty.

  With a gesture from the Indian, though, Harry and Chris stopped dead in their tracks.

  And then they just stopped dead. Their skin got all wrinkled and dried up and withered. Chris's thick arms were suddenly husks of skin plastered over bone and sagging muscle. Both sets of eyes were sunken and hollow.

  Lindenmuth started making incoherent noises, which was more than Shannen was capable of. What she had just seen was impossible.

  She squeezed the trigger again and again and again, but again the bullets ran right through him, like he wasn't even there.

  But she heard him. She saw him. And he obviously did something to Chris and Harry.

  Even after the pistol was empty, she kept dry-firing, unable to stop, unable to believe what was happening, unable to process any of this. First Tom, and his messed-up love life. Then Chris and his betting. And Harry, he had a wife and daughter in Tampa, with a college-age son at Purdue in Indiana.

  Another gesture from the thing that called itself the Last Calusa, and three more guys fell over. Then a few more. Then Lindenmuth.

  Then he turned to Shannen.

  She could see his eyes under the mask, even in the poor light. They were brown and fierce and angry. Shannen had spent ten years of her adult life married to an abusive bastard, and she remembered the look in his eyes when he was drunk and angry and would start beating on her.

  That look in Rudy's eyes had scared her to death, and it was nothing compared to what she saw in the eyes of the Last Calusa.

  "P-please," she whimpered, lowering the .380. "Please don't."

  "It is already done," the Last Calusa said. Looking down, Shannen saw that her hands were horribly wrinkled, her skin wrinkling and contracting.

  "N-no!"

  "Yes."

  Her suddenly weakened legs unable to hold her weight, Shannen collapsed to the dirt, even as the Last Calusa reared its head back and let out a bone-jarring scream to the heavens.

  It was the last thing she would ever hear.

  FOURTEEN

  When Dean turned left onto South Street from Duval, he quickly slammed on the Impala's brakes.

  There were cop cars all around the construction site, more crime-scene tape, and a van from the Monroe County Medical Examiner's Office. At least half a dozen uniformed officers were either wandering around or guarding the perimeter, a few guys were wearing jackets with the same M.E. logo as the van, and there was one guy wearing a tie—the first such Dean had seen on the island not worn by him or Sam.

  He also saw at least two dozen bodies covered head to toe in blankets.

  Next to him, Sam said, "That can't be good."

  Dean looked out the rear window, seeing if the road was clear to make a U-turn, but when he turned back, he saw a uniformed cop heading toward them. "Crap."

  Immediately, Dean weighed options. If they ran now, the cops would definitely run the plates, and with all the flashing lights, they'd probably get a good look at the make and model. It was a small island, so it wouldn't take all that long to track down so distinctive a car. The plates themselves couldn't be traced back to Dean and Sam, but the fact that they couldn't would be something of a red flag as well, especially since they went to an expired registration (like all the other tags they'd been using since they first got on the feds' radar).

  On the other hand, if they played innocent tourist and asked what was happening, they might just get out of there intact. If nothing else, they could say they were headed to the beach, as one reasonable driving route from the Naylor House to the beach on the southern coast was the one they were taking.

  Then Dean saw that it was Officer Montrose.

  Leaning out the open window, Dean said, "Hi there, Officer."

  "Kinda figured you two might turn up. All things bein' equal, I'd let you fellas in to check it out, but I can't, not right now."

  "Why the hell not?" Dean asked, surprised at his own outrage given that he hadn't expected to get near the scene in the first place.

  Montrose looked over at the scene and pointed at the man wearing the tie. "See the overdressed fella over yonder? That's the chief of police. Last time he set foot in an actual crime scene was in nineteen-and-ninety-two."

  "How many dead?" Sam asked.

  "Thirty-one. But the reason for the brass band is that one of 'em was the head of the construction company doin' the building here. She's got a lotta friends in Tallahassee, if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah, so?" Dean asked. Then he got it: "Tallahassee's the capital."

  "Friends in high places," Sam added.

  "Yup," said Montrose. "And another one of our corpses is Kevin Lindenmuth, who has friends in even higher places—the 'favorites' list on his cell phone includes the private personal numbers of the governor and both our senators." He shrugged. "If it was just workin' police at the scene, I'd let you fellas in, but the chief ain't as enlightened. Plus, we're workin' in a fishbowl, so—"

  Holding up a hand, Dean said, "We get it." Then he slapped the steering wheel with that hand.

  "How'd they die?" Sam asked.

  "Same as that couple last night," Montrose said. "Had the life drained out of 'em. M.E.'s still tryin' to come up with a good explanation for it."

  "That's a waste of time," Dean said.

  "Yeah, but I don't think they're gonna buy 'I don't know.'"

  "Maybe not," Sam said, "but we—"

  Suddenly the whole area was plunged into near darkness. The headlights and dash lights on the Impala went out ev
en as the ignition gurgled and stopped, and the cop car flashers all went out. Looking up, Dean saw that the one streetlight on the block was also out.

  Sam pulled his Treo out of his pocket. "Phone's dead, too."

  Immediately, Dean threw open the door to the Impala. Sam did likewise.

  "Fellas, I don't think this is a good idea." Montrose's tone conveyed a warning. Dean just ignored him and his tone as he went back to the trunk. Sam glared at Dean for a second, then turned to face Montrose from over the Impala's roof. "Officer, we're dealing with a spirit that calls itself the Last Calusa. It appears to be the embodiment of the entire Calusa tribe, and it's incredibly powerful. What's worse, the same thing that amped up all the spirits on this island has made it more powerful, and whatever it's about to do next, it's gonna do it right now. "

  Tossing Sam a shotgun, Dean then checked his own weapon to make sure all was well. From the site, he could hear the consternation and complaints of the cops and lab techs as they couldn't make anything—not their cars, not their radios, not their techie toys—work.

  Then the site grew quiet. Looking up, Dean saw why.

  The Last Calusa was back.

  "Is it me," Sam asked, "or is he taller this time?"

  In the Hyatt, the Last Calusa was about Sam's height. Now, he towered over the cop nearest him, who Dean figured to be about six-five or so. "It ain't you."

  "We are the Last Calusa." The voice was even deeper and more resonant this time—like James Earl Jones with a bullhorn. "You have been chosen for the sacrifice. We are dead, and we are forgotten, but we are not lost. After the sacrifice, there will be vengeance, for none may trifle with the Calusa and live."

  "Let's test that theory," Dean said, raising his shotgun. "I'm in the mood to trifle."

  "Fine with me," Sam said, doing likewise. Both brothers fired. The reports of their shotguns echoed into the night. The Last Calusa was unaffected.

  However, their action seemed to break the ice, as all the cops present started unloading their own nine-millimeters into the Last Calusa—with the exception of Montrose, who probably was the only one to figure out that, if two rock-salt shotgun blasts didn't do it, bullets weren't going to.

  "We are still not impressed." The Last Calusa held up one hand, which started to glow. Sam began, "Dean, maybe we c—"

  Whirling around as his brother cut himself off in mid-sentence, Dean saw that Sam suddenly wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing, wasn't blinking, nothing.

  Neither were any of the cops or techs. Behind him, Montrose said, "What the hell's this?"

  "The sacrifices will be prepared." The Last Calusa raised his other hand.

  Dean felt as if a hand had grabbed him by the chest. Next thing he knew, he and Montrose were both flying backward, landing on the pavement of South Street near the Impala with a bone-jarring thud. His father's combat training combined with a lifetime of being thrown around by spirits and demons had taught Dean how to land properly in such an event, so he was pretty much unbruised when he clambered to his feet.

  Montrose wasn't so lucky. He lay on the street, gripping his arm and wincing in pain.

  Sam and the rest of the people were walking zombie-like into the construction site, walking under the tarp that covered the foundation.

  Dean ran toward them. "Sam!"

  Even though there was nothing on the street, Dean crashed into what felt like a brick wall. He felt blood stream out of his nose from the impact.

  Stumbling back a step and wiping the blood off his upper lip, Dean reached out more carefully. He felt something solid and impenetrable, even though there was just empty air in front of him.

  Great, some kind of wards.

  Dean saw a bright light from behind him out of the corner of his eye, and he heard a low hum. Turning around, he saw that the Impala had started back up and its lights had gone on. The cop cars, though—which were inside the Last Calusa's little bubble—were still dead. So was the streetlight.

  "Well. This sucks." He walked over to Montrose and helped him to his feet. "You okay?"

  "Not especially. A whole bunch of my close friends and colleagues just got dragged into a construction site by a crazed spirit. And my arm hurts."

  Before Dean could respond, his phone rang. His instinct was to let the person eat voice mail, but it might've been Bobby.

  Sure enough, Bobby's name was on the display when he pulled it from his pocket, and he flipped the phone open. "Bobby, please tell me you've got good news."

  "I do, yeah, but also bad. I know what the Last Calusa's supposed to do, but I don't know how to stop it. He takes power from living beings, draining their life. Then, at sunset, he makes a certain number of sacrifices in order to bring about his vengeance—and Dean? It's only white sacrifices."

  Dean winced. "Okay, well, we're a step ahead of you there. Our big bad injun just put a whammy on Sam and a bunch of cops. He left one cop out of it, but he's a Seminole."

  "Makes sense," Bobby said.

  "Yeah, but why Sam and not me?"

  Bobby hesitated. "Because you've already been sacrificed, Dean."

  "Say what?"

  "Your life already belongs to that demon you made the deal with." Bobby's temper was, Dean could tell, raging, and he was barely keeping it under control. Dean had known Bobby for most of his life, and he'd never seen the man as angry as he was when Dean told him what he'd done to save Sam's life. "The Last Calusa can't sacrifice you 'cause the sacrifice wouldn't have any power."

  "Great."

  "Look, I'm at the Sioux Falls airport right now—got a flight to Key West that's takin 'off in an hour or so. With the layover in Atlanta, I should be there by ten tomorrow morning. That still gives us a few hours to think'a something. Can tell you one thing, salting and burning won't cut it. We'd have to do every single set of bones of every single Calusa who ever lived, and we don't know where most of them are. "

  "Yeah, the bones here were a big surprise to everyone." Dean gritted his teeth. "I'll start digging through Dad's journal, see if he's got anything—maybe use Sam's laptop."

  "I'll call when the flight lands," Bobby said. "You can pick me up."

  "'K."

  "Dean?"

  "Yeah, Bobby?"

  "We'll get him back."

  "Yeah." Dean closed the phone and pocketed it.

  "Tough break there, kiddo."

  Dean whirled around, raising the shotgun. The voice was Montrose's, but the tone wasn't at all the laid-back deep drawl of the cop.

  Montrose—or, rather, "Fedra"—grinned widely. "Now now, Deano, you don't want to hurt poor Officer Montrose here, do you? And he's the only one you would hurt with that pigsticker of yours."

  While Fedra was talking with Montrose's mouth, Dean was reaching around to the weapon he had in the waistband of his pants. "Maybe, but this one might do some damage," he said, lowering the shotgun and raising the Colt.

  "And, again, we're back to poor Officer Montrose. Are you really prepared to kill a fine, upstanding officer of the law, a man with a wife and four kids, just because you don't like me?"

  "Montrose took an oath to serve and protect and put his life on the line to protect people from criminals. You've killed four people that I know about, and probably a bunch more. So I'm actually pretty much okay with it." Dean hoped that his bravado was convincing because the truth was, he didn't particularly want to kill Montrose. Dean was more than happy to take someone down for the greater good, and had done so more than once. Besides, once someone was possessed by a demon, their lives were all but over. The real Fedregotti couple was evidence of that.

  But that was only after long-term possession. Montrose had only been taken over for half a minute. Dean wasn't sure he could just kill someone like that. Or, rather, he knew he could, but didn't think he wanted to in this case.

  Jesus, I really am becoming the whiny emo bitch. Nothing like looking down your own personal mortality barrel to make you think about other people kicking it, I guess.


  If Dean hadn't already met Montrose, he wouldn't have known that he was possessed, since the demon hadn't done the black-eye thing. Dean still recalled when they had the yellow-eyed bastard's daughter trapped in Bobby's place, and Bobby told them that she was a regular human who was possessed. "Can't you tell?" Bobby had asked, and he sounded horrified that the answer was obviously "no." The method for doing so was one of a legion of things that Dad had never shared with his sons, and Dean still didn't have the trick of it down.

  The demon was still talking. "Besides, I think now maybe you might want to listen to my offer."

  Dean smirked. "I'd say go to hell, but—"

  "Look, Dean, we both want the same thing." Montrose started to move forward toward Dean.

  Clicking off the Colt's safety, Dean said, "Stay right there. You wanna talk, I'll talk for a few, but you give me a single reason to squeeze this trigger, and you're done for." Self-defense, after all, he could justify. So, for that matter, could shooting in the leg. True, it'd likely cripple Montrose for life and end his career as a cop, but it wouldn't kill him. When the yellow-eyed bastard had possessed Dad, shooting him in the leg had gotten rid of him without killing Dad. It might work a second time.

  "Fine." The demon held up Montrose's hands in a backing-off gesture. "But we do. I want revenge for what that thing did to Alberto, and you want Sam back. If we work together, we can do it."

  "Just for kicks—how would we do that, exactly?"

  "I can cast a spell that will channel all the spiritual energy on this island through a single vessel. It's a variation on what we've been doing. But I need a willing human vessel to do it."

  "Gee, usually you just grab somebody off the street."

  "Pay attention, Dean," the demon snapped, "I said willing. The Last Calusa's too damn powerful—if I'm busy fighting the will of the vessel, it won't work."

  "Then it won't work, 'cause I ain't willing to do a damn thing with your kind."

  Montrose, Dean discovered, had a really unpleasant laugh. Or maybe that was the demon's doing. Either way, the cop's head reared back, and his guffaw echoed. "What, now you're getting all persnickety about doing a deal with a demon? Seems to me you've been down that road before when li'l bro's life was on the line. We've already established what you are, Dean—now we're just haggling over price."