Bone Key Read online

"Besides," Dean added with a grin, "I could use some good tunes."

  Predictably, Sam rolled his eyes. Dean sighed, and they went inside the Naylor House.

  NINE

  Tom Tracy was really hoping to get lucky.

  He had taken the construction job in Key West precisely because he knew it had to be a good place to find hot women. After all, they filmed Girls Gone Wild videos down here.

  It was a simple plan: He intended to sleep with as many young, pretty women as he possibly could, and take photos of the act (or at least of the women, if they couldn't be convinced to have pictures taken of them naked), and send those photos to his ex-girlfriend.

  Yeah, it was petty. But Missy said that he wasn't any good in bed anymore, and that was why she broke up with him, and that royally pissed Tom off.

  I'll show her just how good I am. Bitch.

  So far, though, he hadn't had as much luck as he'd have wanted. The first woman he took back to the small attic apartment he'd rented for the duration of the job threw up as soon as she reached the top of the stairs and insisted on going back to her hotel after that. The second one passed out after taking her clothes off. (He got a picture of her lying naked on the bed, though—he'd tell Missy it was after the act.) The third turned out to be a guy in drag. Tom actually went ahead and took a picture of him, just to mess with Missy's head, but no way in hell he was getting into bed with that. (The transvestite actually took it pretty well, and they'd parted on good terms, the guy even recommending a good steakhouse on Cow Key.)

  Tonight, he was getting number four if it killed him.

  He'd started out at the Whistle, and now had moved on to Rick's. A huge complex that included several dance floors on several levels, there was a DJ playing dance music on one of them. Tom had never been a fan of this kind of music, but he knew that college girls liked it, and he figured if he went to the dance floor and started in with one of them, he might achieve number four—and actually get laid this time, dammit!

  Besides, the DJ wasn't likely to play "Brown-Eyed Girl." If Tom never heard that goddamn song again, it'd be too soon...

  The first few young girls he'd tried to dance with had inched away from him as he got closer, but there was this one who seemed to enjoy the attention. Dark-haired (tied back in a ponytail that whipped around with her head movements), big cat-like brown eyes, a pointed nose, and fantastic cheekbones, she was quite a looker.

  She was also really into the music, so much so that Tom wasn't even sure he'd be able to get her attention, but after a minute of moving close to her, she moved closer to him and started gyrating toward him—not quite touching, but coming very close, the way strippers did when they did a lap dance.

  This girl was good-looking enough to be a stripper, in Tom's considered and experienced opinion. She had a classic hourglass figure, with boobs that looked to be at least D cups, flat stomach, decent hips. She wore a loose white tank top over a bikini top that did a very poor job of containing said D cups, which suited Tom just fine, and a pair of denim cutoffs. She had fantastic legs, and a huge smile, which she flashed at Tom as he danced closer to her.

  They kept at it for two more songs, getting closer and closer with each passing second. He could smell the tequila on her breath, mixed with the sweat of their exertions. He also noticed that she spent plenty of time staring at his broad chest and well-muscled arms.

  After one song ended and as a new one was starting, Tom decided to make his move. Leaning into the side of her head, he shouted into her ear, "Can I buy you a drink?"

  Out came the big smile, and she nodded. He grabbed her hand and led her through the hordes of dancers toward the nearest bar. "Jack Daniel's, straight up, and whatever the lady wants."

  "The lady wants tequila," she said. Her voice was a bit hoarse. Based on the sweat that glistened on her smooth skin, she'd been here a while, so she'd probably been shouting a lot.

  Holding out his hand, he said, "I'm Tom."

  "Teresa. You got great moves, Tom."

  "So do you," Tom said. "You got great eyes."

  She laughed. "They're okay, but my boobs are better. They're all natural, too."

  Okay, I was gonna take it slow, but this is fine, too. This also relieved Tom of having to pretend to not be staring at her chest. "Very nice."

  The bartender brought the drinks, and Tom paid cash—he didn't want to run up a tab, as he had no intention of staying at the bar that long.

  The two of them quickly grew tired of shouting, especially since Teresa's voice was getting scratchier by the second. Tom asked the bartender for a glass of ice water for her, and they moved downstairs to where there were small round tables far enough from the DJs and bands that you could have a civilized conversation. There were some pizza and ice-cream places nearby, and the other folks at the tables had the look of people who needed a break from dancing and/or some food for a pick-me-up.

  Tom soon learned that Teresa was an administrative assistant for an accountant in Miami. She was thinking of quitting, though, and becoming a model. "I've even got some pictures up on a few websites. It's good money, and the secretary job is just so boring. Plus my boss is a total dork."

  "You'd make a great model."

  She whipped out the smile again. "So would you. You work out?"

  "Don't need to—I work construction."

  The cat eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her mouth formed an O. "Really? Oh, wow."

  "Yeah, we're buildin' a new house on a place down on South Street that got wrecked by Katrina. Some rich people bought the lot, demolished what was left of the old place, and my company got brought in to put up a new one. Place is gonna look great, too."

  "Can you take me to it?"

  Tom blinked. "Uh—"

  "I just love construction sites—they really turn me on. It's like—everything's just pure potential. I love trying to imagine what it would become."

  She had him at "turn me on." Gulping down the last of his JD, he said, "C'mon, let's go."

  At that, she actually squealed. Tom had never heard anyone squeal in real life before.

  The site was all the way at the southern end of the island, which was a bit far to walk, so he called for a cab on his cell, then walked with Teresa over to Whitehall—it'd take forever for the cab to get in and out of Duval Street, and Tom had learned early on that just moving one block off the main drag made a huge difference.

  Teresa was clinging to him the entire time, and in the cab she was practically sitting in his lap.

  Tom's only regret was that the camera was back at the apartment. Hell with it—I can use the camera on the cell. Quality won't be as good, but this lady's hotness will shine right on through.

  Technically, nobody was supposed to be on the site at night, but it wasn't like there was a guard or anything. And Tom had never had sex on a site before. Hell, it never even occurred to him. That was work, after all, and sex was play. You didn't mix those two.

  Or at least, that was what Tom had thought. Whatever.

  Brushing aside the plastic tarp that protected the superstructure from the elements, Tom led Teresa into the foundation, which involved a quick jump down into a recessed part of the ground. Tom could've helped her down, but he liked the way her boobs bounced when she jumped.

  Tearing his eyes away from that fantastic sight, Tom turned around and indicated the foundation with his hands. "This is where the basement's gonna be. We—"

  "What're those?"

  Looking back at her, Tom saw that Teresa was pointing at something on the floor. Following her finger, Tom looked and saw what looked like the end of a bone sticking up out of the ground.

  "Okay, that's weird." Walking toward the bone, he knelt on one knee and brushed away some of the dirt around it.

  "Maybe somebody's buried here!"

  Tom had no objection to that. That'd mean a police investigation, which would delay construction, which would mean Tom would get to spend more time living on Key West and finding more wo
men to sleep with and stick it to Missy.

  So he started brushing aside more and more dirt, only to discover a lot of bones.

  "Wow," Teresa said. "This is amazing. "

  "Yeah." Tom saw the look of rapture on Teresa's face and wondered if he was going to miss out on getting laid because she suddenly went nuts over a pile of bones.

  The more the two of them dug—and Tom had to admit to being impressed, as Teresa had a nice manicure, which she was seriously damaging by helping him unearth the bones—the more bones they found. A lot of duplicates, too—he saw several hands, a few skulls, and a lot of other bones that he didn't know what they were.

  "Maybe it's an Indian burial ground!" Teresa said with a gasp.

  God, I hope not. That would shut the site down. If some Seminoles or whatever were buried here, then the tribes would get into it, and it'd be a huge mess. Probably delay construction for years.

  "What's that noise?" Teresa asked.

  Tom hadn't heard anything, but once she asked the question, he noticed a low hum. "I dunno."

  Then, suddenly, he felt tired. Like all the energy had drained from his limbs. It was the way he felt after a day of double overtime, only a thousand times worse. Jesus, I just want to sleep.

  He could barely keep his eyes open, and he tried to look at Teresa, who also looked drowsy. What the hell's going on?

  Teresa started glowing, then her cat eyes got really wide, and her mouth opened, and her skin—

  Her skin was getting all wrinkly! What the—?

  Glancing down at his own hands, he saw that they had become withered and weak and sagging on the bone. This isn't possible!

  Teresa was screaming now, her cheeks having grown sallow, her face dried out and plastered to her skull. Under the tank top, he could make out her clavicle and ribs, and her boobs were sagging down...

  Tom tried to scream, but he couldn't muster the energy. He was just so tired—he couldn't lift his arms...

  The last thing he heard was a phrase in a language he'd never heard before, but somehow he knew that the words meant: "At last!"

  TEN

  "Anyone ever told you that you got the most amazing blue eyes?"

  The truthful answer to that question was "no," since Dean didn't have blue eyes, and wasn't entirely sure how anyone could think he did have blue eyes—but when the person asking was as hot as this girl was, Dean just gave her a big smile, and said, "Why thank you!"

  Besides, he could shout that more easily than he could shout an explanation that his eyes were actually hazel. He was sitting at the bar in Captain Tony's Saloon, his ears grooving on the house band that was doing classic rock covers at a very loud volume, and his eyes were taking in the beauty of the girl who'd just complimented him.

  Once it got late enough, he and Sam would go back to Eaton Street and check out the tour company where those two people were killed. Sam had done his laptop mojo thing back at the Naylor House while Dean fixed the EMF reader, and learned that the two who were killed had their heads bashed in, but there was no evidence of who killed them on either body—except for a thread from one of the dolls that was kept in the turret. According to Nicki and Bodge, the legend in that house was that the doll was possessed by a spirit.

  If that spirit had been supercharged by whatever zapped Naylor and Hemingway, it could well have been responsible. Especially since the threads from the doll were found on both corpses, but only one of them—the woman—was in the turret with the thing. The guy was killed downstairs, nowhere near the doll.

  But that was for later. For now, Dean had dragged Sam—kicking and screaming—to an open-air place around the corner from Sloppy Joe's.

  "You see, Sammy," he had explained, as they turned off Duval onto Greene Street, "Sloppy Joe's is a big-ass tourist trap—dining out on the fact that Hemingway went there. Drinks cost too much, there's a cover charge... No, you want a good time, you come to the site of the original Sloppy Joe's." He had pointed at the outer entrance as they'd approached. "Captain Tony's. Guy who owns it used to be mayor, and they built it around a couple of trees, one of which used to be the town's hangin' tree."

  "Really?" That had, unsurprisingly, piqued Sam's geeky interest.

  Inside, the bar was a large rectangle, with seats on all four sides and two bartenders working it. To the left of the bar was a semiopen space—broken by the hanging tree—with small round tables and chairs. In front of the bar was an open dance floor facing a stage, where a five-piece band had just finished playing "House of the Rising Sun," and moved on to "Like a Rolling Stone." To the right of the bar was a narrow pathway, and also a short staircase leading down to the "pool pit," an area filled with two pool tables and televisions showing ESPN. The owners discouraged playing for money, so Dean had never much seen the point in using the tables. Besides, the smaller, nonregulation tables always messed with his game.

  The walls were covered floor to ceiling with stapled-on business cards, as well as the occasional bra. (Upon seeing the bras, Sam had said, "Oh, so that's why you wanted to come back here.")

  It was past two-thirty in the morning, and one of the bartenders had announced last call. Dean was nursing a beer, while his companion—whose name he could not for the life of him remember—ordered a final gin and tonic.

  The band finished "Like a Rolling Stone" with a lengthy riff on a single chord before finally ending it. Amid the applause of what was left of the crowd, the singer said, "We got one more, then we're callin' it a night. We are Grande Skim Latte, and we thank you for seein' through the night with us. Good night, Key West!"

  More applause, then they broke into "Devil with the Blue Dress."

  "So Dean," the girl said, "how long you in Key West for?"

  Dean had really been hoping that she couldn't remember his name, either. Her long, straight brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had doelike brown eyes under thin eyebrows, and full lips. Her hot pink short shorts showed off an amazing pair of legs, and her flip-flops left her toes exposed, painted in the same hot pink, with sparkles. Her fingernails were painted to match. Her white T-shirt was about half a size too small, not that Dean was complaining, especially since he could clearly make out the lace bra underneath.

  In answer to her question, he said, "Not sure. Me and my brother—we tend to play things by ear. See what comes up."

  "I can think of a few things that might," she said, putting a hand on his leg, fingers inching to his inner thigh.

  Smiling, Dean asked, "How long you in Key West for?"

  "Through the weekend."

  Yahtzee. "Look, I gotta take care of some stuff tonight—and maybe the next few days. Why don't we meet back here Saturday night?"

  She leaned in close enough that Dean could smell the gin on her breath, mixed with sweat and a rose-scented perfume. It was actually a pretty hot combination. "What if I find a better offer between now and then?"

  Grande Skim Latte had segued into "Good Golly Miss Molly," and Dean realized that they were duplicating the medley that Bruce Springsteen performed at the No Nukes concert back in the seventies. "Jenny Take a Ride" would be next.

  Dean leaned in even closer, putting his mouth near her ear. "Trust me, you won't find one."

  The girl smiled widely, gulped down her final gin and tonic, and reached into her fanny pack, pulling out a business card. "My cell's on there. Call me or text me anytime if you decide you can't wait until Saturday. Or maybe you'll get lucky, and I'll be here Saturday."

  Dean took the card and saw that her name was Susannah Hallas. Pocketing it, he said, "I'll see you Saturday, Susannah."

  "I like a confident man," she said, cupping his chin with her hand. "By the way, next time, wear something a little less Yankee. You look like a tourist in those jeans." She got up and headed out, casting a seductive glance back at him before departing onto Greene Street.

  Now I just have to hope the job's done by Saturday. I knew this place was a good-luck charm. And if the job wasn't done before the
n, he could always call her. Or, if he had to, text-message her, though that was a form of communicating Dean had never been able to wrap his mind around. He agreed with what Gin Rummy on The Boondocks cartoon said: Nobody ever typed anything worthwhile with their thumbs.

  Dean was grateful that Yaphet had called Dad's phone. His and Sam's one trip had been too short to enjoy properly, but the trip with Dad had been fantastic.

  He had forgotten about the Key West "uniform": T-shirt and shorts, and either flip-flops or sandals. After his and Dad's trip, Dean was convinced that nobody on the island even owned a pair of socks. He and Sam had the T-shirt part down, leaving their flannel button-downs in the Impala trunk, but they were still sticking with jeans and actual shoes with socks. Glancing around Captain Tony's, he noticed that he and Sam were the only people in the place whose legs were not exposed to the world.

  The band did indeed go into "Jenny Take a Ride," then finished off with a final refrain of "Devil with the Blue Dress." Dean clapped along with everyone else, making a mental note to dig out his tape of No Nukes to play in the Impala.

  While Grande Skim Latte tore down, Sam ambled up from the pool pit, where he'd been watching the games. Dean knew that Sam was bound and determined to get Dean out of the deal with the crossroads demon, having already gone so far as to shoot the demon with the Colt. Dean certainly appreciated the sentiment, but he wasn't losing all that much sleep over it. The way Dean saw it, he'd cheated death twice. First when he was electrocuted and brought back by that preacher in Oklahoma, who'd unknowingly killed someone else in Dean's place. Then again when Dad sacrificed himself to the yellow-eyed bastard to bring Dean back from the injuries sustained in a car crash. Ever since the electrocution, Dean had been living on borrowed time, time that had now been stolen from two other people who, frankly, deserved it more than Dean.

  So this time, he was the one making the sacrifice. Paying it forward, in a way. That poor bastard in Oklahoma and Dad had both died so that Dean would live, so now Dean would die so that Sam would live. He fingered the amulet around his neck, a charm that Sam had given him during one of the many Christmases that they had spent alone, Dad off on a job somewhere. Dean had been spending his life protecting Sam, and he wasn't about to let Sam's being stabbed in the back make a failure out of him.