Chapter Two:
It was late by the time Mike got back to the three-bedroom bungalow he and Lizzie owned. It was old and small, but they liked it. Lizzie's son was grown up and living in Europe, and she didn't want any more. Mike was fine with that. After all, he had a police department and a whole town to look after. It had always satisfied his parental cravings, and he knew too well the dangers of becoming a parent when you weren't one hundred percent committed to the project.
He'd always thought it somewhat ironic that he, as the most settled of the Hardys, was the only one who hadn't had kids.
The two extra bedrooms were his and Lizzie's offices. It worked better having their work areas separated, as she was Post-It notes, personalized paper-clips, and papers spread out everywhere and he… was not. Too many years on the road, living out of a couple bags.
Tonight, he didn't go into his office. Instead, he went into the fridge and reheated some leftover lasagna. Probably not the best thing to eat in the middle of the night, but he was too worn to care.
Five victims.
Most of them Mike didn't give two goddamns about. Wilby was a crook. Brogan and Joesy were snakes. And Bill Lambert didn't seem to have been much of a prize either. Then there was Beth. Beth's death hurt. Considering what he suspected, Lord knows he'd tried to talk to her, to get her to tell the truth, but between her grandfather's influence and her mother's own fervent denial, Mike had been fighting an army with a bug-swatter. No matter what she'd thought of herself, she'd been the only innocent among them.
No matter what she'd thought of herself, she'd been the only innocent among the five…
If only he'd figured out how to reach her…
Lizzie would give him hell for thinking himself responsible. He knew it. Knew she was right, even. Didn't stop the guilt. But since Lizzie did the same damn-fool thing when she lost a patient, Mike could safely ignore that particular lecture. Until it was his turn to give it to her, of course.
He stayed up, waiting for Lizzie to be finished at the morgue. She'd be tired, but he'd promised her an explanation and she'd wake him up to get it if he wasn't waiting. He reviewed the deaths in his mind, trying to see them without emotion, trying to think like Dean and Sam might. It didn't help. He didn't know enough. A deliberate choice he'd never regretted until now.
He heard Lizzie's key in the door.
He cleared his mind as he listened to her put away her coat and walk down the hall towards him.
She stopped in the doorway, looking weary. "You should be in bed," she scolded while giving him a fond kiss. Her hair was damp, she smelled of soap, and he knew she'd cleaned up at the county hospital. He appreciated her not coming home smelling like dead bodies.
"Soon. Now that you're here," he responded. "I promised you an explanation."
She paused. She'd actually forgotten. It meant she was more tired than she could handle. Mike clenched his jaw against saying anything.
"Yeah, you did." She blinked. "Is it long?"
Mike wiggled his hand. "Complicated. Maybe unbelievable."
"I can believe six impossible things before breakfast," she replied.
"Well, you might as well tell me, since you've teased my curiosity awake."
"It's about my parents." Mike shifted nervously in his chair. "About how they died."
Lizzie's smile slipped away. "Ah."
Mike had told Lizzie some of his history—the important bits, anyway. Second son; mother killed in a car accident when he was twelve, father caught in a house-fire at a long-abandoned farm when he was seventeen. Estranged brother, now deceased.
Lizzie narrowed her eyes in thought. "Why was your dad at the house?"
He smiled. Straight to the point—that was his Lizzie.
"He was fighting a poltergeist and something went wrong."
"A poltergeist." Lizzie's voice was level, controlled.
"A poltergeist," he confirmed. "My parents… They hunted supernatural things: ghosts, ghouls, chupacabras. Poltergeists. They met on a hunt, actually. They acted like it was the most romantic thing in the world, saving each other from a witch."
"Witches," Lizzie commented blankly. "Okay."
"Dad got into it because of his sister—the way she died," Mike went on. "He came into the room and there was this… thing looming over her. He said he could see it pulling something out of her—her soul, he thought. He ran to get his parents, but by the time they returned, the thing was gone and his sister was in a coma."
"Did she recover?" Lizzie's voice wasn't hopeful, which was good, because Mike had to shake his head.
"Neither did the other nine kids in town," he said.
Lizzie looked shocked. "Nine?"
"Nine kids dropped into comas—no reason, nothing they could diagnose." Mike nodded. "He tried to tell them—his parent—what he'd seen. Explain that it wasn't an illness or an infection, that it was a monster, but they didn't believe him."
"No, they wouldn't. We're trained not to look outside of science." Lizzie said softly, thinking of something else. "So your dad told them it was something supernatural?"
"Yeah. They gave him a sedative and an appointment with a shrink. After that, he kept his opinions to himself, but he never forgot." His fingers were tapping against the countertop. He forced them to stop. "When he got older he started hunting. He'd lost the creature that had killed his sister, but he found other things," Mike continued. "Mom's best friend was killed by a werewolf while they were walking home from a school dance. Neither of their parents believed them when they said ghosts were real."
Lizzie made a neutral noise.
Mike looked at his smart, shrewd wife, and the proverbial light bulb went off in his head. "They didn't believe, but you do."
Lizzie's head jerked up, eyes wide. Mike didn't say anything; he just watched patiently. When she started chewing her lip—a sign of internal debate—he got up and put the kettle on for her favorite herbal tea. It even had time to boil before she finally sighed, and plopped herself down on the other chair.
"You never asked why I left Chicago," she said.
"You needed a change," Mike quoted, handing her the tea.
She coughed out a sour laugh. "I needed a change, yeah, but I wasn't looking for it. Why would I? I was second in command of the trauma department. I was managing a budget of millions, and my decisions affected thousands. I was important. And the money I was making…" Her voice faded; her gaze grew distant looking at what had been.
"What happened?" Mike asked quietly.
It took Lizzie a while to answer. She held the tea as if it was the only thing keeping her warm. Mike longed to hold her, to comfort her with his physical presence, but that wasn't how his Lizzie worked. Instead, he grabbed a couple muffins from the bread box and set them down between them. She'd eat one if she thought he was going to nibble.
He drank his own tea and pulled a muffin apart, not eating any of it.
"About nine years ago, I saw a young girl fall from a seven-story building," she said into the quiet. "Blood everywhere, with that liquid sprawl fall victims sometimes get. As if every bone was shattered."
Mike nodded. They didn't have buildings that tall here, but he'd seen it as a teenager on hunts with his family.
"I dialed 9-1-1, of course, but she got up. She gave herself a little shake and then she was strutting down the street as if even the thought of being injured was laughable." Lizzie gave another sour laugh. "Try explaining that one to the cops, especially after a couple drinks. It got back to the hospital, to my bosses, and suddenly, I'm on 'administrative leave'."
Mike leaned forward, placing his large, thick hand over Lizzie's. "I'm sorry, honey."
Lizzie didn't hear him or didn't care. "I hated it. I knew what I'd seen, and just because I'd had a couple drinks."
"How many were 'a couple'?"
Lizzie's lips lifted in self-mockery. "I honestly don't know. I know my blood alcohol was 1.2 and I felt absolutely steady."
It was a bad sign, Mike knew. It meant she'd been used to having lots of booze in her system on a regular basis.
They were going to fire me." She shrugged, her shoulders tight, angry. "It wouldn't have only been my job, but maybe my license as well, so I ran here—the first posting I saw when I started looking. I figured I should get out while I was still allowed to practice." She stared down at his hand still holding hers. She placed her free hand, warm from the tea, over his. "And I met you, so at least I got a happy ending out of it."
"I'm glad you think that, Lizzie," Mike said, lowering his head so his red cheeks couldn't be seen.
"Of course I think that. Idiot," she said with a smile in her voice.
Mike raised their joined hands so he could drop a kiss on her fingers.
She took back her hand, still smiling, and sipped her tea. "So was it a monster? The girl who got up," she asked. "Was she a ghost, or a drunken hallucination?"
He took back her hand. "Whatever it was, I might have to give her a thank you for bringing you to me." Mike paused. "I'd rather avoid her, though. Just in case."
It made Lizzie smile. "Probably a good idea for an elected police Sheriff to not acknowledge something like that."
Mike smiled with her. "That's a fact." He nudged the muffins closer to her. A subtle hint that was rewarded when she started nibbling on the pieces. Mike buried his look of satisfaction in his tea cup. When he looked up, Lizzie was staring at him, assessing and thinking.
"What?"
"Is that why you're letting those two bullshit artists run around calling themselves FBI?"
Mike lifted an eyebrow.
"You think something supernatural is causing these deaths," she clarified, "but you can't say that because it'd be all over town before you closed your mouth."
Mike put his tea back down, sighing heavily. "I took my eyes off Brogan for less than a minute," he explained. "When I turned around, his belly was swollen enough to rival an eight-months-pregnant woman. With twins. Nothing natural could've caused that."
"And the two fake agents…?"
"Are hunters. Like my parents were. And my brother was."
"You think they'll figure out what it is?"
Mike nodded. "Likely. From what I overheard, one of them's been doing this for most of his life."
"Why, Sheriff Hardy, I'm shocked! A man of the law eavesdropping on private citizens." Lizzie grinned.
"On a suspicious character, you mean," Mike corrected. "Besides, since the PATRIOT Act, seems everybody's doing it."
Lizzie laughed out loud. "True enough." She tossed the last of the muffin in her mouth before holding out her hand imperiously. "Take me to bed, Sheriff. Let's go bump in the night."
Mike smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
.o0o.
After, when they lazed in the after-glow, Lizzie asked the question Mike had expected earlier.
"Do you think they'll stop it—whatever it is—before someone else dies?"
Mike's silence was all the answer she needed.
.o0o.
The next morning, Mike waited for the Tassimo machine to fill his coffee cup. With deadly intensity, he watched the level rise while mourning the loss of his youthful resilience.
He'd gotten up early to review yesterday's case notes—trying to fit all the cases' details in with each other. He'd looked at the photos, re-read the coroner's reports. He'd even drawn lines on the county map, which told him only what he'd already known: the deaths were getting closer to town,
He still had no clue what kind of creature was causing them.
He tried to remember everything he'd heard about witches. It had been a long time, granted, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to take a trip out to the roadhouse to search for a hex bag. He could call it a health inspection and use his deputies to tear the place apart. Shitty thing to do to Donny, but maybe his insurance would cover the repairs.
It would also give Donny a chance to get rid of the velvet-flocked wallpaper leftover from the 70s. Hell, Donny might actually thank him.
Out front, Maggie was at her desk, shuffling the day-to-day papers and filling in statistics for the state. Toby was already out on patrol. Soon, Mr. Carew would be in to complain about Mr. Palovski's dog digging through his garbage. Dougie Manning would bring in the scones his mother had set aside for them, and Pete Newhart would be in asking questions about the latest deaths for the paper. Mike hoped Sam and Dean arrived after Pete left. That meeting could be awkward, especially if Pete decided to investigate the "agents'" credentials. What the reporter lacked in brains, he made up for in thoroughness.
Mike couldn't risk it.
"Maggie," he said as he popped his head into the bullpen. "Has Pete–"
"Was waiting on the doorstep," she replied.
He waited for the rest. The coffee machine behind him gave one last burble. It was quiet.
He caved. "And?"
"I told him you were busy with follow-up this morning, but you'd make some time for him this afternoon." Maggie finally looked up. "Don't make me a liar."
Mike smiled at his second-in-command. "I won't."
She nodded, and went back to entering statistics into the county's crime-tracking system. Mike went back to his freshly brewed coffee.
He'd barely managed to get one swallow down when Dean and Sam arrived moments ahead of Mr. Carew. Sam even held the door open for the septuagenarian.
"Sheriff!" Mr. Carew barked. With a sigh, Mike stepped forward. "You need to arrest Palovski and take away his dog! It's a menace! And it's his fault! No business owning a dog if he can't train it properly."
"Rex died two years ago, Tom. Remember?" Mike said gently. Mr. Carew paused, confused. "Maggie here will take down the details and we'll see if maybe there's a coyote hanging about." Truth was it was a family of raccoons Mr. Carew had first fed then forgot about. They'd already caught and relocated the family twice, but it always came back. Next complaint from a neighbor and they'd have to shoot them.
He jerked his chin at the two hunters, and they obediently slipped into the back area. Mike lifted his cup in offer. Sam shook his head. Dean held up a cardboard cup. Amenities over, Mike led the way to the small conference room he'd set up as an "incident room." He'd even put pins in a map.
"So what did you boys find out?"
Sam shrugged. "Not much. We talked to some people at the truck stop: workers, regulars, resident transients–"
"How is that even a thing?" Dean griped, rubbing his shirt where he'd probably spilled coffee.
"And, although the manager had a fatal heart attack–" Sam continued, ignoring his partner. "Nobody else has… well, fallen victim to an unexpectedly virulent STD. Not that they knew of, at least."
"Not that they didn't have lots to tell us on each other's sexual habits—too friggin' much actually." Dean said, looking very unhappy.
"The thing is, from what the waitress said Beth could've… You know, contracted the disease anytime in the last couple years. The waitress called her a 'bunk bunny'?"
Mike nodded sadly. "Women who trade rides for sex," he explained. "She used to hitch rides to Chicago and Milwaukee. Anyplace that wasn't here."
Mike stared down into his coffee and wondered when it would stop hurting. "So what happened?' Mike asked. "Why now?"
"Exactly!" Dean said. "It's like it was something was activated. But we don't know what, and we don't know how." Nothing in Dean's voice said they'd figured it out. Mike held in his sigh—after all, it wasn't like he was expecting anything else.
Dean scratched at his chest, pressing hard. Mike realized the hunter had been scratching almost constantly since his arrival.
"You got a rash?" Mike asked him.
Dean looked down at his busy hand. With an embarrassed look, he put it down.
Sam, however, laughed. "Just FYI, that plant is definitely toxic." His voice was half sympathetic, and half planning to tease his partner unmercifully about it.
Dean made a face. "I'm itchy everywhere. Why do they even plant those things?"
"Most likely, someone thought it looked pretty," Mike replied. "It's not native to the county, I know that much.
"It's like kudzu down south," Sam added. "Or that fish in the Mississippi—it's taking over."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Great. I feel much better knowing there's a logical reason for my pain."
Sam smiled. "We'll get you some chamomile tea. You can take a bath in it later."
"Oatmeal works," Mike offered.
"Dean hates oatmeal," Sam said. He slapped Dean's busy hand away from his chest.
Dean gave his partner a betrayed look and took a drink of his coffee.
"How'd you get it on your chest?" Mike asked. "I don't remember you rolling around in it."
Dean grimaced. "I dunno, man. We were talking to some people who live in campers next to the restaurant?" Mike nodded. Living rough at the stop was cheaper than living in town. Dean shrugged. "We must've cut through some."
Mike shook his head. "That's a hell of a weed," he said. "For it to have spread the way it has." He pictured the hassle ahead of him: reporting it to the Department of Agriculture so they could send someone to determine what it was and what they could do about it. Fielding questions from the city and county councils, and concerned citizens' groups—those were always fun.
"That's it!" Sam said, suddenly standing straight.
Lack of sleep was Mike's explanation for why he jumped in surprise at Sam's exclamation.
"What's 'it'?" Dean asked with a frown. He was scratching again—this time at his thigh.
Mike watched Sam's gaze bounce first to Mike, then to Mike's badge before shifting over to his partner, so it didn't surprise Mike when Sam said, "Nothing," and dragged Dean out of the conference room.
Mike considered following them, trying to eavesdrop. He very seriously considered it—he even took a couple steps into the bullpen. Then Maggie glanced up in curiosity, and Mike realized if he followed he'd have to explain it to Maggie, which meant lying to Maggie, and that was something Mike avoided because it never ended well.
He gave her a nod, lifted the cup he still had in his hand, and headed into the break room. It wasn't a lie—he did need more coffee…
In the conference room, he sat down and looked at the board, trying to see what Sam had figured out.
Wilby collapsed at his show home. Brogan died on the highway. Beth died in the hospital. Bill, the lying fisherman, died at the roadhouse, followed by Joesy.
Except for Beth, they all died out of town. Near farmers' fields that were covered in fertilizers and pesticides, or on Wilby's contaminated airstrip.
Beth spent lots of time at the truck stop which meant diesel fumes and engine additives.
Mike was starting to think that maybe it was time to find out what brands of chemicals they all used and what ingredients they had in common, when Maggie popped her head in. She looked grim and Mike braced himself.
"There's been another one."
.o0o.
The body at the Sleep-Eez motel was very familiar. Unfortunately.
While they waited for Lizzie to arrive, Mike stood in the doorway staring down at Councilor Lester Mankowitz who was on the bed naked and very dead.
He was naked in a by-the-hour, no-tell-motel room rented by Mariah Tork who wasn't his wife. In fact, Mariah wasn't anyone's wife, and she also charged by the hour.
Not good.
Once this got out, there was no way the other deaths wouldn't be brought up, and that meant the involvement of state police or even the feds—the real ones.
Mike stepped out of the room, thinking how much he hated ticking clocks.
He walked to the end of the one-story building. It was in remarkably good shape. Mostly because its diner was better than the one at the truck stop, and there were always a dozen semis clogging up the service road and grabbing a bite and a nap. Mike had had to call Kelly in to keep the nosey truckers away from the crime scene. Kelly was five and a half foot of tank. A former Marine, she wasn't intimidated by anyone other than Maggie. No one was opening the motel room door or sneaking a peek through the windows while she was on duty.
At a grassy patch next to a utility shed, the motel had optimistically put out patio tables. Mariah, a big-haired, well-endowed woman in her mid-thirties, was sitting at one with Toby. That was fine, but the dark, mousy, Janine Hale was also there, and that wasn't fine. Janine could keep secrets—Lord, could she ever! But once the scandal broke then Janine gloried in knowing all the details. And she'd spread them around the jury pool like germs in a toilet.
She also reminded Mike of a ghoul his family had once put down. It wasn't a happy memory since he'd ended the hunt by puking up all of the previous week's meals and Josh had never stopped teasing him about it. His father had just looked disappointed. So, no. It wasn't a happy memory.
He kept his eyes on Mariah as he took off his hat. "Ladies."
Mariah waved her cigarette—one of several she'd had since she'd called if the number of butts on the ground around her was anything to go by. Janine sat up in eager anticipation.
"Mind telling me what happened, Mariah?"
"Well," Janine said. "Lester–"
Mike held up his hand to stop her. "I asked Mariah since she was there at the time. You know what, Janine?" he continued, turning to his deputy. "We should take your statements separately, so there's no overlap. Toby here'll take you to the station, and get it from you."
Toby swallowed, but dutifully indicated his crawler. "Ma'am."
Janine looked at him like a dog eyeing a steak. Then she looked at Mariah. Mike could see her weighing which one would give her the best gossip.
"Off you go, Janine," Mike put more order and less suggestion in his tone.
With one last fake-sympathetic pat to Mariah's hand, Janine left with Toby.
Mariah blew out some smoke. "Thanks for that," she said. "If I hadn't've been so freaked out, I wouldn't've shouted, and she'd've never known. So I'll apologize for that up front." Her voice had a rasp that came from too many cigarettes for far too long.
"No worries, Mariah," Mike said. "You're allowed to panic when somebody dies next to you."
"You mean, 'on top of me'," she corrected with a lilt of dark humor.
"Yeah."
She shrugged, puffing on her cigarette. " 'S not the worst thing to happen to me."
Mike didn't think there was a good response to that, so he pulled out his notebook and pen. "What did happen?"
"Lester called me last night. Arranged to meet here."
"Did he do that often?"
Mariah shrugged. "Usually just once a month, but he'd been upset about something, so he was calling me more'n usual. This was the third time." It was only the second week of September.
"Why the change?" Mike asked.
Again, Mariah shrugged.
"Did you ask him about it?"
"I don't ask nobody about nothing. They talk, though—usually saying the exact opposite of what's true." Mariah laughed. "I don't know how many men've told me they don't cheat on their wives. Or've never paid for sex before. Or never had sex without a condom…" Mariah's lip curled up in a slow smile, and Mike could understand why men paid to be with her.
Mariah stopped to light another cigarette. Mike resisted the urge to say something about it.
"So what did Lester talk about that you didn't ask for?" he asked instead.
"Everything he considered wrong with his marriage and his life. All lies, of course." She laughed. `You know, he always told me Annie was a ball-breaking bitch, and that's why he… needed my services?"
Mike blinked in shock.
Mariah chuckled at his expression. "I know, right? You've met Annie—that girl wouldn't say 'boo' to a ghost."
"She adores him," Mike said.
"Yup," Mariah agreed. "Now, the mother-in-law… "
It was Mike's turn to laugh. He'd met her, too, and Mariah's assessment was dead-on accurate.
"So he was under pressure at home, for whatever reason, and he called you to, um, work out the tension."
"When he came in, he was already sweaty and pale. And I swear he lost five pounds just getting his clothes off," Mariah said. "I suggested maybe he oughta visit a doctor, but he said no, of course. He never liked that the best GP in town was your wife. Afraid of the pillow talk."
"Lizzie doesn't tell me anything without a warrant," Mike said firmly.
Mariah nodded, accepting. "You know what I often find to be true, Sheriff? People expect everybody to be exactly like them. If they'll cheat on their spouse, they'll expect their spouse to be cheating on them. Same with lying, or skimming from the till."
"You think Lester spoke out of turn?" he asked.
"I think he spent a lot of money on my massages," she replied with a slow, inviting smile.
Yup, Mike thought. Definitely worth the money.
"Did he happen to give you any details?" Mike prodded.
"He was involved with that nasty developer," she said. "The one who died weird."
Mike looked up sharply. "Wilby? Built those houses out by Lavenda?"
She nodded and put out her cigarette. "That's the one. State regulators're going over the books, right? Well, Lester's name is all over the approvals. He swore he didn't do nothing illegal." She shrugged, and Mike knew she hadn't believed Lester.
It was interesting—very interesting, because maybe this was the common thread between the victims. Bill the Blowhard seemed like the type to be involved in shady land deals—he could've known Wilby. He already knew that Joesy, and now Lester, were connected to him. And Brogan might've done some shady work on the development. He'd've been paid under the table, but somebody would know.
Mike stopped. It wouldn't explain Beth.
"Am I going to have to go in to the station?" Mariah asked, breaking into Mike's thoughts.
"No, I don't see the need. It's not like you killed him," Mike replied. "Of course, I have to ask you to not leave town without contacting us first. In case we have more questions."
Mariah shrugged. "Ain't got any place to go outside our little burg, Sheriff."
Mike asked a couple 'just in case' questions—time of arrival, how long before symptoms became acute. Stuff which could be important later though Mike doubted it. He walked her to her sensible little sedan after making sure she was okay to drive.
He was waving her off when Lizzie arrived. She got out of the car, and gave a tired little stretch. The extra shifts at the hospital were starting to take a toll on his wife that he was unhappy about. Not that he'd ever say that. Lizzie set her own limits, and Mike knew better than to question them so early.
He walked over to his wife, tipping his hat because he knew it would make her roll her eyes. "Doc."
She rolled her eyes. "Another one?"
Mike shrugged. "All indications are natural causes." No way was he prejudicing Lizzie's conclusions.
Lizzie gave him a skeptical look as she marched over to the motel room. Jenny gave them a nod and stepped aside. Lizzie pushed the door open, took one step inside and stopped in the doorway.
"Lester? The city counsellor?"
"Yup."
Lizzie drooped. "Well, shit."
"Yup," Mike agreed with a sigh.
She marched back to her car, ordering over her shoulder, "Call Pearson in."
Pearson was the county's forensics specialist. He'd been with Lizzie at the roadhouse, dressed in paper coveralls to protect the scene like they didn't do on CSI: Miami. Lizzie wouldn't normally call him in for a suspected heart attack, but councilors didn't usually die in seedy motels while having sex with a prostitute, either. At least, not in this county.
From her trunk, Lizzie pulled out a package of disposable coverings. She ripped open the plastic bag and pulled them on over her clothes. She held on to the little booties until she was back at the motel room door.
He leaned on the door frame, watching as she started taking pictures, documenting everything.
"You're blocking the light."
Mike pushed off from the frame. "Fine. I can tell when I'm not wanted."
"I'll get Cora to make you some cinnamon buns. That should bolster your ego." It was almost playful, but Lizzie's attention was on the scene, and not on what she was saying to her husband.
"I'll be outside if you need me."
Lizzie growled absently. Mike shook his head as he walked away—the focus that woman could bring to a case! It was somewhat scary, and completely sexy. It made his body forget he was forty-eight, and not eighteen.
His gait was a little stiff, and he figured he should head to the back of the motel until his body had settled down some. He found Lester's car tucked in at the end close to the bushes, far away from the bustle of the diner.
"Maggie," he said into his radio. "I'm gonna need the tow truck out here."
"Gotcha. Where d'you want it taken to?"
"Station's fine for now." In case Lester's death was more than a heart attack, he thought but didn't say.
Maggie acknowledged the order then continued in her usual no-nonsense way. "By the way, boss, I got Reverend James to bring the wife in. I told her about Lester. I figured we shouldn't wait, since Toby brought Janine Hale in"
It was good thinking, so Mike told her so. She brushed it off.
"I've managed to keep them apart, but Janine's starting to talk about lawyers and civil rights" she went on. "Toby's on his way back to you. Once he's there, you can come back and deal with the family."
Mike grimaced, but acknowledged that they were going to demand to speak to him anyway. Might as well get it done and over with. He signed off, and then stood staring at the pearl-silver Caddie Lester had bought only a couple months ago. When Mike had first seen it, he'd thought Lester had wheedled the money out of his wife. Now, however, Mariah's comments made him think that Lester might have used an alternate revenue stream.
Using the handkerchief he kept in a pouch on his belt, he checked the car's doors. They were locked, so he wandered around the vehicle, peering in the windows, hoping for the clue that would break this whole thing open, reveal the bad guy, save the world, the whole nine yards.
There was nothing, of course. Lester might've been a crook, but he was a small-town crook and not a nefarious super-villain.
Mike shifted to the other side and nearly tripped. He looked down, and saw that he'd snagged his pant-leg in some plant. He pulled his leg a bit, but the thing had a firm hold. He bent down to detangle it, sighing at the twinge in his back from too much sitting.
Inches from the dark-green leaves, he stopped, sudden realization catching his breath and making his heart thump—he knew this plant.
He straightened slowly, mind racing.
This was the same plant Dean had found the dead hare in. The same plant that surrounded the roadhouse, and had been in Wilby's backyard, and at the side of Highway 42, where Brogan died—which was the same highway that ran between the old airstrip and the roadhouse. The two hunters had found it at the truck stop, too, where Beth had spent too much of her time. It was the only common element.
Mike looked down.
He was surrounded by it and it was deadly somehow.
Carefully—so very carefully—he stepped out from amongst the clingy vine.
What the hell was he going to do?
They couldn't burn the thing like he'd originally thought. Who knew what the smoke would contain. Or if it would even burn at all…
Damn it! He wished his brother Joshua was alive so he could talk to him about the two "agents". He would've known who Sam and Dean actually were, and if they were likely to know what it was? If yes, did they know how to handle It? After all, it was all over the county!
It was all over the county…
"Hey Maggie?" he said into his radio.
"Yeah, boss?" Her voice was reassuringly steady.
"I need you to get some info from the county health authority, or the hospital. Whichever."
"Uh, okay."
"Recent spikes in illness or disease. Odd injuries even," he explained. "Have there been more cases than usual? Where the cases are located; are they centralized somewhere? Most importantly, where did they first show up?"
"Jesus, Mike. That's gonna take me a while." Maggie's voice was filled with curiosity.
Mike ignored it. "Then you'd better get started. Get Kelly to help you if you need to."
"It'd go faster if I could tell them why you want the info."
Mike ignored that, too. "Just ask, Maggie. See what they say." He turned off his radio.
He crouched down over the vine. It wasn't shiny, and it wasn't one color. It was mottled like it was taking sun-dappled shadow with it. He sniffed and smelled dirt and decay, but it was hardly surprising considering he was right next to a large copse of trees.
He pulled out his pen so he could lift the leaves and get a better idea of the stem and root system, but it was too short, and he didn't want to touch it—he remembered Dean scratching his chest bloody from having touched the plant. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped the cloth around his hand and lifted the leaf.
Nothing unusual.
More mottled dark green on the underside of the leaves, slightly more grey than on top. Still looked like camouflage. Still looked like a plant.
He looked at how it ran along the ground—a thin branch that dropped every foot or so and sprouted leaves, and realized it was actually a vine. One long exterior root.
He reached in with his covered hand, got a good grip, and pulled.
The vine pulled out of the ground for a few feet. The anchor roots were shallow and small, and Mike briefly hoped it would all be that simple.
Then it started writhing and twisting, and Mike swore he heard some kind of subliminal shrieking seemed to reach out to him, wanting to pull him into its dark shadows. His stomach whirled and bile rose to the back of his throat. He scrambled backwards, an awkward crab-walk. Handkerchief forgotten, all he wanted to was get away as fast as he could. He'd backed up six feet before his brain got back online. Three more before it could convince the rest of him he was safe. …Ish.
Mike could hear the blood as it pounded through his brain, feel it in his throat…
He hated this! Hated things jumping out at him.
Give him drug dealers and thieves any day. Those he at least recognized on sight as being dangerous.
Mike watched the exposed roots slip back into the ground. Leaves shifted and twitched along its length, like they were carrying a message back to its central 'brain'. Definitely alive, then. And aware. Maybe even plotting something… He swallowed, desperate to keep his stomach contents where they were supposed to be. Forget whatever evidence might be in Lester's car—Mike was getting out of there!
And he'd grab Lizzie and Kelly, too.
He was on the wrong side of the motel—the treeward side, where more of it grew—a thick, ground covering layer. To get back to his squad car he'd have to either walk the long way, keeping to the scraggly grass strip, or he'd have to step over the plant surrounding Lester's Caddy. He'd walked through it easily before he knew it was alive. Nothing stopping him from walking through it now. Not really.
Mike chose the long way.
.o0o.
Mike looked at his phone again.
He'd called both Dean and Sam, and ordered them to call him back right away.
That had been nearly thirty minutes ago.
He was through waiting.
.o0o.
Mike knocked on the door with his Maglite. It was an unmistakable sound that demanded entry right the fuck now.
He glared at Sam when the hunter opened the door. "You forgot how to return a phone call?" he said. Then he pushed his way past the big man using the force of his anger and fear.
Inside the double room, Dean was on the near bed rubbing frantically at his chest. There were socks on his hands but his T-shirt had little red spots on the chest, where Dean had broken skin. Whatever was in the plant, it was affecting the hunter hard.
Mike turned to stare at Sam who fidgeted. "That's from the plant?"
"Nothing we've done has stopped it itching," Sam explained frantically.
Mike snorted. "Hardly surprising since the plant isn't toxic: it's supernatural."
Now it was Dean and Sam's turn to stare at him.
"You know?"
With a sigh, Mike took off his hat. "My parents were hunters. My brother too," he said. "Plus, your badges are good, but I'm an action movie fan from way back."
Sam flushed. "The names were Dean's idea."
Dean looked at Sam and glared. "Nice. Throw me under the bus."
Beside him Sam stuck his hand out. "I'm Sam Winchester, and that's my brother, Dean."
"Winchester?" Mike asked, momentarily sidetracked. "Any relation to John Winchester?"
"Our dad," Dean answered. "You knew him?"
"Not me," Mike said. "My brother worked with him a time or two."
"Joshua Hardy," Sam said out of nowhere. Mike nodded and Sam turned to his brother. "His name was in Dad's journal. I called him after… After you electrocuted yourself that time." Sam paused, cleared his throat. "He gave me Roy Le Grange's name."
Stunned, Dean's face went blank. "Seriously? The fake faith healer?" He turned to Mike. "That was your brother?"
"Small world," Mike said dismissively. He didn't want them to ask for an update on Joshua, since Mike didn't want to tell them something had torn Josh apart in his own home back in '08. "Anyway, there was another body. Local politician, married but spending time with a suspected prostitute. He died in their usual motel room, and guess what I found all around it?"
Dean's eyed narrowed. He shrugged, scratching at his chest.
"More of that damn plant," Mike said, when neither of them said anything. "And when I pulled some of it up, it tried to attack me. Tell me you know what it is."
Sam pulled in a large breath. "Not exactly," he said. "We know some things it's not, but there aren't that many plant creatures in lore or mythology."
"It's not some kind of pagan god who lives in plants?" Mike asked. "Like the spirit of the Green Man, or something."
Sam was already shaking his head. He walked over to an open laptop, and Mike followed. "I've checked all my sources, and nothing matches. I mean, why those people? And those types of deaths? What made those five people–"
"Six," Mike corrected.
"Six. What made those six people die so…"
"Weirdly," Dean finished.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "And is the order significant?"
"We think it started at the airstrip, and grew out in a circle from there," Dean said.
Sam nodded, moving to a map taped to the wall and colored with pins and thread. He pointed to the central pin. "Wilby–" Followed a thread south. "Brogan–" Back to the center pin then east. "Beth." Back south. "The hunter and what's 'is name? Joesy."
"That's a great theory, but it doesn't make sense. If it started at the airstrip, and grew out from there then it should've hit Lavenda Township by now." Mike tapped the small's town's spot on the map. "Plus, Lester was here: south-west across a large corporate farm. They would've attacked that plant before it got three feet into the money crop."
Sam frowned at him. "So what's your theory?"
"I think it's following the highways." Mike wrapped his hands around his belt. There were nearly twenty pounds of weapons and gear on it, and its bulk was reassuringly familiar. "Aside from the towns, that's where the most people are."
"That makes sense," Sam said, tracing the line of the highway on the map.
"It started somewhere around here—" Mike's finger circled the truck stop. "And moved out." He splayed his hand out in a star.
"But the Connolly girl died third," Dean argued. He stood and moved to stand beside his brother in front of the map. Sam batted at his brother's idly scratching fingers.
"Wilby lived between the truck stop and the airstrip, maybe twenty minutes away."
"So he would've been exposed at home and at work," Sam mused.
Mike nodded. "Maybe proximity's a factor and well as length of exposure."
"So because Beth only occasionally hung out at the truck stop, she would've been exposed earlier, maybe, but less intensely," Mike said.
"It's plausible," Sam agreed.
"That doesn't explain the fisherman tourist," Dean countered. "He was in a freaking building, eating lunch."
"It could be getting stronger," Sam suggested. "As it's fed more."
Even Dean had to acknowledge it was possible. They looked at the map. "That would make the truck stop ground zero," Dean said.
"The truck stop does have a nasty history," Mike agreed.
"Site of an Indian massacre in the 1880s," Sam said, pulling a sheet from a pile of papers. "The mass grave was dug up when they built the truck stop fifteen years ago. Local tribal leaders asked for it to be made a protected site, but that didn't happen, obviously. The bones were dug up, documented, and shipped to the nearest reservation for reburial."
Mike's shoulders tightened unconsciously. He knew what came next.
"Since then, the bodies of three women were discovered in the woods surrounding it. Victims of a serial killer," Dean continued oblivious to Mike's discomfort.
"Clifford Thomas Hayle was filmed dumping victim number four," Sam continued, pulling another sheet out. "He was surrounded by police, but refused to give up. He was shot and killed–"
"By me," Mike said. His lungs were tight. His mouth was dry. "I shot him."
"He was pronounced Dead On Scene," Sam finished quietly. "He bled out before paramedics arrived."
"He was guilty," Mike stated. "Eleven girls from all across the country."
There was a moment of silence, whether out of respect for the dead girls, or for Mike's pain, Mike wasn't sure, didn't care. Personally, he wasn't looking at anything in particular—wasn't focusing on anything. He couldn't. He'd been a hunter, but Hayle had been human. A monster, sure, but human. Mike's only human kill.
Sam's voice broke the silence. "He had pictures in his sleeper cab. He'd written 'LYING SLUT' on all of them."
"They were like Beth," Mike said with a sad sigh. "Using sex to escape from home.
"So, maybe, she was actually his twelfth victim," Dean said softly. "She was his type."
Sam turned around. "But the others weren't."
"Brogan was definitely a lying slut," Mike said. "Him and Loreen were barely back from the honeymoon before he was caught in a back room with one of his co-workers."
"Yeah, but he wasn't female," Sam pointed out.
"We're talking about a deranged, serial killing ghost that's using a plant as his highway," Dean argued. "I'm thinking Hayle's awareness of gender might be a little fuzzy."
Mike finally turned to look at the hunter brothers directly. "You seriously think Hayle's doing this?"
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked at Mike and shrugged. "Yeah. That's what we're thinking. And if that's the case, then all we need to do is find the body." The hunter sounded happy at having a solid option. The two of them discussed how they'd find Hayle's grave—where to search, how long it would take. Mike stayed quiet, uncertain about what to do next. He wasn't a hunter anymore. He was a cop—sworn to uphold the laws.
On the other hand: grave desecration versus another death…
"We sent Hayle's body to his grandmother," Mike announced, and the hunters perked up. "I think she had him buried."
Mike gave them the name of the town four states over, a ten-hour drive away. He didn't know the cemetery, so the Winchesters would have to look that up, then find Hayle's grave, dig it up, and burn the bones. By the time they got back, they should know if it worked.
As he watched them pull out of the motel parking lot, Mike knew it was going to be a long day's wait.
.o0o.
Mike closed the motel where Lester died using possible health code violations (not a lie—the place was a dump). He even managed to get the diner next door shut, because vermin in one place would certainly migrate to another—food-filled—place so close. He wished he could do the same at the truck stop but there was no way he could justify it. Instead, he drove the county's side roads, tracking the ivy's presence. It confirmed their theory that it grew only where there were people. Anyplace there was more than a half mile between houses, the ivy was turning grey and dying.
It was completely useless information.
Unless he could get the county or the state to call for an evacuation, which wasn't likely at all.
No, the only hope they had was Sam and Dean in a distant graveyard, and all he could do was hope it worked.
And that they didn't get caught digging up the coffin of Clifford Thomas Hayle.
He returned to the station feeling discouraged.
"I got those stats you wanted," Maggie said before he'd even removed his hat. "Also, we've had seven complaints about you shutting down the diner, and a dozen inquiries about Lester's death, including one of the big news outlets from Minneapolis."
"Wonderful."
"And Doc Cole is here," Maggie's small smile was evil.
Mike took a breath. "Is the coffee fresh?"
"As ordered, boss."
Mike got himself a cup, took one bracing drink, and then went to face his wife.
She was in the conference room, looking at the murder board.
"You know, except for Beth, all the victims were… rather horrible people," she said as a greeting.
"Liars, cheats, and scammers," Mike agreed.
She turned to face him, piercing him with her gaze. "You know what's causing it. That's why you pulled me out of Lester's hotel room."
"We think so."
"We?"
Ah, damn. "I went and talked to Dean and Sam," he said. "Laid all the information out."
"And they know how to stop it."
"We hope so."
Lizzie turned to him. "You don't know?"
"It's not an exact science," Mike protested.
Lizzie hummed disapprovingly. "So what are they doing?" When Mike hesitated to respond, Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him. "You do know what they're doing."
He raised his free hand. "Yes, I know. But I'm not going to tell you. What they're doing… well, it's not legal, so it's better you don't know."
Lizzie's mouth opened to protest. Then she frowned in thought. Mike took another drink and let her think.
"When will you know if it worked?" she asked.
Mike shrugged. "Fourteen hours, maybe?"
She wrapped herself around his free arm. "Grab the cards then. We've got a long night ahead of us."
.o0o.
Mike nixed strip poker since they were at the station, so they played for household chores. He was off garbage duty for a month when Dean finally checked in. Before they'd even closed the doors on Mike's prowler, Hilde, the night-time dispatcher, called him to report another death.
.o0o.
Mike waited for the Winchesters at their motel. He'd dropped Lizzie at the small county hospital so she could help with a sudden outbreak of botulism. One death, but there were several more barely hanging on.
Mike had stopped in long enough to confirm all the victims had come from the same development, east and slightly north of the motel where Lester had died. Mike knew the ivy had infested the area, so either the "botulism" outbreak was a residual effect, or it hadn't been Hayle's ghost, after all. On his way to the motel, Mike had stopped a couple times and checked the ivy where it grew close to the road. It didn't look any different.
He heard the Impala's growl long before he saw the big vehicle. He'd already told the hunters the news, so there was no need to rush. Still, it was hard not to run over and shake them in anger.
He rested his hands on his belt as he waited for them to park and climb out, because he wasn't an asshole. It wasn't the hunters' fault their theory hadn't been correct.
Dean talked before he'd finished exiting his car. "We stopped along the way. Nothing. The stupid weed's still growing."
"Yup," Mike agreed. "I didn't notice any changes either."
"How're the people at the hospital doing?" Sam asked. He clutched his laptop to his chest, as if he'd been researching in the car as they drove.
"Nobody else has died," Mike answered.
"I don't understand," Sam said. "Everything pointed at it being a ghost."
"It could still be a ghost," Dean said impatiently. "Just possessing the plant."
"Possession doesn't work like that!" Sam's response was cutting. Mike got the idea the brothers had been arguing the idea since Mike had called and let them know about the latest fatality.
"How does it work?" Mike asked, both from a desire to cut the argument short and a desire to know.
Dean shot a look at Sam, shutting the larger man's mouth before he could get a word out. "Possession is simple. A ghost or a spirit or a demon takes over a living host," Dean explained. "It lives on, even if the original body is destroyed."
"But you already tried burning Hayle's bones," Mike said, asking for clarification.
"If it's ghost possession, we have to draw the ghost out then get rid of it," Sam explained.
He tried to remember if his parents or his brother had ever come across something like this. He couldn't. He'd spent too much of his live actively avoiding hunting and its lore.
Mike looked closely him. "But you don't think this is ghost possession."
Sam's shoulders fell.
"In fact, you have no idea," Mike summed up. Mike looked at the hunters. Neither them looked at Mike. Instead, Dean opened the trunk of the Impala and grabbed a couple duffle bags, and Sam opened the door to their hotel room. Productive avoidance at its finest.
Tiredly, Mike took off his hat and rubbed his scalp. He allowed himself the vague hope that the increased blood flow would help his thinking. Plus, he needed to let Sam and Dean hide the things Mike didn't need to know about, things he'd have to arrest them for.
Unfortunately, what he wanted to do was go in there and shout at them and maybe punch something. Or someone. Anything, if it would force a solution from one of them.
He also wanted to be the one to have the brilliant revelation that solved the puzzle and saved the day. To feel a hunter's pride that he'd done something so few could… or would, even if the supernatural was known by everyone. It was like being part of a superhero club, and it had been the only part of being a hunter Mike had enjoyed.
He pushed the temptation away—he wasn't a hunter anymore. Instead, he paced outside the room, slapped his hat against his thigh, and thought back over everything he knew.
When he figured he'd given them enough time to settle, Mike marched into the room. "The plant has some kind of intelligence, whether it's a spirit or something else," he declared. "When I pulled it up, it attacked me. When it fell back to the ground, it dug itself in. What can do that?" He glared at brothers.
The Winchesters gave him a grim look, but their jaws firmed and determination filled their eyes.
"I'll do more research," Sam offered. He looked at Dean. "You should try Cas again. He'd probably know."
"He's not answering, man," Dean responded. He sounded frustrated and bitter, but also fond and worried. A complex mix of emotions suitable for a family member or other loved one. Mike almost wondered who Cas was to the brothers, before deciding it was irrelevant.
"What can I do to help?" Mike asked.
"Uh," Sam gave a small shrug. "History. We need a more detailed history of the area."
Dean nodded. "Anything evil or sick that happened."
"Or even weird," Sam added.
Mike's mind was simultaneously blank and overwhelmed. This was a small area. He knew lots of the sick and weird things that went on in his county, but he didn't think the Winchesters needed to know that the owners of the local grocery liked to dress up in leather and take turns tying each other up, or that local Harry Potter fans tried to do magic after the last movie was released. They were self-proclaimed Slytherins, too.
Wait…
"A bunch of wannabe black arts students tried to cast a spell," Mike said. Dean and Sam focused on him with scary intensity. "They set a bit of grazing land on fire, and destroyed a few trees and a run-down feed shed. No one thought anything of it."
"What kind of spell?" Sam asked.
"Something they'd cobbled together from popular fiction and Wikipedia," Mike said with a tight shrug. "It wasn't real magic." He didn't need the Winchester's exchanged look of disbelief to know he might have made a very serious mistake. Magic, even cobbled together and performed with more hope than power, wasn't something to be dismissed. He was the son and brother of hunters. He should've known. Hell, he had known. He just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.
Sam was relentless. "What did they want?"
"Lucius Malfoy," Mike replied wearily. "Or the actors who played them. I don't think they knew what they were asking for."
Dean sat up. "Lucius Malfoy was a bad dude. He followed Voldemort."
Sam stared at his brother, mouth open.
Dean rolled his eyes. "The point is they were calling forth bad mojo without any direction, or focus. So even if they didn't get Jason Isaacs–"
"Dude! How do you know that?" Sam hadn't stopped staring.
Dean ignored him. "Even if they didn't get an evil wizard, maybe they brought up some other evil thing?"
"Like an evil possessed plant?" Mike asked.
"Yahtzee!" Dean leaned back with a proud smile.
Mike looked at Sam. The hunter didn't look skeptical, so that told Mike it was possible.
"How do we get rid of it? Can we burn it?" he asked before remembering it was growing over nearly a quarter of the county.
"Burning it could just release it to find a new host," Dean said.
"If it's a demon, we could exorcise it," Sam suggested.
It was Dean's turn to stare at his brother. "Just walk along the highway muttering Latin?" he scoffed.
"It could work. We'd just need to trap it somehow, send it back to Hell," Sam argued.
"That'sif it's a demon, which isn't likely" Dean pointed out.
Sam shrugged, conceding the point. "Ghost possession, then. Either way, we'll need salt."
It was as if Mike had disappeared, no longer important to their plans. There was tension between the brothers, but they were a team familiar with each other. Any comment Mike made now would interrupt the flow of ideas, so Mike kept his mouth shut and let the discussion flow over him: seals versus locks, and whether they should talk to Kevin, and if holy water could be mixed with weed-killer—it held a never-forgotten, but long-ignored familiarity.
Suddenly, fiercely, Mike missed his brother. Like someone had reached a hand into his lungs and yanked.
Damn hunting, anyway!
"Okay, this is what we're going to do," Sam said and jerked Mike out of his melancholy. "We find the original plant where the root is. That'll be the starting point. We create a circle of protection. Then we'll perform the a couple rituals—one for ghosts, one for demons. One of them's got to work, so that should be that."
"And if it isn't?" Mike asked.
The Winchesters didn't have an answer.