WEDNESDAY

Cas was putting on his trench coat when the door opened and Dean, wearing the suit but with the tie trailing out of a jacket pocket, burst into the hotel room. "Bank account's cleaned out."

"Sam?"

"He wouldn't do that to me. If he can withdraw money, he can get in touch. I tried to make a withdrawal, got the good news." Dean was getting his weapons bag out of the closet. "Marshal Ulrich started makin' calls and raisin' hell. You can only pull out $500 in one day, so I asked where withdrawals were made. One Monday afternoon from Kansas City, right from the same ATM where I was."

"She came here? Of course she did," Cas answered himself. "She came here to get Sam's weapons bag."

"Using the Coronet. She stole the bag and then pulled out as much from the account as she could. The account was cleaned out yesterday at seven p.m. by a withdrawal from an ATM in Lebanon, Kansas."

"She's at the bunker."

"The only way she can know about it is if she's got Sam with her. The only way she can get in is with his key."

"We'll formulate a plan along the way."

Cas started toward the door, but Dean raised a hand. "You're staying here. It's gonna take me about five hours to get there, and in case she comes back here, I don't want both of us wasting our time chasing her back and forth. You do what we were gonna do – study the security tape at the Linda Hall Library, find a nice quiet spot for demon interrogation. I'll call you when I get to the bunker, and later when I know what's going on."

"Be careful, Dean. Please." Cas' voice was urgent.

Dean looked into his eyes and smiled just a little as he pulled the car keys out of his pocket. "I'll have Sam call you when I've got him," and he was gone.

.

Jim slept late and luxuriantly, leaving the hotel room at the last possible moment before checkout time. After an inexpensive but hearty breakfast, he walked to the gas station and got a burner phone.

He found a consignment store selling a shirt that actually fit him pretty well, a solid dark green. The store had a used backpack that only cost three dollars, and he bought it happily. He was really tired of carrying around a ratty-looking grocery store bag inside a ratty-looking drugstore bag. He put his new shirt, as carefully as he could, into a side pocket of the backpack, where it would wrinkle but at least stay clean. Tonight he'd ask Len if he could keep the new shirt at the "storage facility."

It was a mile-and-a-half walk back to the Plaza Library, and he took a detour to return to the grocery store. He was going back on a diet of jerky, trail mix, and apples. The difference was that he bought more of them, and paid for them. He ate one of the apples and some trail mix for lunch, drinking from a brand-new bottle of water, as he sat on a bench in the big park near the Plaza Library.

He was eagerly anticipating the start of his job that night. It wasn't just the money, although of course he was looking forward to that. After his night in the hotel and his spending spree today, he was back down to less than ten dollars. But mostly, he was looking forward to being part of a team.

He hadn't realized how much that was a part of him. He hadn't minded being by himself too much the last couple of days. He'd figured he'd probably been by himself for a while, because it just didn't bother him. But helping Mike last night, hearing Mike talk to Len about people they both obviously knew – Elijah and Jana and Lloyd – struck a chord in him. He thought he'd had this at some point. In the military? In a gang? Just a normal life with co-workers and a family who relied on him?

He tried coming up with a memory, any memory, yet again, and yet again he couldn't. But the sense of teamwork being fulfilling was indelible.

He tried to think of any association he might have with the word "family" or "team." He almost hoped he didn't have a family; they'd have been frantic for the last couple of days. But again came the sense of danger if anyone found out who he was. If he did have a family, maybe they were better off without him.

Well, that line of thought had got depressing real fast. He shook himself metaphorically, stood, threw the apple core in a trash can, refilled the bottle at the water fountain, and headed toward the library. He wanted to see if he had any response to the question he'd sent verminmurder yesterday.

.

Cas was looking at the security tape in a small dark room at the Linda Hall Library. The camera in the Rare Book reading room was set high up on the wall in the front of the large room. It gave a view of two sets of long tables, two desks with computers behind those, and then, behind a low barrier of two sets of bookshelves, an even longer table and more computers. At the very back of the room you could just see the smoky glass wall that gave a glimpse into the Rare Books vault, long shelves featuring books hundreds of years old.

Sam was sitting at one of the front tables. A large fat volume, presumably Monstrorum historia, sat in front of him on two firm foam wedges that kept the book from falling completely open, which would strain the spine. Cas couldn't see which page he was looking at, but he could see that there was an illustration on one page. Sam made notes with the library-provided pencil and paper, nodding.

Behind him and across the room, Beau Yellen, the elderly scholar, was looking at a thinner volume and typing on one of the computers. Scott Anderson, the graduate student, greeted the cheery woman at the front desk as he put his backpack into a cubbyhole by her desk, first extracting the laptop he was obviously going to work with.

As Anderson walked toward the table on the other side of the room from Sam, he crossed paths with Lili Cabot, who had been standing with her back to the room looking into the vault. Now she was headed toward the front. She looked down as she passed Sam, and Cas paused the tape.

She was a pretty girl with long dark hair, dressed in black – or at least a color so dark it passed for black on the black-and-white security tape. Sam had his head turned, making notes, and didn't notice the girl – or if he did, he clearly wasn't bothered by her.

Cas studied the still image, making some mental notes, then re-started the tape. Lili walked toward the door as Sam looked back at the book. Lili pulled a cloth shoulder bag from one of the cubbyholes, as the woman at the front desk said something to her with a smile, and disappeared from the frame as she got to the door.

He wondered when Lili had entered the room, and was about to rewind the tape, when a sweet voice behind him said, "Excuse me, Marshal – is it Heifetz?"

Castiel looked around. "Yes."

"Mr. Gross said you might want to talk to me."

"You're the librarian who walked Sam McIntyre down to the Rare Book room."

"Yes. I was off yesterday, but they told me this morning you'd be coming back in today. You really think he's in some kind of danger?"

"We are concerned. Sometimes people in the Witness Protection program have a sudden panic and disappear, thinking that they can protect themselves better than we can protect them. They are wrong."

"I wonder why he came here to read Monstrorum historia? That seems odd, for someone panicked."

"It does," Cas said. "What did he say when he came in?"

"Just that he was looking forward to looking at the book. He didn't seem stressed. He showed me his ID, and I took him downstairs. That was pretty much all, the first time."

Cas' head lifted. "The first time?"

"Yes, before he came back in. You didn't – No, of course you wouldn't." She looked surprised. "When he came back, I think Larry and I were the only staff members in the main room. No one else would've seen him. And Larry didn't even talk to him. Yes, Mr. McIntyre left, said goodbye very pleasantly, and then he came back about an hour later."

"He wanted to look at the book again?"

"Yes, but Cindy had a meeting and there wasn't anyone else to staff the reading room at the time. I asked him if he could come back the next day, and he laughed in a kind of – strange way, and said something like, 'I don't see any reason why not.'"

Cas stood. "Did anything else seem strange about him?"

She made a little moue. "Not at the time. Now that I know what was going on with him, of course everything seems strange. He seemed a little confused. Not to a point that was alarming, just – Like, he had a smudge on his forehead and he didn't even seem to know it until I pointed it out."

"A smudge," Cas repeated. "What did it look like?"

"Mud, maybe? He said he fell asleep outside and hoped he didn't rub his face in anything disgusting, but it didn't look like that. It looked a little like the smudge of ash that some people get on their forehead for Lent, but it wasn't ash, it was thicker."

"Did you notice if it had a smell?"

She looked startled. "No."

"I assume he washed it off."

"Yes, went into the restroom to do that. Then he wanted to use one of the computers."

"He used a computer here?"

"Yes. He stayed there till closing – "

Cas was already moving toward the door. "Show me which one."

.

No door slamming this time. Dean entered the Men of Letters bunker almost silently at the top of the steps, gun pointed down toward the main floor, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

He hadn't taken time to change out of the suit before leaving, but he'd shed the jacket, his shirt collar was open, and the shirt sleeves were rolled up, so he had some freedom of movement even in the dress shirt. Keeping his gaze moving, he descended the stairs to the War Room, searching it quickly, gun in a two-handed grip.

He raised his head and sniffed a little.

No one in the dining alcove or the kitchen. But someone had made an omelette with mushrooms and those little green onions Sam liked, and had left the pan and dishes just sitting there.

He cleared the kitchen, went into the main hall, looking under each long table, even behind the telescope. About halfway through he broke stride and mouthed a curse, when he saw that a katana and its rack were both missing.

He cleared the bedrooms and bathroom, one by one, cleared the computer room. Castiel had a room – just on general principles, he had no need for sleep or privacy – and the bed had been slept in last night.

By the time Dean had reached the storage room, he was so confident the intruder had moved on that, looking around, he felt free to swear out loud.

.

"Sam's not here," Dean said the instant that Cas answered his phone. "But she was. Had herself some dinner, did the Goldilocks thing and picked out your bed to sleep in, cleaned out the wall safe, and took everything she could carry."

"She has cursed objects?"

"Luckily, only two. She seems to like the stuff that has obvious value, and you know, a lot of times cursed objects don't look like much. She took a katana, some of the antique guns, the witch collar, the ebony mortar and pestle, the gold blade – that would be a bitch to replace – a lot of stuff like that. That inventory was a pain in the ass, but I'm glad Sam – "

His voice faded, and as Cas started to speak, Dean continued, "No sign that Sam ate or slept here. But that doesn't, that doesn't mean – She might just have him tied up in the Coronet."

"I have a lead," Cas said, and Dean sucked in a breath. "Sam came back into the library about an hour after he left. The only person he spoke to was a librarian who was gone when we came in yesterday. He asked to see the Aldrovandi book again, but the Rare Book reading room was closed at that point. The librarian says he seemed a little strange, though not enough to cause alarm. He had a smudge of something that looked like mud on his forehead, which he washed off in the bathroom. Then he asked to use one of the library's public-access computers. She told me which computer it was, and I researched the computer's history from two days ago."

"You – did?"

"I am not completely technologically ignorant, Dean."

"Yeah, I know, I just – Sorry – "

"The librarian assisted me," Cas added, and Dean snorted. "Sam first researched the Linda Hall Library and its location in Kansas City."

"Like – he didn't know?"

"He also researched missing persons and escaped criminals in this region; homeless shelters, soup kitchens, grocery stores, and convenience stores; and amnesia."

There was a pause. Then Dean said softly, "Damn."

"I don't understand something. If Sam has been stricken with amnesia, why did he not simply go to a hospital? Surely we'd have seen a story about an amnesiac man on the local news, or on the internet."

"There must be something left – some instincts, something. Because if you were raised by John Winchester, let me tell you, going to strangers for help when you don't know exactly the source of the problem is the last thing you do. You don't tell anyone anything about the family business. If you're injured, worse than you can fix it yourself, OK, you go to a hospital, but you don't let 'em put you to sleep unless you've got an ally in the room. If you're sick, you tough it out. If you're suicidal, you find something to kill and kill it instead. You never, never just show up at someone's door and say, 'I'm hurt, please help me.' Or 'I'm messed up.' Or 'I can't remember who I am, please show my picture around.' Because you might luck out and get help, or you might be opening yourself up to – ghouls, demons, who knows what."

After a moment, Castiel said, "I knew your biography, of course. But from time to time I forget how isolated you were. Humans are somewhat lonely creatures in any case, but your upbringing was – strikingly so."

There was a moment of silence before Dean said, "Probably a good thing. The memory of those Leviathans who went on a murder spree looking like us is still pretty raw. And we got a break, now everyone thinks we're dead, but if Sam's face was out there – " he swore. "Who'd get him first? The FBI or some demon who recognized him and pretended to be a friend? We've got to get him back, Cas. We need to find him first, then we can deal with whatever this Lili Cabot did to his memory."

"So we need to determine what Sam will do under these circumstances."

"Yeah, and we need – " Dean looked around the storage room, its pulled-out drawers and shelves with empty stretches. "Why give Sam amnesia? She did something to make Sam give her his keys and the password to the bank account, OK, we're dealing with some kind of supernatural thief, but then why the amnesia? Just to keep Sam from identifying her later?"

"I don't know. But as you say, our primary focus now needs to be on finding Sam. I will go to the places he researched while you're driving back."

"Got transportation?"

"I think a cab driver may be influenced to take me where I need to go."

"I bet. I'll be back ASAP. Keep in touch."

.

"If cops show up with a warrant, you're just night security, you need the boss's permission to let them in," Tony told Jim. "You call Len. You already put his number on your phone, right?"

"Right. When he gave me the jacket."

The jacket was a navy blue windbreaker, not chic at all, but someone had done a good job of gluing "SECURITY" in bright white letters across the back. Jim had the gun in the back of his waistband, and the jacket just covered it. Len had asked him a few friendly questions about the weapon, which Jim recognized as an attempt to establish that Jim understood how to handle a gun. Once Jim had passed that test, Len had turned him over to Tony for training.

Since Jim wasn't even going to be walking inside the building and wasn't encouraged to ask questions, the training was going pretty quickly. "If a customer walks up to the door and just asks to be let in, you tell 'em that management will be here tomorrow at ten if they want to store something. If they don't know to press the button and look up at the camera, they don't belong here."

"Got it."

"If they're on a phone call, tell 'em to wrap it up before they try to get in. No phones allowed in the club."

"Bet you get some pushback on that."

Tony looked wry. "Mostly from the card dealers. The customers – usually, if you ask 'em if they'd like to have an undercover cop taking video in there, they get the point. If they don't, they go out."

"Should I take the phone?"

"No. They hand it to me when they step inside, and I do a quick check with a hand-held metal detector. No guns allowed, either."

"If someone has one – "

"I ask for it politely, give it to Jana with the phone. She tends bar, and there's a locked cabinet behind there. She gives 'em a number for the phone or the gun. When they leave, she gives 'em to me, I give it back to the customer at the door."

"This is impressive."

Tony shrugged. "Len's nobody's fool. He pays taxes on the storage facility, has a corporate name for it and everything."

"And I'm sure he reports all of its income."

"I'm sure he does," Tony said with a grin. "He owns the business upstairs, too. He can go straight from one business to the other."

"What's the other business?"

"Vintage clothes. Jana actually manages that one, decides what to buy and how much to pay and who all works there, but Len owns it."

"I'd like to meet Jana. Store manager, bartender, and gun-check girl. That's versatility."

"I'll have her come out and say hi to you tomorrow. Get your phone out."

Jim did, and Tony gave Jim his own phone number and, by memory, Jana's. "If you have any questions, call her or me, don't bother Len. She's here Thursday through Saturday, I'm here Tuesday Wednesday Friday Saturday."

"And if I have a question on Sunday or Monday?"

"Ask Reggie, he's on the door those nights. But you'll have to use the door buzzer to talk to him, Len and Jana and me are the only ones with phones inside the club. But Reggie knows a lot."

"All right."

"What's your schedule?"

Jim smiled. "I don't really have one. I think Len's expecting that I'm going to come here for a couple of nights and then forget the place exists. Can't blame him."

"Must be weird. What do you remember?"

Jim hesitated. "Just enough to know that I'm not eager to have the police digging into my identity."

Tony nodded slowly. "Once you get some money together, Len knows a guy who can get you a birth certificate and driver's license."

"Great."

"Any troublemakers, take 'em down to the street there." Tony pointed down the passage between the retaining walls. "No yelling and fighting right outside the club door. If you need help getting it under control – " he pointed at the button on the door – "hit that three times real fast. That's a signal to me."

"What if you're not by the door?"

"Most of the time I am. But the button's connected to lights all over the club. If I see any of them flash, I head for the door. If I see any of them flash three times, I run."

"Sounds like a great setup."

Tony shrugged. "And along about now Len would say, 'Good security is important to a storage site,' but the hell with it. You know what's goin' on here."

"Looks like people walking in of their own free will and having a good time. Visiting the stuff they have stored."

Tony chuckled, then got serious again. "No drinking on the job. Or weed, or anything else that keeps you from being sharp. If you want a break, one punch on the button and tell me when you'll be back."

"OK."

"Anything else? I see Len gave you a chair." Tony pointed at a folding chair by the door.

"Yeah, Len thought that seeing a strange guy standing by the door might drive customers away. He thought if it's just a guy sitting by the door reading or talking on a phone, neither the cops nor the customers will pay much attention."

"Well, I think you're set, then. Wednesdays we get a little uptick in business, but it's nothin' like a weekend, so you got a couple days before things get challenging."

"Unless the friendly neighborhood mugger comes back."

"Yeah, son of a bitch. All the pains that Len has to take to keep this place hidden from the cops, and guys like that are running around loose." Tony shook his head. "I gotta get back inside. Hey, here's someone fishy. Make sure you give this guy a thorough pat-down."

The fat man walking toward the door laughed. "Yeah, I'm scary as hell. Who's the new guy?"

"Jim. Givin' us a little extra security outside the door."

"Good to meet you, Jim. Tony, get me in there, I'm feelin' lucky."

"Well, yeah, then, let the streak begin." Tony used a key to unlock the door, and the fat man pulled his phone out of his jacket just as the door closed behind them.

If every night went the way this Wednesday did, it would be the easiest money anyone had ever earned. Jim studied people openly as they started down the passage to the door, looked down at his new magazine (Smithsonian) as they neared, then looked up again and gave them a friendly smile just before they got to the door. Most of them smiled back, didn't say anything; one or two looked at him suspiciously but didn't say anything; and one guy, who sounded like maybe he'd hit a couple of Westport's bars before coming here, said cheerfully, "Hey, beautiful evening, isn't it?" He waved up at the camera, and before Jim could say anything he repeated "Beautiful!" as Tony opened the door.

Most of the clients were men coming by themselves, although there was one group of three guys and two male-female couples. But at midnight, Tony opened the door to let out a lone woman, who'd obviously been there even before Jim had reported for duty.

"Cheryl, this is Jim," Tony said. "He's gonna walk you to your car."

Jim jumped up as Cheryl said, "I hope it's not a lot of trouble."

"None at all. Where are you parked?"

"Up on Connecticut."

They started down the walkway to the sidewalk. Cheryl said – as though Jim had made a criticism – "I know, I shouldn't come here by myself."

"Well, it seems like a pretty nice place," Jim said, as though he'd even seen the inside.

"Oh, it is. I just meant – you're probably thinking a woman shouldn't go around by herself at night."

"Not thinking that. I mean, just because there are thugs out there, they shouldn't control your life."

"Thanks."

They reached the bottom of the three short flights of steps that led up to Connecticut. Cheryl was short and heavy and climbed slowly, gripping the railing. Jim stayed beside her, looking around and up ahead at a cluster of people laughing and talking outside a restaurant.

She paused at the top of the steps to take a breath, then proceeded. They passed by the cluster of people; one of the girls shot Jim a flirtatious look.

"I got robbed week before last. In the parking lot down there." She pointed back to the lot at the bottom of the hill. "Mike told me the same guy came after him last night, and you got rid of him."

Jim chuckled. "Mike walked me over to the, the storage place, and demanded that Len hire me right then and there. I really appreciated that, I needed the job."

"Well, they need you." They paused as a car went by, then began crossing the street. "Keep us degenerate gamblers safe."

Jim shot her a look. "You know, Mike mentioned that the mugger hit you in the gut. I don't think you need to be beating yourself up."

She laughed sharply. "Maybe you need to talk to God. Feels like he's the one beating me up. You have your first big win in weeks, next thing you know, someone's slamming a gun in your stomach and taking it all away. I definitely got the feeling that somebody up there was showing disapproval."

"Then – " Jim began, but stopped himself.

"Then why do I come back?"

"No, none of my business."

"And here's my car anyway. Saved by the bell."

They rounded the front of her big, scratched-up, elderly car, and Jim checked the back seat quickly as Cheryl got in the driver's seat. She pulled a five out of her purse and extended it to him, but Jim waved it off. "No, this is part of my job. But thanks."

"Well, thank you. Really. I wish they had twenty of you."

Jim laughed. "I think twenty of the same guy milling around might attract more attention than Len would want."

"Yeah, probably." She pulled the heavy door shut with a little assist from him, and the engine started reluctantly, with a grinding roar.

Jim tapped on the window, and Cheryl rolled it down.

"Dumb question," he said. "Do you remember what weeknight it was when the guy attacked you?"

"Do I remember? Are you kidding? It was two weeks ago tonight. I didn't come back here for a week. Why?" she asked suddenly. "Are you being a detective?"

He grinned. "Probably not."

"I should've called the cops. I just – I didn't know how to explain the money, and I don't want them finding Len's place and shutting it down."

"Understood."

"If you find him, punch him in the gut for me, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, like a soldier receiving an order. Cheryl smiled and began cranking the wheel of the car, so he got back up onto the curb.

He remembered the ferocity of the mugger he'd stopped last night, how hard he'd hit Mike. Like Mike, he was sure that this was the same guy who would hit a short scared woman in the gut, using more force than he'd have ever needed, just because – why? It made him feel tough? To beat up on fat women and middle-aged men?

He shook his head and began walking back to the club. The people who went to Len's seemed to be repeat customers, addicts even, probably thinking their odds were better at Len's than at the big legal casinos on the river, or maybe just not wanting to take the extra 15 or 20 minutes to make the trip. Whatever the reason, neither Mike nor Cheryl had reported the attacks to police, and Len sure as hell wouldn't. And if the police weren't told about this guy, there wasn't much they could do.

Which leaves it up to me to do something about him.

What he'd do, Jim didn't know. He just knew that he couldn't let the jerk keep terrorizing people unchecked.

And taking on that project means I put off the deadline to turn myself in. How convenient for me!

Well, yes. He was still dreading the consequences of putting his face out in public. But that wasn't the reason for the project. He could postpone turning himself in at a hospital for any number of reasons.

But this mugger really needed to be caught and stopped. And somehow Jim was sure he was capable of doing that.

.

THURSDAY

Sitting in the Plaza Library, Jim stared at the computer. He had a response from verminmurder.

"I heard that Greg at Spirit Board Tattoo can help. Only one I know personally does tattoos off the books, but she's good, and she'll be in your area this weekend. Tanya, Amazing Amulets, at the Psychic Fair. Good practice to get it tattooed. Stay safe."

He knew that Greg had known more about that tattoo than he'd let on. Damn it, what was the big secret?

In what field of endeavor was it "good practice" to get an anti-angel (or anti-demon, he still wasn't sure which) symbol tattooed on you?

Well, the field where you routinely fight against angels and demons, obviously. He laughed quietly.

On the other hand –

He didn't have any problem with believing that angels and demons could exist. But grown men providing anti-demon "salt shooters" on the internet and being secretive about occult tattoos just seemed kind of pathetic.

But there were scars all over him. Clearly he'd fought someone, or something, or some things, sometime.

"What do you know about hunting?" Greg had asked him.

And for some reason, Jim had picked Hunter as a last name for himself.

In the next day or two, sometime when Spirit Board Tattoo was open, Jim was going to stride right into the place, look Greg in the eye, and say, "Why didn't you tell me it was good hunting practice to get this tat that I have?" See what reaction that got.

He sent a quick note of thanks to verminmurder, then researched "demon hunting." Most of the results were literary or religious analyses written by people who didn't claim to be hunters themselves. Most of those who did sounded either like teenagers dying for attention or adults with a loose grasp on reality.

But every once in a while, on a New-Agey kind of website or in the exchange of comments after an article, there would be a paragraph or two that sounded like Greg or verminmurder – quiet, low-key to the point of cryptic, and in a weird way professional.

Yes, he was going to talk to Greg again. And he looked up "Psychic Fair Kansas City," so he could see Tanya on Saturday. He wanted to know what the hell he'd got himself into.

.

The building was the last setting anyone would expect for violence, which made it perfect. It was a greenskeeping building at a suburban golf course – near the edge of the course, but still well away from the street. The walls were stone, blocked noise well. There were security cameras to protect the equipment inside, but a murmur by Castiel had taken care of that.

"And that's another thing about this gal, she knows how to shut off security cams. She did it outside the library, but for some reason not in the reading room. We need to figure out how she's doing that." Dean had been using the spray paint to outline a devil's trap on the floor as he said that.

"A demon could," Castiel had replied, holding the lantern flashlight steady. "An angel, of course. Or a witch, if she knew the right spell."

Dean had distinctly growled.

Now the demon tied to the chair inside the devil's trap made a somewhat similar sound. There were streaks like acid burns on his face and arms where holy water had hit him over and over. Dean still had a full jug of it sitting on the floor beside him. Castiel was reciting the exorcism ritual – not that Dean couldn't, but they'd learned that demons seriously hated being sent back to Hell by an angel.

"Get it over with!" the creature bellowed, his eyes black from rim to rim. He was possessing a muscular young black guy of about thirty, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. "Get it over with, you scumbag sadist lowlifes!"

"But that wouldn't be any fun," Dean said in a calm, explanatory tone. Then he threw more holy water, and the demon twisted his head away as Castiel said, "Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae."

The demon screamed, fighting pain, fighting the forces driving it out of the body. "I told you where he is!"

"But Sam wasn't there. So we need to ask again." Dean's tone was still utterly rational.

"So he moved on! Can I help it if he moves around? I told you the truth about what I knew!"

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"I sense no truth in him." Cas' voice was as calm as Dean's.

Dean threw some more holy water and the demon shrieked again. "Come on, is it really worth this to protect some other demon, or some witch who'd sell you out in a second? We're not saying you know exactly where Sam is. We're saying you know something, someone. You've heard a rumor. There's a new girl in town. Something. Tell us. Or we'll just do what we did before – bring you right up to the verge of exorcism while we burn you, and then stop it and start all over again." He pulled the demon-killing knife out of the sheath under his jacket. "Maybe we'll throw some carving into the mix this time."

"I. Don't. Know. Anything!" the demon screamed, and Dean shook his head.

"Good thing our schedules are clear for the next week or two. Cas, start over again."

"Benedictus Deus," Cas said, and Dean looked at him sharply. "Gloria Patri."

The demon screamed a last time, throwing the chair backward onto the floor, a funnel of black smoke pouring from its mouth and settling through the tiny cracks in the concrete floor.

Dean was incredulous. "Cas, what the hell?"

"He knew nothing. Further torture would have been pointless."

"We don't know that."

"Yes. We do."

"Woulda made me feel better."

"Only in the short term," Castiel said. "In the long term it would have damaged you, and you know it."

"You know what, maybe – "

"The host is alive," Cas said suddenly, urgently. Tossing the lantern to Dean, he rushed over and knelt beside the man tied to the chair.

"You're kidding me." Dean moved over, lighting the scene as Cas placed his hands on the victim's head and gut.

"The demon has used the body with great carelessness," Cas said, his focus on the man's face. "He would have been dead in a matter of hours. Bones are broken, organs – "

The man's eyes popped wide open and he whimpered.

"I'm healing your body," Cas said. "We will sit you upright when your body can withstand that."

Dean, recovering from his astonishment, opened the padlock that held the chain in place around the man's body and the chair.

"Kill me," the man whispered to Cas, his eyes filling with tears. "Don't let me be alive and see everything. I know you can live in me even if I'm dead. Please. Just let me go."

"I don't understand – "

"He thinks you're a demon, Cas." Dean couldn't help but sound a little amused.

"I am not a demon. We have exorcised the demon from you, and we will assist you in assuring that this will never happen to you again."

The man swallowed, nodded his head, began shivering.

Cas sat the chair upright. The man doubled over and began having dry heaves. Dean took the chain away gently, leaving the lantern on the floor.

"Don't want to live," the man whispered. "It's all sick. It's all sick."

"Listen to me," Cas said in his most compelling voice. "Look into my eyes and listen to me. You have psychological damage from the demon's possession. This is usual, but unfortunately I cannot heal that quickly. You will require time, and human assistance, and effort on your own behalf. But it will be worth it. The world is not the foul hellhole it appears to be from a demon's perspective. There are beautiful things in it. There are good people in it, and you can be one of them. But you must resist the temptation to die long enough to assist your doctors. Promise me that you will do that."

Staring into Cas' eyes, the man, after a moment, nodded. "Try." He cleared his throat. "I'll try."

Seeing the man's wallet edging out of his back pocket, Dean plucked it out and looked at the driver's license inside. "Are you Matthew Ferguson? Or did the demon have phony ID made?"

The man stared at him blankly for a moment. Then, sounding a little astonished, "I am. I'm Matt Ferguson."

"Do you have family in town, Matt?"

Another blank look. Then, as if he weren't sure he should say it, "Wife."

Dean had been looking through the wallet, and now he pulled out a picture of Matt with a pretty woman. "This her?"

Matt's eyes widened with a touch of hope. "Yes. Linda."

"Did the demon do anything to her?"

Ferguson choked, looked at Dean, shook his head. "Oh God. What if it had?"

"Got a phone?"

Ferguson blinked, reached for his other back pocket as though it hurt his shoulder, handed a phone to Dean. Dean found "Linda" in the contacts and made the call.

After a moment, "No ma'am, this isn't Mr. Ferguson. Are you Linda Ferguson? – No, he's not dead, but something's happened to him. A couple of our plain-clothes detectives found him wandering around in a state of shock. He appears to – They're taking him to Overland Park Regional. Can you meet – Fifteen minutes. Yes, ma'am. Just doing our jobs. Glad to help."

He disconnected and handed the phone and wallet to Ferguson with a smile. "She is really eager to see you. We're going to have to move if we're going to beat her there. Can you walk?"

Matt leaned on Cas' shoulder. Dean scooped the chain, holy water, and lantern into a duffel bag, hooked the folding chair over his arm, and opened the door.

Ferguson fell asleep as soon as he slid into the Impala's back seat, but Cas sat beside him in case he woke in a panic.

"He has a difficult road ahead of him, but I believe he will recover," Cas said as the car sped down Antioch Road.

Dean looked at him in the rear-view mirror with a slight smile. "Every once in a while, man."

"Indeed."

Dean looked back at the road, and his smile faded. "Wish Sam was here."

.

A skinny guy with shaggy black hair, maybe 30, slipped out the door of the club and said, "Are you Jim?"

Jim put down his magazine. "Yeah, can I help you?"

"Mike said you wanted to talk to me when I was leaving, but I shouldn't tell anyone else I was doing it. I'm Aaron."

"Yeah, Aaron, thanks." Jim jumped up. "I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the time you were mugged."

Aaron got a funny look on his face. "Are you a cop?"

"No. But I want to stop the guy who's doing this."

"You're gonna do it yourself? Are you gonna get my money back?"

"Probably not. But wouldn't you like to see the guy who mugged you get stopped?"

"You don't need to worry about me," Aaron declaimed.

Inwardly, Jim sighed. Chest-beating. He bowed his head a little, opened his hand. "OK. But this is the same guy who hit a woman in the gut to take her money. If we could stop him, that'd be something worth doing, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose. Why all the secrecy?"

"Well, I don't want to act like I'm going to run right out and catch the guy, and then fall on my ass. But I have a couple of ideas. If you could help me out, fill me in on his MO, we might be able to do something about this animal."

"Well – Mike said you did OK against the guy. Even if you didn't catch him."

"Mike's a good guy. He didn't deserve to get cold-cocked like that."

"No. He didn't." Aaron studied Jim's face for a moment. "So, what's the question?"

"I don't want to plant any ideas, so can you just tell me about what happened with you?"

"Not with a lot of enthusiasm." Aaron glanced to one side, looked back at Jim. "Well, let's see. The night was goin' great up till then. Saturday night in Westport, but I still got a parking place just a couple blocks away from Kelly's. Girl at Kelly's gave me her phone number. I won five hundred dollars. I was headed back to the car – "

"Where was the car?"

"Behind one of the restaurants near Westport Road. Why, did Mike get hit there too?"

"No, different place. So you were near your car?"

"Yeah. This guy comes walking up fast, thought he was late to work or something, didn't realize until he pulled the gun what was going on."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know, man, 'Gimme the money' or something. I was focused on the damn gun. I was, like, out of it for a moment, staring, and the asshole – " Aaron took a breath – "slams the barrel into my gut. I swear to God, I thought he'd shot me. I doubled over and fell down and the next thing I remember, I'm tryin' to give him the money but it's like my hands won't work. He says, 'Pick it up, give it to me, gimme the rest – " Aaron shrugged. "Guess I must've given it to him. All I remember is, he hit me on the head with the gun, and by the time I could move, he was gone."

Jim nodded. "Did you call the police?"

"No. I don't like cops."

But you don't mind guys who go around pistol-whipping people even after they get money?

"You want, like, a description?"

"No," Jim said. "I saw him."

"That's good. 'Cause outside of, he's got a hand that can hold a gun, I wouldn't have much for you."

Jim laughed dryly. "So, you doin' OK now? The head and everything?"

"And everything. I took care of business."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that guy's gonna be sorry if he comes after me again."

"You got a gun?"

"Just – he's gonna be sorry, that's all."

"Mind if I take a look? Maybe I can give you a couple of tips."

"Why do you need mine to give tips? You don't have your own?"

OK, what will make Aaron want to show off his own gun? "Yeah, I do. Nice little .22, compact but gets the job done."

"I suppose. I wanted something with more stopping power."

"Gotta admit, I'd be interested in something like that. What is it, a .44?"

"Not exactly. But it'll do a job on anyone who messes with you."

Aaron pulled the gun from his back, under his jacket, and showed it to Jim – held in an open hand, but still with the barrel pointed at Jim.

"Mind not pointing it this way?" Starting by pushing the barrel gently aside, Jim closed his hand around the gun and took it, trying to forestall Aaron's objections by saying, "Yeah, that's a nice piece, I can see why you went for it. Safety off, bullet in the chamber. You're ready to go."

"Damn right."

"Tell you the truth," Jim said as though confessing weakness, "I'm not crazy about these things." Deftly he ejected the magazine and the chambered bullet while saying, "But some practice could come in handy, in case I do identify him and he wants a fight. So would you mind, if I act like the mugger, you show me how you deal with the guy?"

He handed the gun back to Aaron, placing the magazine on the ground and taking a couple of steps back. Aaron looked put out at having the magazine removed, but after a moment he nodded and put the pistol back in his waistband.

Jim kept his voice low. "Hey, you. Gimme the money."

"Let me get my wallet," Aaron said.

He fumbled, groping under his jacket, obviously at his waistband and not near a pocket. Jim closed the gap between them in two steps, grabbed Aaron's arm, shoved it further behind Aaron, and kicked Aaron's foot out from under him. The gun, still behind Aaron, clicked as Aaron slid down Jim's leg and sat hard on the ground.

"OK, you just shot yourself," Jim said.

Aaron swore, jumping to his feet, grabbing the magazine from off the ground.

"And that's the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario, the mugger's already armed, like he was last time, and the moment you reach under your jacket, he drops you."

"I'll practice," Aaron mumbled, glaring at Jim while he replaced the magazine with shaking fingers.

"Classes. Take classes from someone who knows."

"Whatever." Aaron stormed off.

Who did I take classes from? Jim wondered. Who taught me?

Question for another time. Tomorrow, he was planning to do something about the mugger. Saturday, he was going to talk to Greg, and to Tanya at the Psychic Fair – which, happily but not surprisingly, would be held in Westport.

"Miles to go before I sleep," he murmured, and wondered where he'd been when he'd learned that.

He went to the end of the walkway. There were a couple of cars passing on the street, but no pedestrians at the moment. Aaron was out of sight. Someone on the steps leading to the top of the hill laughed at something her companion said.

Jim swept the street with his gaze, then went back to his chair at the door.