Chapter Two
...
We leave the motel room and Winchester drives. I tell him my ride's running on fumes, when really I just want to see his '67 Impala in action. Bill was right—she's a beauty. Winchester says she's got a V8 327 4 barrel engine, 275 horsepower, three speed auto. I can tell it's his pride and joy. Great upkeep, pristine paint job, and an engine that purrs. I ask him what he wants for it. He just laughs and fixes me with a stare when he sees I'm serious, with a look that says she's not for sale, ask again and I'll kill you. Damn.
We go to a greasy spoon diner. The waitress ain't much to look at, but the food's decent enough. I order a short stack, bacon and eggs. Winchester just gets a black coffee and reads through the case files I've already memorized.
"That all you gonna get?" I ask him as I smother my flapjacks in butter and then drown them in maple syrup.
"I'm not hungry," Winchester says.
"You sure?" I say, cutting out a wedge of the short stack and spearing them with my fork. "Got a big day ahead of us."
"I never eat breakfast," says Winchester. "Always just have a coffee."
"Huh," I say, wondering what the man has against what, in my opinion, is the greatest meal of the day. "But you do plan on eating something today, right? It's bad enough you drove all night and haven't slept in days by the looks of you. I don't need you going all low-blood sugar on me and fainting."
Winchester smirks at the thought of anyone thinking he's the fainting type. "I don't eat much on a hunt. Digestion slows the body down."
Somehow, I'm not surprised. If he was in Hollywood, Winchester would probably be one of those De Niro type method actors.
I consider Winchester now, as he's busy reading and I can get away with staring for a few seconds at a time. He's young. Even younger than I imagined he'd be. Can't be older than thirty. I can see the chain of his dog tags visible under his shirt collar, as if I needed any more proof that he's served. His eyes have the haunted look of a man who's seen combat in close-quarters. And man, the things we saw in Nam...couple that with what we've seen on hunts and it's a miracle we're not sitting in a corner rocking back and forth. Something I've found's the same with being a solider in Nam and a hunter is in both cases the public is largely ignorant and unappreciative of the services we provide. We're not asking for a trophy or anything, but I guess it'd be nice to get thanked every now and then.
I wanna know how Winchester got into the life, but I know better than to ask. There's typically one rule to hunter etiquette, and that's not to ask a fellow hunter how they got started unless you're friendly enough with them that you'll accept an offered flask without sniffing it first.
Most of us have learned not to talk about the war with civilians. For years it was as taboo as telling people what we do as hunters unless strictly necessary. We hardly got warm homecomings, just a bunch of hostility or people who wanted to bury their heads in the sand and pretended we'd been on vacation in Hawaii, and not in the jungles of Southeast Asia fighting a war the public was dead-set against and were looking for something to blame. The miracle of technology—bringing the war into American living rooms, broadcasted on the Zenith with the whole family plus the dog gathered around, hearing the news that sells. Which usually didn't paint us in a favorable light. I boxed up my uniform and stopped talking about Nam when I got home to avoid the abuse.
But it's different talking to someone who was there, who knows the hell we went through. There's a mutual understanding like you can't find anywhere else. I wanna try to figure out if this guy's over the hill yet or not. He looks young. At least seven to ten years younger than me. I'll bet anything he got there the tail end of the war and was sent home in March of '73 with most of the troops. "What year did you join up?"
Winchester's eyes don't even look up from the file. "'71."
"Drafted?"
"No," Winchester says with a short grunt.
He's a regular chatty Cathy, this one. Very forthcoming. And I thought I hated small talk. No harm in wanting to get a sense of the kinda person you're trusting to not screw things up, though. Maybe he still doesn't wanna talk about it. Can't say I blame him if he does. I know there's stuff a lot of us that wish we could forget. A lot of us have adjusted, trying to pick up our lives where we left off and have a normal existence. But at night, we're right back in the jungle, being fired on by an unseen enemy that still lives in our heads. Charlie's settled in and not going anywhere.
Winchester looks up at me, realizing I was looking for more. "Figured I'd get drafted, anyway. I wanted to fight for my country. Wanted to have my say which branch of the military I was in, too. So I volunteered."
"How old were you?" I try again.
"Seventeen. Joined up right outta high school."
I do some quick math: Winchester was seventeen in 1971. It's 1985 now, so that'd make him around 31. Sounds right. "What'd your folks think?" I ask, digging into my bacon. Even with the draft in place, minors needed parental consent.
Winchester shrugs. "Not much, I suspect."
This guy's harder to crack than one of those damn Macadamia nuts that old broad in Tallahassee gave me for getting a poltergeist out of her basement. But I get it. Usually, I'm the moody, brooding one that doesn't say much. Seems I'm the more extroverted between the two of us, though. Or maybe his caffeine just hasn't kicked in yet.
But also, maybe it's remnants of war time mentality. You talk to people, you get to know them. They get to be friends. Then there's a good chance of them getting gunned down or blown up by a landmine right next you. The number of friends I lost in Nam...good men. Young. Had their whole lives ahead of them. After experiences like that, it make you hesitant to get close to anyone, figuring they could be dead the next day. Makes sense if that mindset carries over into hunting. It's the same game. You're just as likely to attend a hunter's burial by funeral pyre for someone you'd been hunting with the week before. Seeing them as a friend just makes it harder. Keeping people at arm's length is a viable protection method. And we've all gotta find our own ways to survive this life.
"What was your company?" I ask. Purely making small talk.
"Echo 2-1 Battalion," Winchester says proudly. "Infantry. Made E-4. You?"
"Miner's 7-1," I say, puffing out my chest. "Also infantry, E-4."
I can see Winchester perk up a bit now. "So you fought in the Tet Offensive in '68." I nod. "That's what got me all fired up. Had to wait a few years before they'd take me, though."
I can imagine. Winchester's already proven to be a gung-ho sort of guy. Doesn't stand around waiting—goes where the fight is. I like that. He sure picked the right branch of military, too. Marines are always the first onto the scene. Looks like Bill's right; Winchester was definitely the right man for the job. Seems he was also right about us having things in common. I hope that works to our advantage, 'cos I've found often as not, people who are too similar butt heads the most.
Winchester raises his coffee mug to his mouth. For the first time, I notice a silver wedding ring on his left hand. I don't know too many hunters who're married—know plenty of widowers, though. In fact, the Harvelles are the only couple where both parties are still breathing that I can think of off the top of my head.
Difference between Bill and Winchester though, is Bill looks like he's making an effort for his woman, and Ellen in turn takes good care of Bill. Which is no easy feat. Winchester, though—I can tell no one's looking after him, and he's not trying to impress anyone, either. In fact, Winchester looks like he's barely holding himself together. Looks like he hasn't shaved in weeks, and hasn't slept in just as long. I guess that his wife's dead. Probably just wearing the ring out of habit. Young guy just starting out in life, Bill said he's been hunting for a year, so it fits. Lots of people get into the business after they lose the love of their life in inexplicable circumstances that turn out to be supernatural. Their quest for answers and revenge leads them on the path to hunting. I should know.
I take another big bite of flapjacks and Winchester's got a look on his face like he's seen something real funny. "What?" I demand, feeling my chin to see if I've got real egg on my face. But Winchester's looking over my shoulder. I turn to see what's so damn funny that's got a smirk out of a guy whose so hard-driven he won't even breakfast. The place is empty apart from a few truckers eating heart attacks on plates and some couple with a little brat in a high chair, smearing a Belgian waffle complete with whipped cream and strawberries on his head and laughing like he thinks he's so damn cute.
There's no one falling down, no one sporting a bad comb over, the Stooges aren't on the TV, or anything else that tickles my funny bone. "What's so funny?" I demand. Ever since I was a kid, I've always hate feeling like I've missed out on a joke. Or am the joke. I subtly wipe my face again with my sleeve.
"Nothing," Winchester shakes his head, going all stone-faced again. Not gonna get him to tell, now. I've seen POW's more forthcoming than him.
"Where're you from?" I ask.
Winchester eyes me dolefully. He must figure the question's harmless enough, 'cos he says, "Normal, Illinois, originally."
"Hoowee," I say. Winchester's just made me understand the meaning of irony better than any of my English Lit teachers in high school ever did. "But you've got Kansas plates."
"I lived there for awhile," says Winchester. It's clear to me that's all he's willing to say about it.
"I'm from Texas, myself, if you couldn't tell by my accent," I say, with almost as much pride as when I talk about being a Marine. "Witchita Falls."
Winchester nods. "Small world. I did a salt and burn job there not two months ago."
Just look at him, offering up information on his own!
"Whose bones?" I ask. "Might be a relative."
"Thomas Dougray."
"Nope. Never heard of him." I take my fork and scrape all the remaining food to the rim of my plate, scoop it up and shovel it into my mouth. I push my empty plate away, get my wallet out of my pocket and smack a small stack of Benjamin's down on the table. Winchester leaves a few quarters for his coffee.
We both sidle out of the booth. On the way out, Winchester nods to our waitress and says, "Have a good day, Ma'am."
"You too, sweetie," she says with a two-pack a day voice. Winchester may be brash, but at least he's been instilled with manners.
We go back to the Impala. Winchester glares at a station wagon that's parked too close to his Chevy for comfort, and checks his side doors for any dings. Satisfied there's no one in the diner in need of a good ass-whooping, he unlocks the car and we get in. He's got the radio tuned to 96.1 FM, the rock station out of Montrose. Zeppelin's "Kashmir" is playing, and Winchester don't need me to tell him to turn it up.
I'm still trying to figure Winchester out, but I'm liking him more by the minute. I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I've barely lit up when Winchester snatches the smoke from my hand and tosses it out his window. "There's no smoking in my car," he says. Fair enough. I can respect that. A man's car is his mobile castle. Still, I don't know too many men who were in the service who're non-smokers. My fingers itch for another smoke, but the damn things are so expensive I don't wanna waste another when I know right where the next one'll go if I try.
I give Winchester directions to the house where the nanny is just waiting to pounce on the kids. We park across the street and a few houses down, so we don't look too suspicious.
"The mom's car's already gone," I say, squinting down the street. There's a Ford LTD in the driveway. "But that ain't the same car our monster drives...she's got an Audi."
"Then who's that?" says Winchester, pointing.
I see a petite, brunette-haired woman leaving the house with a car seat, heading for the Ford. She opens up the back passenger door and starts strapping the baby seat in. "That's...not her," I say slowly. "They can alter their appearances, but I don't think—"
The words haven't even gotten fully past my gums before Winchester's getting out of his car. "Oh, we're moving? Don't wait for me or nothing," I yell, wrestling with my seat belt buckle. Winchester's stopped close by his car, but looks real antsy. My bad knee from the war picks now to act up as I almost have to chase Winchester down the street.
The Ford's reversing out of driveway, is flung into drive and comes barreling down the road towards us, going way too fast for a residential street. I wonder if it is the Lamia in a new skin and a new ride making a run for it, after all, trying to shake us off the trail. I stop and wave my arms to get the car to slow down and stop, but Winchester, that crazy son of a bitch—well, he goes out in the middle of the road, jumps out ten feet in front of a moving car, and holds out his hand like he's COMMANDING it to stop. The brakes screech as the car stops just in time, so close the bumper's practically touching Winchester's kneecaps. The driver blares her horn, and I can hear her yelling all sorts of unladylike names at Winchester through the tempered glass windows.
"Are you crazy? How'd you know she'd stop in time?!" I shout, wondering if Bill sent me a guy so reckless he bordered on being suicidal. Winchester ignores me and whips out a badge from his jacket, goes around to the driver's side, makes a fist and raps on the window.
I see the woman look from Winchester's face to the badge, clearly wondering if he's for real or just a damn crazy fool with a stolen badge. The face must match the badge, 'cos suddenly she looks less pissed off and more confused and scared like people always do when pulled over by the law. "...Did I do something wrong?"
"Apart from going at least thirty-five on a twenty mile-per-hour street?" Winchester says, replacing his badge and looping one thumb on his belt, easily carrying the presence of authority to pull off being a special agent. He's almost got me convinced; Winchester's the kind of man who radiates intensity, like he has one purpose and his whole existence depends on the successful completion of whatever the task right at hand is. Right now, that's making a civilian believe that he's a Federal Agent.
"Ma'am, can I please see some ID?"
The woman fumbles in her purse, finds her wallet and hands Winchester her driver's license with shaking hands. Winchester takes it, studies it, peers at the woman and back at her ID, and finally hands it back. He gives me a nod that says she checks out. From what I know, Lamia's are into creating their own aliases, not in stealing identities.
Winchester glances in the backseat, at the bouncing baby boy in the car seat.
"Ms. Fleming, what is your relation to the Ward family?" Winchester asks.
"I'm their nanny," says Ms. Fleming, her voice shaking. "The agency assigned me this morning after the old nanny quit...am I in trouble for speeding, or...?"
I feel a jolt at this news. New nanny? What happened to the old one—the one we're hunting, that I spent the last three months tracking? I step forward, show her my badge, too. "Special Agent Turner," I stick out my hand.
"Laura Fleming," she says, shaking it. Still looking scared she's gonna get thrown in federal prison or something.
"Ms. Fleming, do you have any idea why the previous nanny for the Ward family, Ms. Sheri Hayes, resigned from her position?" I ask.
Laura shook her head. "No, I don't. Apparently she just called in this morning and said she quits."
"She didn't give Ms. Ward any indication that she planned on quitting before today?" Winchester asks. "No notice?"
"No," says Laura. "Not that I know of, anyway. I think it was all pretty out of the blue."
"Do you know if Mrs. Ward and Ms. Hayes were having any issues?" Winchester asks, before elaborating, "With the kids. Or if Ms. Hayes was exhibiting any strange behavior?"
Laura makes a "Pfft" sound people do whenever they're overly exasperated. "No idea. I mean, she was in a hurry to get to work, she was stressed out. I got there as soon as I could, there wasn't time to-"
Winchester sounds a bit agitated that we're not getting anywhere. "Do you have any information that would be useful to us?"
"I don't know," Laura snaps, gripping the steering wheel tight. "Why don't you go ask Mrs. Ward, the person who actually knew the last nanny?"
"You worked for the same agency, correct?" Winchester asks.
"Yes," Laura says, her voice dripping with annoyance. "But it's not like I ever saw her. Just because we work for the same agency doesn't mean we know each other."
Winchester clicks his tongue, sounding equally annoyed. I get the feeling he's the sort whose good at rubbing people the wrong way. "Ma'am, this is a Federal investigation for a missing person—"
"Missing?" Laura looks confused now as well as harassed. "Because she quit her job? Isn't there some sort of forty-eight hour thing?"
"Ms. Hayes' sudden resignation is part of a bigger investigation, Ma'am," I say.
"What? She's not some serial killer, is she?" Laura's eyes widen when we don't answer right away. "Oh, God..."
"Ms. Fleming," said Winchester by way of distraction, "You care to tell me where you're taking that child off to in such a hurry?"
Laura calms down enough to say, "The gas station on the corner. The baby's sick and needs some cold medicine."
Winchester raises his eyebrows, looks in the back seat at the kid. "Try again," he says, probably deciding the kid looks just fine. I don't know. He looks like every other kid I've ever seen.
"Okay, I'm going to buy Lotto tickets," Laura admits. "The jackpot's up to 4.5 million."
"Drawing's not till eleven tonight. What's the hurry?" I ask.
Laura huffs and admits, "I was trying to get back before Days of our Lives comes on. Happy?" Me and Winchester exchange a look. "What?" Laura says, defensive. "You two try watching a baby all day. It can get pretty boring. Honestly, I don't even know if I want kids after doing this job."
"Be sure to mention that to your employer," says Winchester, leaning in his car and waving at the kid. Gets a smile out of him, too. But I don't know a damn thing about rugrats. Maybe smiling's a reaction of fear in kids and he's actually pissing himself. Winchester's probably a pretty alarming looking guy to youngsters.
"If you do go see Mrs. Ward, do you think you could maybe...not tell her about this?" Laura says, sheepish. "I really need this job."
"Alright," I say, getting a business card out of my jacket pocket. "As long as you give us a call if you hear anything about Ms. Hayes. Leave a message if no one picks up at the office."
"Thank you. I will," Laura says. "Can I go now?"
Winchester looks like he's not done questioning her yet, but I can tell Laura's already told us everything she knows—which is nothing. "You're free to go." She takes off the brake and moves forward a foot before Winchester's stopping her again. "Back to the house, that is."
"What?" says Lauren, narrowing her eyes.
"We need you to stay at the house," I say.
"What—why?" Lauren demands.
Winchester sighs. "We need you to be our informant. Stay home, call the Agency, see what you can find out about Ms. Haye's resignation and anything else you hear. Don't be late picking up the other two kids. Keep the doors and windows locked, and make something with lots of rosemary in it for the kid's dinners."
"Rosemary—why?" Laura looks at us like we're in some kinda cult.
"Apart from the flavor boost, it's good for the immune system," I say off the cuff.
"Burn some rosemary as incense, too," Winchester says, and the woman has no idea he's telling her how to ward off baby-munching monsters. "It's very aromatic."
The nanny looks at us like we're both complete freaks. She rolls up her window, reverses down the street and pulls back into the driveway. We follow enough to see her get kid out of the backseat and carry him into the house, giving us a dirty look before slamming the door. And I'll bet she locked it up tight, too. Good.
"I'm surprised you didn't just throw rosemary and salt in her face instead of carding her," I say.
"I thought about it," Winchester mutters. "So you think these things skipped town?"
"Looks like it," I say, spitting onto the asphalt. Months worth of work straight down the crapper. "Let's go back to the motel and get my car. We'll split up and check out the daycare and elementary school so we know for sure, then go talk to Mrs. Ward, too. She's a secretary at a law office by day."
"You got enough gas to make it?" Winchester asks.
"I'll fill up on the way into town," I say, remembering to keep up my little fib.
We get in the car and go. Winchester's a good driver; good in the way that he pauses at stop signs just long enough that he can't get written up for failing to stop, seems to be able to find all the green lights and has a sixth sense when it comes to speeding. He always seems to slow down just as a cop car comes into sight, dropping the speedometer down fast enough to able to innocently say, "What seems to be the problem, Officer?" and have the cop come up with nothing.
We pull into the Sleep EZ motel, where it looks like someone's having a bonfire in the parking lot. "Shit..." I say, realizing it's my car that's on fire. "Son of a BITCH!" I yell, thumping the dashboard with both fists.
The lot's got a couple of cop cars in it and a fire truck, lights flashing. I jump out of the Impala while she's still moving, run over to my car—my baby's been torched. Betsy's totally engulfed in flames and smoking like a chimney. Two firemen have got a hose on her to put out the flames. I try to get closer but I get a few cops on me, in my face, going, "Sir, please stand back..." and "Is this your car?"
"Yes!" I yell, trying to bulldoze past them, and they push right back to stop me. I take out some of my frustration by kicking a crumpled up beer can. "It's my damn car—or what's left of it!"
"Sir, please calm down," the cop says, which just makes me more pissed and anything but calm. "What's your name?"
Remembering I've impersonated a Federal Agent around some of these civil servants, I pull out my badge and say, "Special Agent Turner. I've been working the case on the missing children with your Department." Winchester turns up next to me. "This is my new partner, Agent—" I stall and clear my throat when it occurs to me that I don't know the moniker Winchester uses.
Luckily he's on it, whipping out his badge. "Hergescheimer."
Diamonds are Forever. Very nice. "So new I don't even know his name," I force myself to laugh, still staring at the heap of twisted metal that once was my home away from home. "Just met him this morning, in fact."
"How long were you away from your vehicle, Agent Turner?" the cop asks.
"An hour? Hour and a half?" I look to Winchester for confirmation.
Winchester looks at his watch. "Hour and fifteen."
The cop suddenly looks skeptical. "You guys have been staying here?" There's no denying this place is the pits. Mice, cockroaches, mold and a furnace on the fritz. But hey, it's affordable and hunting don't pay.
"The Bureau doesn't cover our travel expenses," I say. I don't know if this is actually true, but luckily, the cop doesn't seem to know, either.
"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" he asks. "Anyone with motive?"
"I think we might have some idea," Winchester says. Seems he's reached the same conclusion I have—that the Lamias are unto us and are sending us a warning. Either that or some punks were playing with Molotov cocktails—but at this early hour? Seems doubtful.
I realize Winchester's holding my case file and he opens it up to the pages with the snapshots of the three cars the Lamias are known to drive, and close-ups I took of their license plates. "We believe the drivers of these vehicles may have committed the arson in an effort to impede our case. We need an APB out on all of them. If there's a sighting, we need to be notified at this number." He nods to me and I pull one of my business cards out of my pocket with the number for my motel room and hand it to the officer. "These three women here are our prime suspects. We also have reason to believe they are all armed and extremely dangerous and advise no one approach or try to apprehend them. They also may have altered their appearances."
"Yes, Sir. I'll give these to my Chief right away," says the Officer, hurrying off with the pages Winchester gave him.
"If they have skipped town, let's just hope they haven't ditched their cars," Winchester mutters, hand on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry about yours, by the way."
"So am I," I say, watching as the team works to put out the fire. But it's too late—I'm gonna be in the market for a new ride. I've had Betsy since before I started hunting, and the loss cuts deep.
"I've got to make a call," Winchester says.
"Here," I say, dumbly handing him the room key. He takes off and I'm left talking to Police Chief Nash about the suspects, answering all his questions so the demise of my car can be thoroughly investigated, and watching as the firemen put out the last of the flames. Lucky for me, the motel manager's statement about whodunnit confirms Winchester's suspicions, and lets us know the Lamias still look the same. Or at least they did half an hour ago.
The Chief promises to call if there's any sightings. In the meantime, I've got nothing I can do for the case but sit on my thumbs and wait in my room by the phone soon as Winchester's off it. Great. Just great. Standing there watching the cop cars and firetrucks drive away, there's two things I know: I'm pissed as hell, and those kiddy-snatching, truck-torching bitches are going to burn.
Every cuss word I know comes out of my mouth in one long stream as I get a closer look at the wreckage of my truck. The frame's still radiating heat, so I ball up my jacket around my fist like an over-sized oven mitt and open the Jobox in my flat bed. Luckily, all my tools and weapons were protected from the flames. That's a relief, at least, and all my clothes and few personal belongings I own are all in my duffel bag in the room. So looking on the bright side, at least I haven't lost everything.
Winchester comes out of the room. "How many calls did you make?" I holler.
Winchester stands with his hands in his pockets. "I called Bill and put out a hunter APB. At least they'll know what to do if they find them." Winchester comes around the side of my truck, leans in as far as he can over the busted window without scorching himself. "Logan, check this out..."
I hop down from the flatbed and go to see. There's a pile of ashes in the back seat, and fragments of what look like—
"Bones..." I scowl.
"See that bit of skull there?" Winchester says. "Kid that came from couldn't have been older than six. They're definitely trying to warn us to back off."
I haven't wanted to take out any monsters as much since I killed the one that got me started hunting in the first place. "But we're not gonna."
"Damn straight," Winchester says. "I'll go confirm the other two Lamias never showed up to work and get a list of all the kids that are absent at the school and daycare so we can confirm their locations. Then I'll go interview Mrs. Ward."
"And I'll stay here by the phone," I say lamely.
"Sorry, someone's gotta," Winchester says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I give Winchester the addresses he needs and go back and wait in the room by the phone, listening to police radio for any vehicle sightings or reported kidnappings. It's all pretty dead on the wire. All the usual suspects must still be sleeping off their misdeeds. Traditionally Lamia like to work at night, but we're keeping every orifice peeled to make sure they haven't gone out of sequence skipping town like this, and trying to find out if they took any kids with 'em.
I hate waiting by the phone. I'd rather be out there hunting down these things myself—if I still had a car. Having no choice but to sit here in a dark dank motel room staring at the wall and waiting for something to happen is like a form of impotence. I wonder how long it'll be before someone invents a phone that can go anywhere. That day can't come quick enough if you ask me. If they'd hurry up with it already, we might just be able to save a few lives.
...
TBC
