The Kids Aren't Alright
Chapter 1: Now I'm Here
After some time all the roads around here begin to look the same – the narrow turns, drifting headlights and bold signs become a blur as I wander from town to town with nothing but a car full of weapons, books and disguises to keep me company. As I round another bend my car radio gleefully picks up a new station, and starts bleating at me with an uninspired guitar riff.
"Them pantyhose ain't gonna last too long
If the DJ puts Bon Jovi on
She might come home in a table cloth
Yeah, tequila makes her clothes fall off."
"…the hell is this crap?" I mutter to myself. I don't often talk to myself in the car, but when I do it's usually about questionable music on the radio.
Reaching down, I fidget with my car's radio tuner, trying to find one station that isn't playing country. After static, country, static, country, country, I settle on a faint station playing an Eminem hit that's so old I remember it from parties in high school. Now those are some distant memories.
Eyes on the road, my mind drifts back to a time when my biggest concerns were being allowed to go to parties and Mac stealing my clothes. There were shadows then too – the angry spirit that followed Dad home from a case, the weird demonic snake thing that Mum had to light on fire before getting Mac and me to dowse it in holy water, countless others. But back then hunting was an option: I had a life, friends, and a future.
Now hunting is everything. An endless lonely cycle of wandering, death, moments of sheer terror and occasionally saving someone. That last part makes up for it most of the time. But sometimes I wish I could go back to when hunting was in the background of my life.
My phone lets out a shrill ring, bursting to life in its little holder near my dashboard. I glance at the screen. It's a number I don't recognize with an Illinois area code. Haven't been there in months, but I do have contacts there. I hit answer.
"Yeah?"
"Sidney?" a female voice asks in an urgent, breathy tone. I haven't spoken to this woman in over a year, but I recognize her voice immediately.
"Carla," I say, both glad to hear from her, and wary about the reason she's calling.
Carla Brown is a tough-as-nails single mother from Rosiclare who took me into her own home after finding me unconscious, drenched and bleeding on a bank of the Ohio River. When I came to, she gave me a long talk about her violent ex-husband, how she knew what I was going through and that suicide wasn't the answer. She shook her head every time I tried to explain it was a "hunting accident", but changed her tune pretty quick once the river monster tracked me to her house. Through the water pipes.
Eyeing my phone, I slow my car down. If Carla's in trouble, I can turn around and take the I-172 to Illinois. "Carla, are you ok?"
"Me, yes," she answers quickly. There's a pause. "But… you said to call you if anything, strange, well, if I need…"
"What happened? Is Megan-"
"Megan's fine. She's asleep. It's my friend Louise, from Elizabethtown. She's dead."
I wait for Carla to elaborate, sensing her reluctance to reveal anything that's going to make her sound crazy. She wouldn't call me unless her friend's death was unexplainable, terrifying, and most likely of paranormal causes. After more silence, I coax her. "Tell me everything you know."
"I found her last Sunday. I was supposed to pick her up for church and a lunch date – we try to do it every month. Her house was unlocked, and her body was in the front room, all twisted. Her neck was broken. The police ruled it an accident. They said she must have fallen down the stairs that night, in the dark."
"And you don't believe that."
Her breathing is shaky, and I can hear her trying to contain sobs. "Her body was hanging in mid-air, Sidney. Just floating right in front of me when I opened the door. As soon as I touched her, she fell to the ground."
Without another thought, I yank the steering wheel and turn the car around, tires screeching.
"The police say I must have imagined it in my traumatized state, that what I described in my statement is impossible. Bullshit. I know it's easier to assume the black woman's crazy than admit something could have done that to a person, I get that. But Louise didn't fall down no damn stairs, and whatever killed her could still be out there."
Carla's anger and grief and fear is palpable, even through the phone. I do the calculations in my head. "I can be in Rosiclare in twelve hours."
A heavy sigh of relief comes from the other end of the phone. "Oh honey, thank you. I shoulda called you straight away. Listen, there's something else. Louise's daughter's missing. Now, she's a little troubled, and she's run away before, so I'm not sure if it's connected. She disappeared for three weeks once, then turned up just fine. But, what if…?"
"I'm on my way."
For the first time during the call, Carla's voice grows steadier, and she sounds more like the no-nonsense mother she is, and less like a terrified woman who's seen the unthinkable. "You stay at my place, and for as long as you need. Don't even think about paying for one of those roach trap motels you're always stayin' at. Do you need money?"
I ignore that, as always. "You still got the protections up around your house?"
"Yes. And I'm not letting Megan out of my sight until you get here."
"Good. Stay safe Carla, I'm coming. Don't do anything until I get there, ok?"
"Thanks again, hon. You take care now, and I'll see you soon."
It's late afternoon by the time I reach Rosiclare, following the directions to Carla's house by heart even though I haven't been there in a year. It's a combination of good instincts and memories that guides me through the dusty roads, past manicured lawns and squabbling kids on bikes. But as I get closer to her street, I realize with a slow dread that something is very, very wrong.
Her street has been cordoned off with bright yellow tape emblazoned with Crime Scene: Do Not Cross. Bad sign. I slow my car to a crawl, reminding myself to keep calm. It might not be Carla. But if it is, I'll need a cover, and I don't want my vehicle spotted at the crime scene. Instead of approaching the murmuring crowd and uniformed police officers, I quickly turn my car around and park one street away.
Rummaging in the glove compartment beside me, I retrieve two silver knives and slip them into the hidden sheaths in my boots, before loading my Smith & Wesson. Once the street is clear, I swing out of my car, sliding my gun into its familiar holster and making my way to Carla's house on foot.
I'm dialing Carla's number as I turn the corner, keeping my distance from the crowd and trying to look like your average nosy pedestrian. Pick up, I think to myself, as if I can force Carla to be alive through sheer determination. The ringing on her end echoes just like I was afraid it would, and my walking pace quickens. Pick up, pick up, pick up.
Her phone rings out and I grit my teeth as her voicemail message comes on. Oh please, don't let me be too late. I've almost reached the police tape now, and I can make out the patrol cars and white vans parked haphazardly in front of Carla and Megan's brick home.
"Just awful," an old Italian man says beside me, shaking his head solemnly. I lower my phone, hanging up without leaving a voicemail message.
"What happened?" I ask, trying to convey wide-eyed curiosity rather than fear.
"Carla Brown in number 23, she's been killed, and her little girl is missing. Damn shame."
The world stops. No, no, no. I'm too late. Everything spins a little as I turn back to the house, watching police officers and crime scene analysts converging on Carla's lawn.
"Oh, Jesus," I breathe. My mind runs screaming straight through that police tape, and I visualize it beating down police officers to get to Carla's door. I blink, hard. "How was she killed?"
"Roy Wheeler's girl," the man says, pointing to a little blonde girl about twelve-years-old, huddled in a grey blanket with her father hovering protectively between her and a detective. "She came by to visit Megan, and found Carla dead in the living room, neck broken. No sign of Megan."
I take note of the information as the man continues. "They aren't saying it of course, but I'll bet my life it was that no-good ex-husband of hers. Mark my words, that son of a bitch broke in there, throttled poor Carla, and took off with the daughter. Damn shame."
The man wanders back to his wife, still muttering about Carla's ex, and I almost wish he was right. If Carla's killer is her plain old ex-husband I can hunt him down just fine, before beating him within an inch of his life and handing him over to the cops. But the similarities to Louise's murder – mother with broken neck, missing daughter – spells case. I spin on my heel and walk swiftly away, swallowing a lump in my throat as I do so.
There's no way I'm getting close to the crime scene for hours, and without any contacts in Rosiclare or Mac's "skills", I don't have the option of posing as a fed to investigate. I'm going to have to get a room for the night and begin researching the area. Preferably starting with the local bar. You'd be surprised at the things you can learn about a town once you buy a round for the bar.
Afterwards, I'll have to go back to my room and do what every hunter dreads – open a murder case file for someone I knew.
After fifteen minutes of driving, I've found a suitably seedy motel and booked a room for the week, posing as a tourist. My plan is to shower, change, then head to nearest bar and start mingling with the locals. Carla's murder will be the talk of the town, I'm guessing. So I'll act shocked when I hear about it, and concerned about Megan's disappearance, and shake my head at all the right moments in conversation, all while doing my best not to let on that this case is deeply, deeply personal.
It's only when I'm finally in the safety of my room's squeaky shower, steaming hot water running over my face, that I do something I very rarely allow myself to do.
Shaking, I clutch my face in my hands and cry.
A/N: Sid's not alone in wanting to solve Carla's murder - stay tuned for the next chapter, when she runs into two certain brothers who also want in on this case!
Song lyrics taken from "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off" by Joe Nichols.
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