Bone Key Page 10

  "Yeah," Dean said. "Not much else here. Whatever the spirit did to those two, that did it for now, but it might be back later."

  "We should salt and burn the bones."

  Dean shot him a look. "And lemme say again, Sammy, look at the bones." He said it in his own voice this time, for which Sam was grateful. "Just what's poking out there is at least five different people, and I can't tell how far down it goes—or how far across. Unless we set the whole site on fire, and even if we do, we don't have that much salt."

  Sam had to agree with his brother; for one thing, there were at least four right hands just in what he could see, as well as five skulls. The usual method was going to be a bit too overt in this case. "And it's not like this place gets a lot of snow, so we're not gonna be able to get the stuff in bulk all that easily."

  "Yeah. Let's head back to the B&B, get some sleep, then we'll do the research thing in the a.m."

  By the following afternoon, Dean had had enough of the Monroe County Public Library. He and Sam had spent all their time since waking up (close to noon after the long night they had) sitting there, going through various and sundry records while hyped up on Nicki and Bodge's excellent coffee. The library was conveniently located near the Naylor House: three blocks over and one block down on Fleming Street. Dean was handling the construction site and going through the newspapers to see if there were other hauntings—or murders—that might give them a clue as to what was going on. That left Sam to check out the lost tribe.

  They broke for lunch, only for Dean to realize, to his great chagrin, that the Hooters on Duval Street was no longer there.

  "My heart bleeds for you," Sam said in that snotty tone of his. "C'mon, Bodge recommended a place to me this morning."

  "When did that happen?"

  "You were sitting right next to me, Dean." Then Sam smiled. "Of course, that was before you had your coffee..."

  "That explains it, then." They went to a place that was on the second floor. The cute maitre d' showed them out to the balcony, which had a waist-high brick wall and several small metal tables with glass tops, and wrought-iron chairs that dug into your back but managed to be comfortable anyhow. Dean had never figured that one out, but chalked it up to life's little mysteries.

  They had a nice view of Duval. While it was much quieter—and sunnier—in mid-afternoon, there were still plenty of people walking up and down, as the street was full of shops, as well as restaurants, museums, and other stuff. Dean wondered if he'd have an opportunity to get to the beach—though it was a bit chilly for that. While it was a lot warmer than South Dakota, it wasn't quite bathing-suit weather, either.

  After ordering a couple of beers and a basket of fried shrimp and fries for the two of them to share, Dean asked, "So what do you know about our lost tribe?"

  "Not much," Sam said with a sigh. "They were called the Calusa, and most of what we know about them is that we don't know much about them. They had a reputation as fierce warriors, which was helped by their tendency to pile up the bones of their enemies."

  "Hence, Cayo Hueso," Dean said just as the waitress—who wasn't quite as cute as the maitre d', but was still pretty hot, and was named Paula—brought two bottles. "Thanks."

  Sam also said, "Thanks."

  Paula gave Dean a big smile—she had great teeth—and said, "No problem. Anything else you need, let me know."

  She walked back toward the kitchen, giving Dean a nice opportunity to see how well her ass moved in her shorts. Hooters, schmooters, he thought with a smile.

  "What is it with you?" Sam asked.

  Dean smirked and took a pull on his beer. "Jealous?"

  "Please. Anyhow, the Calusa occupied the island for centuries, fighting off the other tribes and the European settlers, but disease wiped them out in the eighteenth century."

  Shaking his head, Dean said, "The old malaria-in-the-blankets routine?"

  "Nothing quite that cold-blooded, but all it'd take is one of them to catch something from a European that they hadn't built any kind of immunity to, and..."

  "Excellent diagnosis, Dr. House."

  Making his little pouty face, Sam asked, "Fine, what'd you dig up?"

  Taking another sip of beer first, Dean said, "We were right about Katrina. A lot of the places on South Street got pummeled back in '05. The owners sold the lot, the new people decided to build something new. Construction crew's also one short now—one of our two corpses was one of the workers. Other one was a woman from Miami, down here for a getaway."

  Paula came by with a big basket filled with breaded shrimp and French fries, as well as a plastic cup filled with tartar sauce. "Thanks again."

  "Anything else? Anything at all?"

  Under other circumstances, Dean would have several suggestions, but they were on the clock, as it were. "If we think of somethin', we'll let you know."

  There were already bottles of various condiments on the table, and Dean immediately grabbed the ketchup bottle and squeezed out the lovely redness onto the fries.

  Sam watched him with that stupid little-brother expression of his. "Want some fries to go with your ketchup?"

  "So anyhow," Dean said, popping a ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth, "they only were able to ID the bodies based on their wallets. The bodies were 'unrecognizable.'"

  "Well, the library had a wireless network, so I was able to get online," Sam said, indicating his laptop with his head while he speared a shrimp with his fork and dipped it into the tartar sauce.

  "And they weren't kidding about them being unrecognizable. Their skin was wrinkled and almost mummified. But their hair was still the same as it was in their ID photos."

  "That's weird."

  "Not really." Sam bit into another shrimp and swallowed it before going on, in full boring-lecture mode. "Despite what TV would have you believe, if you age someone rapidly, their hair won't go gray automatically. That's something that can only happen over the course of times as new hair grows."

  "Thank you, Dr. Wizard." Dean popped another fry and forked a shrimp of his own. "We need to find the demon that started this. Any word from Bobby?"

  Sam shook his head while he chewed. "Left a message, though."

  Dean thought a minute while he ate some more, then washed it down with more beer. "All right, let's go to where that girl was killed. That's where the sulfur was, and I'm willing to bet real money that her blood was used for the ritual that amped up the spirits."

  "No bet. But how do we trace the demon?"

  Dean scratched his ear. "Most of the demons who got out of the gate have been taking advantage of the whole having-a-body thing. He probably came down here as much for the vacation value as the spiritual energy."

  "Not a 'he.' I think we've got a couple," Sam said.

  "What?"

  "All the witness statements for the killing had the girl leaving the bar with an older couple. The police want 'em for questioning, but they haven't been found yet."

  Angrily spearing another shrimp, Dean asked, "What is it with all this share-and-share-alike crap? First the seven deadly sins, then that couple in Ohio, now this. Since when do demons trust each other?"

  Shrugging, Sam said, "Maybe they spent so long in hell they formed relationships? I don't know—but I think we have to assume that we've got a pair. And if you're right about them wanting to take advantage of all the pleasures of the flesh, they're probably staying in a luxury hotel."

  "The fanciest hotel on the island is the Hyatt on Front." Dean grinned. "Which is, like, a block from where our girl's throat was cut."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  Susannah Hallas had never considered herself a lightweight before tonight.

  She'd been having a great time in the Schooner's Wharf, listening to a local act, an older man with white hair and matching beard, who sounded a bit like Hank Williams, only more relaxed. He did a great song called "Tourist Town Bar" about his job, basically, and an equally hilarious one called "She Gotta Butt," about a woman with a big ass.
That song particularly resonated, as the singer's description perfectly matched Susannah's mother.

  As sunset rolled around, the white-haired guy was done, and the place just had jukebox music until after sunset, when the evening's band would start playing. Once that happened, Susannah moved on to beer—she'd been sticking with cola until sunset, as she always believed that alcohol was only meant to be consumed when it was dark out.

  Then Alberto and Fedra sat at her table—all the other tables were occupied, and she had one all to herself ever since that gay couple left—and offered to buy her a harder drink.

  Usually Susannah was good for four gin-and-tonics before the room started spinning and she started losing inhibitions (and, sometimes, articles of clothing), but she barely finished the first one before she started to feel woozy.

  "I—I don't feel so good," she said to Alberto, who had the sexiest accent. If he hadn't been there with his wife, she so would've been hitting on him. True, she'd promised to get together again with Dean on Saturday, but that was two days away, and as nice as Dean's eyes and smile and biceps were, Susannah was thinking about tonight.

  Except now she wasn't thinking about much of anything. The Schooner's Wharf was spinning around in circles, and bile built in the back of her throat.

  Alberto grabbed her arm in an iron grip, and Susannah practically collapsed into him, letting him bear the brunt of her weight.

  "Come," he said, "we will take you to our hotel. We are at the Hyatt."

  Susannah said nothing, focusing all her energy on not throwing up all over the Schooner's Wharf floor. She was staying at one of the motels way the hell over on Route 1 right on the other side of the bridge from Stock Island, a choice made by her dumb-ass cousin, whom Susannah kept promising herself she'd never travel with again because she did stupid stuff like that. Why would you come to Key West and stay so far from Duval Street?

  In any case, if Alberto and Fedra were staying at the Hyatt, they were only a block away or so. Right now, Susannah wanted to worship at the porcelain god, and a bar bathroom was most definitely not where she wanted to do it.

  She didn't have any actual memory of walking to the hotel. The ringing of the elevator button echoed in her skull, though. Christ, it's like I went straight to the hangover. She kept her eyes shut tight, as the nausea got a thousand times worse when she opened them.

  As soon as Fedra put the plastic key into the slot, Susannah ran into the room and went straight for the bathroom. Dimly, she registered that the do-not-disturb card was on the handle (why, if they weren't in the room?) and that the bed was propped up against the wall (usually that means a party), but mostly she just wanted to get to the damn bathroom already.

  Her stomach, perhaps realizing that solace was at hand, chose the moment she crossed the threshold into the bathroom to start heaving. Panicking, Susannah practically leapt to the toilet, throwing the lid up and opening her mouth wide. But, though she heaved, nothing came out. She felt a cool hand on her warm neck. It was Alberto. "Come, Susannah, we will take care of what ails you."

  God, why can't I throw up? Susannah just knew that if she could throw up, everything would be better. That was what always happened—mainly because throwing up was the worst thing in the world, and you could only go up from there.

  Alberto pulled her to her feet, but she almost collapsed again. Her legs felt like noodles, and if Alberto hadn't caught her, she would probably have cracked her head on the sink or the toilet.

  Her feet were dragging on the linoleum floor as Alberto all but carried her back into the main part of the hotel room. Everything was fuzzy, but then her bare feet (how'd they get bare? what happened to my sandals?) rubbed against the carpet, and the rough surface against her skin actually forced her to focus a bit.

  There were black candles all over the place, and they were all lit. Susannah didn't think she'd been in the bathroom long enough for Fedra to have lit all the candles—but then, her sense of time was seriously screwed up.

  "Everything will be fine," Alberto whispered gently into her ear as he dragged her over to where the headboard was nailed to the wall. Only then did Susannah notice the thing painted in dark red on it. It looked like—a Star of David? No, that wasn't right. A pentagram, maybe? She'd had a Wiccan roommate named Stephanie back in college, but she couldn't for the life of her remember any of that stuff anymore. Besides, Stephanie kept to herself, just lit a lot of incense, which Susannah had found really nice.

  Speaking of which, something was burning, and Susannah suddenly felt the urge to light one of Stephanie's incense sticks.

  Jesus, where am I again?

  She tried to make her brain work right, but it just wouldn't. Now she was hearing strange noises.

  No—that's Alberto. He's chanting something. A long-ago high-school language class—the private high school her fat-assed mother insisted on sending her to actually required students to take Latin for God's sake—allowed her to recognize the language he spoke, though she couldn't remember all the words.

  Then Fedra turned around and stared at Susannah with dark eyes. No, not just dark eyes, blacked-out eyes. No iris, no pupil, just deep, unending black.

  It was the single scariest thing Susannah had ever seen in her life.

  After the brothers had finished lunch (and Dean had gotten Paula's phone number without asking; she provided it with the check), they went back to the Naylor House to change into their suits.

  While Dean was changing, Captain Naylor decided to show up. "Pardon me, Mr. Winchester, but may I enquire as to your progress?"

  Dean wasn't really inclined to answer, but the captain had held up his end of the bargain. "We think a demon has cast a spell that makes spirits like you more powerful."

  Naylor recoiled. "To what end?"

  "Hell if I know—that's what my brother'n me are gonna try to find out." Tying his tie, Dean said, "Sit tight, Cap'n. We'll get to the bottom of this and send you on to your reward."

  "I hope so, Mr. Winchester. Existence has been hellish enough, being tethered to this place for so long, but the awareness I now possess has only intensified that emotion."

  Dean actually felt himself feeling sorry for the poor bastard.

  Once he was changed, and double-checked the fake ID, he and Sam hopped into the Impala and drove it slowly to the end of Duval, then turned right onto Front, then into the parking lot for the Hyatt Key West Resort and Spa.

  "You know," Dean said, adjusting his tie, "we could've just walked it."

  "We'd stand out like sore thumbs in these suits on the main drag, Dean," Sam said. "Besides, it's humid as hell."

  Dean doubted hell was that humid, but said nothing. I'll be finding out soon enough, he thought wryly. But he also saw Sam's point. Easier to convince someone you're a fed if you aren't dripping with sweat. And they'd be less obvious walking on Duval with big sirens on their heads than they would in suits.

  Still, driving hadn't been much faster, since it was close to sunset, and everyone was making their way toward the boardwalk for the daily sunset celebration.

  As soon as they walked in, someone with a name plate that read YURI headed right for them. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, khaki shorts, and moccasins, which was as close to formalwear as Dean had seen on anyone on Key West save him and Sam right now. "Good afternoon, sirs, how may I help you today?"

  Flashing his fake ID, Dean said, "I'm Special Agent Danko, this is Special Agent Helm. We're searching for a couple of fugitives, and we think they might be staying at this hotel."

  Yuri swallowed, his face going pale. "Oh my God. Are you sure?"

  Sam was stone-faced, and spoke in a hard tone.

  "Very sure, sir. These are cultists who are performing satanic rituals."

  "Well, Agent Helm," Yuri said with a smile, "what people do in the privacy of their room is their business."

  Ah, Key West, Dean thought, recalling his and Sam's laissez-faire conversation. Sam had probably mentioned "satanic" rituals to
get a rise out of the concierge, but nobody here was that uptight. However, Sammy swung at the curveball like a pro. "These rituals involve murder, sir. That's what makes it our business."

  Now Yuri blanched. "Oh dear. What can we do to assist you?"

  Dean put a reassuring hand on Yuri's shoulder.

  "It's all right, Yuri, we'll take of this as quietly as we can. Don't want the tourists all upset, we get that."

  "Thank you," Yuri said, relieved.

  Good-cop-bad-cop may be the oldest trick in the book, Dean thought, but that's 'cause it keeps working. "Great, Yuri, great. What we need you to do is tell us if anyone from housekeeping has found any sulfur when they were cleaning up."

  That confused Yuri. "Sulfur?"

  "It's part of the ritual," Sam said.

  "If you'll both wait here," Yuri said, pulling a cell phone out of his shorts pocket, "I'll get the head of housekeeping. Actually," he said as an older woman walked by giving Dean and Sam strange looks, "why don't you follow me?"

  All things being equal, Dean would've been happy to people-watch in the lobby, but he didn't want this guy to be any more nervous than he was. Could be worse—he could find out what's really going on. So he and Sam followed Yuri into a back room, which turned out to be a tiny, cramped office with a wooden desk holding a laptop and an in-box full of papers, a cork bulletin board on the wall with tons of brochures, receipts, and flyers attached to it, and a ceiling fan keeping the air (barely) moving.

  A few minutes later, a short, stout, middle-aged Latina woman came into the small office. She stood demurely with her hands clasped in front of her, though Dean read into her facial expression that she'd rather be just about anywhere else.

  "Gloria, these two men are from the FBI," Yuri said. "They need to know if anyone has found sulfur in their rooms."

  Speaking with a thick accent that sounded Cuban to Dean's ears—not surprising, since Key West was closer to Cuba than it was to Miami—Gloria said, "No, I don't think so."

  She sounded tentative, so Dean said, "It'd be a yellowish dust or powder—smells like a burned match."