Bone Key (11 page)

“If I do, I’ll come by later, all right?”

David nodded as Montrose led the brothers out of the courtyard and to the street.

It was several minutes before he moved from that spot.

Dean was fairly used to being handcuffed. Between his various arrests and some of his kinkier one-nighters, Dean had worn the brace-104 SUPERNATURAL

lets many a time. He’d learned the hard way that struggling was pointless and only served to make it hurt more, as the thin metal bit into your wrists. Dean didn’t mind pain, and had a fairly high tolerance for it, but that didn’t mean he sought it out, either. So when he was cuffed in the courtyard of the Hemingway Home and Museum, he didn’t struggle or complain.

Sam hadn’t been handcuffed nearly as often—he had neither been arrested enough nor had an interesting enough sex life—so he hadn’t figured that out yet. He was still struggling as the cop hustled them to his cruiser, parked at an angle in front of the Hemingway Home and Museum.

This was a complication they didn’t need. There were federal warrants out on both Dean and Sam, and an FBI agent named Victor Henriksen who was just dying to get his mitts on them again. Dean really couldn’t blame Henriksen—he was just doing his job, and from the point of view of a federal agent who didn’t know the real deal, Dean was a crazed serial killer and Sam his accomplice. But Dean would also be quite happy never to see the man ever again, either. Henriksen had learned from the mistakes he’d made in Milwaukee and adjusted his game plan accordingly when he encountered them again in Green River. The next time, he’d likely learn from the brand-new mistakes at Green River and make their lives even
more
difficult. Bone

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Which meant they had to get away from the Key West cops. Or at least this cop. He had a flat face, a big nose, and small eyes, with jet-black hair. He pronounced his vowels in that funny way that was common to a lot of Native Americans, so Dean figured he was Seminole or some such. Dean was encouraged by the fact that the cop couldn’t even be bothered to frisk Sam and Dean before putting them in the car, thus missing the burned-out EMF

in Dean’s pocket. It meant a level of incompetence that might make escape very possible. After putting them in the backseat and their shotguns in the passenger seat next to him, the cop climbed into the front. He checked both shotguns, laughed, shook his head, started the ignition—

Dean heard the engine pull a bit and thought it needed a tune-up, not that he intended to share that with the cop—and backed up a bit before heading down Whitehall.

“Where you two staying?” the cop asked.

“Sorry,” Dean said, “I’m invoking my right to remain silent.”

The cop shrugged. “Fine, I’ll just drop you off wherever.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“You fellas’re walkin’ around with rock-salt rounds in your shotguns. Means you’re either nuts, in which case the paperwork’ll be a pain in the ass, or you’re hunters.”

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Sam and Dean exchanged confused and surprised glances. This was unexpected. “Uh, well—”

“I got standing orders to let hunters be. You fellas come through here a lot, after all.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. “We’re hunters. There’s been a lot of—”

“Yeah, I know, the spooks’re on overload. Figured one or two’a you guys’d be along soon enough. They shut down the Little White House today, too, after a tour group saw Harry S his
own
self playin’ poker.”

For a brief moment, Dean thought how cool it would be to play poker with the ghost of Harry Truman, then quickly banished the thought.

“We’ll need to check that out,” Sam said.

“I wouldn’t,” the cop said, turning the car onto Virginia Street. “Keep in mind, presidents and other big-shot folk
still
come there occasionally, and the Secret Service has been known to appear. When they lock down, they lock
down.
”

Sam nodded. “We’ll bear that in mind—and, uh, we’re staying at the Naylor House.”

Dean could see the cop smile in the rearview mirror. “Good place. Give Nicki and Bodge my regards.” He turned up Duval Street, and they moved agonizingly slowly up the street. It was packed with people barhopping, and even the fact that they were in a police car couldn’t make the backlog of cars move any faster.

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“Uh, these standing orders,” Sam said slowly.

“
All
the local cops have them?”

That got another smile. “Some of us, yeah. The ones who know what’s really goin’ on.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a cop in New York named McBain, would you?” Sam asked.

“Or one in Baltimore named Ballard?”

“Nah. Why?”

“No reason.”

Dean chuckled at his brother’s question. A cop in NYPD’s Missing Persons Unit was part of what she called a network of police who knew about the supernatural. Said “network” consisted of only three or four others—including Ballard, a homicide cop Sam and Dean had encountered in Baltimore. Sam was probably thinking that this guy should be part of it. For his part, Dean wasn’t interested. Mostly his life was easier when he stayed three steps ahead of law enforcement, the vast majority of whom were mentally incapable of dealing with what Dean and Sam dealt with every day. Sam would probably point out that Dean and Sam wouldn’t be very good at dealing with, say, homicidal junkies. But cops had their job, and Sam and Dean had theirs. The world was a better place when they just stayed out of each other’s way. Eventually, they made it to Eaton, and the cop turned and parked in front of the tour place across the street. He opened the door and uncuffed them, 108 SUPERNATURAL

handing them each their shotguns as well as a business card each.

“My name’s Montrose. You need anything, call that number—it’s my cell.”

Dean had no intention of using it, but Sam said,

“Thanks—we appreciate it.”

“And hey, take a shower, willya? You two were stinkin’ up my radio car.”

With that, he got back into his car and drove off.

Walking across the street, Sam said, “Officer Montrose was right. We
are
getting a little ripe.”

Since they hadn’t showered since they left Bobby’s, Dean grudgingly had to concede the point, though he refused to do so out loud. “Fine, let’s take care of that, then hit the bars.”

“Dean—” Sam started.

“Look, our next step is to check out the place across the street, right? So we do that later on, when the streets are a little emptier.”

Sam glanced down at Duval, just a few feet down the street, and saw the teeming mass of drunken humanity stumbling around. “Yeah, good point.”

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

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

NINE

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

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

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

I’ll show her just how good I am. Bitch.
So far, though, he hadn’t had as much luck as he’d have wanted. The first woman he took back to 110 SUPERNATURAL

the small attic apartment he’d rented for the duration of the job threw up as soon as she reached the top of the stairs and insisted on going back to her hotel after that. The second one passed out after taking her clothes off. (He got a picture of her lying naked on the bed, though—he’d tell Missy it was after the act.) The third turned out to be a guy in drag. Tom actually went ahead and took a picture of him, just to mess with Missy’s head, but no way in hell he was getting into bed with
that.
(The transvestite actually took it pretty well, and they’d parted on good terms, the guy even recommending a good steakhouse on Cow Key.)

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

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

Besides, the DJ wasn’t likely to play “BrownEyed Girl.” If Tom never heard that goddamn song again, it’d be too soon . . .

The first few young girls he’d tried to dance with had inched away from him as he got closer, Bone

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but there was this one who seemed to enjoy the attention. Dark-haired (tied back in a ponytail that whipped around with her head movements), big catlike brown eyes, a pointed nose, and
fantastic
cheekbones, she was quite a looker.

She was also really into the music, so much so that Tom wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get her attention, but after a minute of moving close to her, she moved closer to
him
and started gyrating toward him—not quite touching, but coming very close, the way strippers did when they did a lap dance. This girl was good-looking enough to
be
a stripper, in Tom’s considered and experienced opinion. She had a classic hourglass figure, with boobs that looked to be at least D cups, flat stomach, decent hips. She wore a loose white tank top over a bikini top that did a very poor job of containing said D cups, which suited Tom just fine, and a pair of denim cutoffs. She had fantastic legs, and a huge smile, which she flashed at Tom as he danced closer to her.

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

After one song ended and as a new one was starting, Tom decided to make his move. Leaning 112 SUPERNATURAL

into the side of her head, he shouted into her ear,

“Can I buy you a drink?”

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

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

Holding out his hand, he said, “I’m Tom.”

“Teresa. You got great moves, Tom.”

“So do you,” Tom said. “You got great eyes.”

She laughed. “They’re okay, but my boobs are better. They’re all natural, too.”

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

The bartender brought the drinks, and Tom paid cash—he didn’t want to run up a tab, as he had no intention of staying at the bar that long. The two of them quickly grew tired of shouting, especially since Teresa’s voice was getting scratchier by the second. Tom asked the bartender for a glass of ice water for her, and they moved downstairs to where there were small round tables far enough from the DJs and bands that you could have a civilized conversation. There were some pizza and ice-cream places nearby, and the other Bone

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folks at the tables had the look of people who needed a break from dancing and/or some food for a pick-me-up.

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

“You’d make a great model.”

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

“Don’t need to—I work construction.”

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

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

“Can you take me to it?”

Tom blinked. “Uh—”

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

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

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