EIGHTEEN
Slipping into one of his most-often used aliases, an FBI agent, Dean visited the 51st Precinct and got James’s last known address. His sister’s house in Queens. Great.
Dean hopped onto the subway and made the twenty-minute journey to the outer borough.
Burnt-out candles covered the front steps of the McMannon residence. Dean wondered if the vigil was for James, or if there was something else going on that he didn’t yet understand.
Knocking on the front door, Dean again pulled out his FBI badge. The woman who eventually opened the door looked battered and used up, her days-old makeup was smeared down her face. She had clearly spent the night weeping.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Dean said kindly. “I’m Agent Page with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
The woman wiped a little mascara from the corner of her eye. “You’d better come in.”
The woman led him inside, where he found Julia sat on the living room couch, smiling like a wolf.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Doyle. “And this is Miss Sands,” she added, nodding at Julia. “The police sent her to visit me and check on my well-being. But I expect you’d know all about that.”
“I’m not sure, Madam,” Dean said, raising an eyebrow at Julia. “It seems strange that they would send such a young lady to do such an important job.”
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Doyle said. “But she has been very kind.”
Julia glared at Dean. Ignoring her, Dean looked around the dark and pokey interior of Mrs. Doyle’s home—it was stuffed floor-to-ceiling with religious icons. The deep irony struck Dean immediately. The world could be cruel.
Dean took a seat opposite Julia. She had beaten him here. Somehow. Dean didn’t like how the day was going.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Mrs. Doyle said, shuffling in from the kitchen.
Dean smiled politely and took the saucer and cup from her.
“Would you mind telling me when you last saw James McMannon?”
“I’ve already told the detectives everything I know,” she mumbled in reply. “He left with Barney to go to work, and neither of them came home that night.”
“Barney?” Dean asked.
“... My son.”
“Of course,” Dean replied gently, feeling for the woman. He was certain her son was already dead. “But James reported for work the next day?”
Mrs. Doyle broke eye contact with Dean, and began turning a Saint Christopher medallion over in her hands. “Yes.”
Julia shot Dean a suspicious look. “Madam, have you been in contact with James?” Dean asked.
“No.”
“The only way we can find your son is if we know everything,” Dean persisted gently.
Mrs. Doyle recoiled in horror, her lip quivering intensely. She looked like she was on the verge of total emotional collapse.
“But...”
“What?” Dean asked.
“How could you not know? The detectives, they found...” she trailed off, tears spilling freely down her face. “They found his body.”
Smooth, Dean. Although Sam was the more emotionally sensitive of the Winchester brothers, Dean’s heart wasn’t made of stone. Mrs. Doyle had lost everything she had, and it was already too late for Dean to help her. After the gunshot wound and the fall that James had sustained, his host wouldn’t survive once the demon left his body. To all intents and purposes, James was just as dead as Barney.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Doyle,” Dean said sincerely. “Of course, had I known...”
“You wouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me,” the woman finished.
“That’s not true,” Dean said. “I’ve still got some questions about James.”
Mrs. Doyle’s face went even whiter, but she nodded okay.
“He ever come home acting strangely? Like he was drunk, or not himself?”
“No.”
“He hang out with any shady characters? People that weren’t so... wholesome?” he asked, pointing at the largest crucifix in the room.
“He’s a good man.”
“You don’t think it’s possible he’s involved with this?”
“He’s a victim. I know it. Both of them are.”
“Did James go to church with you, Mrs. Doyle?”
She nodded, hesitantly.
“But not every week,” Dean stated flatly.
“Some Sundays he’d have work.”
Julia leaned in and grasped the woman’s shaking hands.
“It’s terrible this has happened to your family, Mrs. Doyle. But if James was here this morning, then you need to tell the agent.”
Where’s she getting that from? Dean wondered. Was he missing something obvious here?
Mrs. Doyle faltered under Julia’s scrutiny.
“He didn’t do anything wrong, I just know it. Please don’t hurt him.”
I’ll be damned, Dean thought. Julia’s good for something after all.
“Was he here? Did he say anything?” Julia continued her grilling.
“No. He didn’t say much at all... That was the strange part. He came in, looking a real mess, went upstairs. I heard him shuffling around. Then he came back down and did something, I don’t know, not like him.”
“What?” Dean asked.
“He asked if I knew how to get to the train station. But that’s not how he said it. It was like he didn’t know the word he was looking for.”
“And why is that strange?” Julia queried, moving forward in her seat.
“Well, because he worked at Grand Central Station for fifteen years as a desk clerk. How could he not know where it was?”
Julia and Dean exchanged glances. That was strange indeed.
“That was before you heard from the detective?” Julia asked.
Mrs. Doyle nodded sadly. “I don’t know where he’s going. I just don’t want him to get hurt.” She looked at Dean desperately. “Promise me you won’t hurt him.”
“We just want to bring your brother back. That’s all.” If only that were true.
Dean followed Julia out of the dimly lit house and into the bright morning sun in a somber mood. Whatever the demon’s interest in the scroll, it was clear he was willing to kill.
“How the hell did you get here before me?” he demanded as soon as they were out of earshot of the house. “And what the hell are you doing?”
Julia accelerated her pace, leaving Dean struggling to keep up.
“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Dean said, grabbing her elbow.
“What’s wrong with you?” Julia asked spinning around angrily. “You stop us from getting the scrolls, then you come barging in on my interview. You’re like a bull dressed in heels in a china shop. Skidding around, and breaking everything in its wake.”
“You’d never find me in heels.” Dean said, scowling. Then he smiled. “Listen, it’s clear we’re both after the same thing. And even though you’re obnoxious, it seems to me we’d be better off working together.”
“I get the jump on you one time and you want to team up?”
“I don’t need your help. I just don’t want to have to kill you.”
“Why should I team up with you? I’m always ahead of you, Dean Winchester.” Julia smiled, holding up Dean’s wallet. “And here I’ve been writing my love letters to Malcolm Young...”
Dean felt his jacket for his wallet.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he gasped. “Impressive. Not very many women can dip like that.”
“I’m not most women. That FBI shield is a piece of crap, by the way, totally unrealistic.” Julia stopped in front of the steps leading up to the raised subway platform.
“So what do you say? Partners?” Even as he said the words, Dean knew he was going to have trouble convincing Sam. Even though his brother was always the more trusting of the two, knowing Sam, he wouldn’t want other people to get hurt finding their way out of this mess.
Julia surveyed Dean. “I guess. For now.” She turned and took the stairs two at a time.
“Hey, how did you know?” Dean asked, following her.
“Know what?”
“That James had been there.”
“Are you kidding? The whole place smelled like wet dog.”
Dean pushed coins into the payphone on the subway platform. He waited for the operator and then asked for the Turtle Bay hotel, room thirty-three. Dean listened as the desk clerk rang up to the third floor. In that era, it seemed some hotels only had one telephone per level. Through the receiver, Dean heard his brother’s heavy footfall as he approached.
“Dean? What’s going on?”
“Meet me at Grand Central. The guard dog is taking a train today. Don’t know where or what time.”
“When are you going to get there?” Sam asked.
“Soon as I can. I’m at 111th street in Queens. Oh, and Sam? I might have company.”
“Um... I was going to say the same thing,” Sam admitted. “Walter was at his office. He has a book, and some ideas about what is possessing James.”
“Fair enough. Julia got to James’s sister before I did. Anyway, we’ll meet you at Grand Central.”
Sam hung up and retreated back to the room where Walter was rewrapping his injured leg with clean gauze.
“We’ve got to meet Julia and Dean at Grand Central.”
Walter looked up, surprised. “Grand Central? Is that where the scrolls are?”
“Seems guard dog James is taking a train ride. We need to follow him, he’s our only lead.”
“Well then, let’s go.”
Sam stuffed the shotguns into the bottom of the duffel bag and put his and Dean’s 2010 clothes on top. They’d used the clothes to conceal the shape of the weapons in the bag on their way to the Waldorf, which turned out to be fortuitous, since they hadn’t been able to return to their apartment. Walter had taken a small suitcase from his office. It was empty, but could hold the scrolls when and if they found them.
“How much money do you have?” Sam asked.
“Not much. Three dollars.” Walter said, looking through his worn leather wallet.
Sam looked at the window and the fire escape beyond it. They were going to have to hoof it out the back. There was no telling who was watching the hotel. Plus, Sam didn’t want to pay for two nights. He opened up the creeky, dust-laden window. Down below, a large dumpster was about twenty feet too far away from them. It was going to be difficult getting an old man with a leg injury out of the window.
“I can make it,” Walter reassured Sam.
The two men scrambled down the fire escape to the platform that hung about twenty-five feet in the air. Sam was six-foot four—that meant he still had to drop nineteen feet to the ground. He hit the uneven pavement hard.
“You okay?” Walter called.
Sam gave him a thumbs up, and then rolled the dumpster underneath the fire escape. Walter slowly let himself down, dropping with a thud. Sam pulled him off the dumpster and they hurried to the sidewalk.