Ancient Words: Chapter 15 - "Clued In"
Title/Chapter: Ancient Words - Ch. 15 - Clued In
Author: Supernatural Mommy
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC, OMC (child), OMC ; no pairings
Spoilers: None really, unless you've not seen Season one, to Nightmare
Warnings: PG-13 now, R overall for adult themes. This chapter some religious references: Overall rated for language, violence (including non-con acts depicted with OC's and torture) hurt/comfort, religious references (seriously, this story uses lots of religious references, so if that bothers you, please don't read) I will try to label each chapter appropriately
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em *pity*, but new characters are my own creation.
Summary: Dean searches for clues while Sam and Bobby’s reprieve is short-lived. Andy figures something out.
Author's Notes: Sequel to Look Into His Eyes. Please read through my author's notes Here (from first chapter) and Here (Chapter listing and summary with some minor plot spoilers) if you need more information, explanations, etc.
Chapter 15 - Clued In
“G’ Afternoon, ma’m. My name’s Dean Richards and I think you might be able to help me.” Said with a wink and a suggestive look that he made look easy, the woman didn’t stand a chance. He looked up at her with a full on charming smile. “I’m a private investigator. And I wondered if we could speak . . . privately . . . for a moment?”
She didn’t ask to see ID. He even had the bikini inspector ID ready to go. And Sam thought he only made one for him. Smirk. All in the attitude, he thought as he sauntered behind the sweet manager.
She glanced back over her shoulder, obviously a little nervous. As they walked into a small office behind the clang and sizzles of the grill area, She turned to face him with a shy grin as she tucked an errant blond hair behind her ear.
She was cute. Dean grinned at her easily, working into his little speech. But she beat him to the punch.
“I hope you don’t mind, but do you have some kind of ID?” Well, what do you know . . . he smiled to hide his surprise and slight unease. Why did he have to grab the bikini inspector badge again? The one time for them to look and he grabbed the joke ID. He pulled it out with authority, placing his fingers over the appropriate parts and flashing it just long enough before hastily putting it away.
She relaxed and motioned for him to sit. She sat as well, and then leaned forward.
“So, Mr Richards. What can I do to help you?”
He turned on the charm, like always. And of course it worked.
He, or rather Mr. Richards, private investigator extra ordinaire, very charmingly convinced the sweet little McDonald’s shift manager that it was vitally important to view the videotape from two days ago.
The McDonald’s sat on the corner, just a few doors down from the small diner that Andy had been heading to that day before he was nabbed. When he had surveyed the establishments there a bit earlier, that was the obvious choice for ownership of the camera in question.
She fell for it fairly easily and Dean had his first chance at a real break. He sat to watch the tape in a small manager’s office, begging privacy - “for the sake of his client, you understand?”
He watched as Andy was surprised. He found himself cheering inwardly as he fought. And even though he knew the outcome, he flinched as he saw him beaten and wished he could hear what was being said.
He leaned closer as they loaded the big man into the van. He paused the tape, studying the part he had truly hoped to see: the license plate number.
He gathered his notes and hastily crossed to open the office door, thanking the girl as he passed. His focus was single-minded as soon as he had the information he needed and he ignored the girl’s crushed face as he hurried past her and on his way.
That had been a while ago and led him to his current situation: Stake out.
One hour passed uneventfully. The second hour he tried to just relax, still watching vigilantly. But by the third hour, he was just grateful he was in the relative comfort of the Impala, ‘cause this was beyond boring.
He’d tracked the license plate to a George Cox. Interestingly enough, the van had only been leased a few days ago. A phone call using officer Freeley’s badge number (sorry for yanking your badge there, dude) had netted the needed address. And here he sat.
It was his best lead, and at the three-hour mark he was beginning to wonder if he’d figured wrong. His chest and back were killing him. And he didn’t dare take any pain medicine just in case he needed to be sharp.
Man.
Finally, after four hours - about the time he was starting to doubt his sanity - he saw the van. It pulled in and the bulky man driving looked familiar. He stayed slouched in his seat, but his eyes were taking it all in. Not that there was much to take in.
The man pulled up and walked in his house as if he was on a mission. A mere twenty minutes later, and he was leaving with a duffle bag. Here was his chance. Hopefully, he could just follow the man on to where Larkin was holed up.
As if everything could be that easy. He started the car and pulled into traffic after the man was a block ahead. He followed the man through town, staying back just far enough to hopefully not be spotted. When the speed quickened and the driving turned slightly more erratic, he hit the steering wheel.
Then he winced and patted it lovingly, pressing on the gas at the same time.
“Sorry baby.”
His gaze narrowed in, and he could tell he’d been spotted. Shit! He pushed the Impala harder, trying to stay up with the man, who was now weaving through city streets with a mission. He was close enough . . . just two vehicles up.
He pushed it through a yellow light, keeping the van firmly in sight. Hands steady and gaze hardened, he snaked in and around vehicles and was rewarded as he finally inched a little closer to the van.
He turned a corner, tires squealing, as the van turned down an alley. Cool. He was closer now, within feet. And then with a surge of speed the van pulled ahead and out of nowhere a dump truck backed into his path. Damn!
He squealed to a stop, hitting his chest hard against the steering wheel. The pain flared intensely and the rebound reaction threw his sore back into the hard seat. The world faded to black as the pain flared to an unmanageable level. His body hung to the side, face against the window’s cool glass.
The sounds of the city were a dull blur against the grayish haze that held him. He struggled to control the pain, breathing in a harsh breath and wincing. He pulled himself free of the blur of near-unconsciousness.
He looked around wildly. Eyes flicked from side to side and he tried desperately to look around the stupid dump truck, which was still partially blocking the alley. Nothing. The alley was clear ahead.
Shit, shit, shit!
Now what?
That was his only lead and it had peeled away. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a palm against his eyes. Okay, he needed another plan. What?
Maybe he could go back to the Carver house, find something there?
Maybe he could sneak back into Larkin’s house - the one he, Andy and Annie had surveyed before. There might be something there that could help him.
But he was running out of time. He could feel it. And he needed to get there, wherever there was. It was late afternoon - he glanced at the red digits on the dash - 4:18 p.m.
Oh come on! God, just cut me a break here, would you? Please! Come on! Mikey? A little help here would be great!
He closed his eyes against the impending panic and rested his head against the steering wheel. As he opened his eyes, his gaze rested on the passenger floorboard.
Okay, he’d go back to Larkin’s and hope he could find something. But he needed the address. He thought he caught sight of his notes on the floorboard. Reaching over, painfully, to nab the notes spread over the passenger floorboard, he saw the edge of a file folder sticking out from under the seat. What the . . .
He pulled the papers, and the folder, and rested them in his lap while he glanced through them. Address, address. Where would an address be hiding?
Suddenly his hands stilled. No way. His eyes peered upwards and with a wink and a nod of thanks he pulled the file folder out of the pile and opened it fully.
A full grin lit his features as he viewed the contents, flicking quickly through the pages inside before finally studying one in depth.
Thank you Mikey! Or your boss? Whatever . . .
*****************************************
He woke with a start, shivering. The bright light seeped through cracks scattered around the small building. He looked down to find Bobby’s sleeping form against his side, his head resting on Sam’s arm.
Illuminated in a shaft of bright sunlight, the small face seemed almost angelic, his dark lashes in stark contrast to the pale skin. He studied the child’s face. Then looked his little body over carefully. He couldn’t believe it, but he seemed to be in okay shape. A few extra bruises, some scratches. A little pale maybe. But overall, the little guy looked good.
Relieved, he leaned back, resting his head on the mound of straw under him. Blinking, he raised a hand to pull at something tickling the side of his head. What the . . . it was the blanket he was sure he had put under Bobby. And it was damp. He looked over at the little guy. What had he been up to?
Shivering, he pulled the rest of the blanket forward, folding the damp section over, and spreading the rest over the two of them.
Didn’t offer much, but at least it was something. He wasn’t sure how long they had slept. Shivering still under the thin blanket, he blinked his eyes, opened, and closed his mouth a couple times, trying to relieve the cotton feeling on his tongue. Ugh.
Remembering the water, he got up unsteadily and walked toward the water bucket. They could use more water, both of them. Pushing back the pain in his ribs as he lifted the bucket, he tried to control the swaying that followed. He awkwardly walked the few steps over and finally set down the bucket, falling softly beside Bobby in the straw. Whew!
The dizziness was a bit overwhelming, so he closed his eyes against the rush as the room swam around him. When it finally passed, he took a moment to look down at his chest. The slice across was shallow. But it was red, puffy, and hot to the touch. Crap.
He grabbed the blanket and tore off a bit of the damp section. He was about to dip it in the water, until he thought better of it and poured a little of the water on it, and his hands. He was already cozying up to a nasty infection. He had to do whatever he could to stop it from getting worse.
He wiped his hands against each other and then flicked them both, trying to shake off the dirt and moisture as much as possible. Then he partially wrung out the frayed section of blanket. He pressed on the injury, wincing as pus oozed out of it. Gross. He pushed against the cut, gritting his teeth against the pain, until no more pus escaped. Then he used the bit of fabric to wipe around the edges of the wound. He used his hand to cup a little more water and rinsed it as well as he could with the water. With no first aid supplies at all, it was the best he could do for now.
He blinked his eyes and shook his head slightly; that little bit of effort caused a heavy feeling of exhaustion to wash over him. Man, they’d never get out of here at this rate.
A slight movement behind him brought his eyes around to see Bobby shifting, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks until they opened completely. Dark eyes closed in on Sam immediately. And then he smiled, and his eyes shifted. But they fell on the wound on Sam’s chest and he sat up quickly, scrambling closer to study the nasty cut.
“Sam-mie hur’.” Statement. Whispered. When he lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s for just a fraction of a second, a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. His eyes looked so sad and wounded that Sam figured the little guy’s empathy chip was in overdrive. He sighed.
“It’s okay, Bobby. Just a nasty cut. It’ll get better, buddy.” He watched as the small face relaxed. He grinned at the little guy and swiped his hair, earning him a glare. He grinned wider.
Bobby stilled, thinking seriously for several minutes, then turned his head in Sam’s direction.
“Sam-mie say spe’al wors’?” Sounding like a mimic from the last time they were kidnapped, Bobby looked up at him with serious eyes. “Sam-mie nee’ say spe’al wors.”
He was a little taken back, Bobby seemed so serious. Just a second, he had spoken clearly before, hadn’t he? What was the deal with his language? Must be harder for him to speak more clearly.
“Okay, little guy. We’ll practice together, okay?” Bobby’s quick nod was his only response, and again Sam shook his head. This kid was something else. It was like that flipped a switch with the little guy. The boy nodded to himself, whispering almost silently for a moment.
“La’n. Spec’l wor’s.” Bobby said softly. “Oratio, Psalmus et exorcismus.” Softly spoken again: Prayer, Psalm and Exorcism.
When they had been kidnapped before, they had memorized an entire section of the Rituale Romanum’s (Roman Ritual) exorcism, adapting it to make it shorter and including only one of each of the Prayers, Psalms and then the main exorcism text. It helped that Bobby had it all memorized already. But Sam, well . . . what could he say in his defense? He wasn’t an autistic savant who could memorize entire books at whim. And he’d been a little preoccupied in the few days since their first kidnapping, so he was rusty on the details of the ritual now.
It didn’t matter as much, though. They hopefully had a little time to brush up on memorizing it. Well, he hopefully had time to. Bobby was already the expert.
“Wanna use all the same stuff? Psalm 53 and the same prayer and exorcism part?” Bobby nodded his head slowly. Sam studied him. The boy looked tired, with circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that was starting to concern him. “Take a drink of water first, okay?”
He watched the boy lean over, carefully cradling some water in his hands before drinking the water. He wiped the spilled drops from the corner of his mouth, frayed shirtsleeve trailing. He took another drink, and then another. After about his fifth drink, Sam stopped him.
“Take a break or your tummy’ll get sore, okay?” He waited for the little guy’s nod and then pulled him a little closer to him, conforming his small body into his side. He was fairly surprised when Bobby didn’t fight the motion and instead leaned into him further, resting his head against the side of his chest and following the movement with a soft sigh.
“Psalmus quinquaginta et tres.” Psalm 53. Their eyes met for a second.. “’S shor’ (it’s short).” That little squirt had a twinkle in his eye, and Sam knew he was remembering the last time they did this. He started first with the prayer. “Oratio? Oremus. Deus, et Pater Fomini nostri jesu Chrisi, invoco nomen sanctum tuum, et clementiam tuam supplex¼”
They fell into a familiar pattern, repeating the Prayer, going back and forth. After a dozen times, Bobby stopped and cocked his head to the side. He smiled a gentle smile. As if he was repeating what they had done the last time, he started in with the verses from Psalm.
“Psalmus? Psalmus quinquaginta et tres¼” Bobby paused again. “Deus, in nominee tuo salvum me fac: et in virtute tua judica me....” Sam looked at Bobby and grinned. He had paused for Sam to repeat. And he obliged.
“Deus, in nominee tuo salvum me fac: et in virtute tua judica me...” Sam’s intonation was close to Bobby’s. Their soft words didn’t carry far, but created a sense of peace within their little world as they were spoken.
“Exorcismus?” Bobby questioned softly: Exorcism? “Exorcizo te. Immundissime spiritus. Omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nominee Domini nostri Jesu Christi¼” They murmured the words back and forth with careful pronunciations.
The late afternoon sun was piercing the small area with shafts of light here and there by the time they had finished. They had both taken several breaks to take drinks of water. When the bucket dropped further, Sam started taking sips instead of full drinks. He wanted to make sure Bobby drank enough.
As they finished, Sam considered their options.
His thoughts shifted suddenly as an uneasy feeling washed over him. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t a vision, but something didn’t feel right. He found it harder to link his thoughts together, and the world seemed to come to a standstill. He could feel the strange sensation of saliva running from his mouth. But it was like he had surrendered control of his body. He couldn’t do anything about it.
He couldn’t even swallow.
He felt as his body started to fold, and he fell backwards with a soft sigh as breath was expelled from the impact. His eyes drifted shut and awareness left with an image of Bobby closing in to peer at his face.
****************************************
What happened? Why was Sammy lying down like that?
He leaned over to watch as his friend’s eyes closed. Why was Sammy going to sleep now?
He was taking little breaths and his arm was doing something weird. It was moving. It just kept moving up and down. He watched it. Up and down. He grabbed it, but he wasn’t strong enough to make it stop.
And now, Sam’s whole body was shaking.
The wet was in his eyes again.
He was scared.
“Sam-mie?” No answer. He pushed at his chest and tried again. “Sam-mie!”
Nothing.
God. Help. What I do?
No answer.
He looked from one side of the room to another. It smelled. His eyes had wet in them and his cheeks were wet now too. He studied Sam again. This time he almost screamed. Almost.
He leaned down to rest his head on Sammy’s chest. He didn’t feel anything move. When he looked at his face, his lips looked like a new color. He poked Sammy’s lips. He pushed his chest. He hit his chest once and couldn’t help the sound he made then.
“Sorry Sam-mie.”
He hoped he didn’t hurt him. Did he make something hurt on Sam? He looked at the top of the room, and the wet was falling off his face now. What should he do? He bit his lip.
He could go for help. Maybe he could find Annie or Dean. He nodded. He could do that.
He pushed Sam’s chest one more time, just in case. Nothing. Okay. God. I am so scared.
With that thought, he ran over to and out the door of the small building.
*****************************************
George was walking the grounds, and had been for the last half hour. He’d finally decided that were he to escape from in the middle of nowhere he would stay close-by and look for a means of transportation. So he started looking closer to the outbuildings of the farm.
The three of them had already scoured the barn itself already, so he didn’t worry about that. Instead, he closed in on the back pen behind the barn, and the chicken coop and other small buildings that littered the area there.
His heart was still racing from his close call earlier. Someone had followed him from his house. He was sure he’d seen the sleek car before. But he couldn’t place it. At least he was able to lose them.
He wasn’t about to tell Larkin about it, even while he knew he probably should. There were only three of them instead of the original five for a reason. Two had made stupid mistakes that could have led the police to them. He didn’t much feel like a bullet to his head anytime soon.
He was just rounding the corner of the small building behind the barn when a movement caught his eye.
The boy.
George watched as the child barreled out of the building. He stepped in the little one’s path and was elated when he ran right into him. Well, this certainly made his job easier. But as he lifted the boy up, he could see that something was wrong.
Aside from the boy pushing at him and growling - which was weird enough - the little guy had tears running down his face and looked terrified.
He suddenly stilled and looked into George’s eyes. He blinked, because the intensity behind those brown eyes was shocking. The fast gibberish that came from the child’s mouth was concerning him a little. What was going on? He found himself worried for him.
Why? He had no clue.
“Sa’ hur’. Hep’ Sam-mie. You hep’. Now! You hep’, Sam-mie no brea’, no brea’.” He could almost make sense of the child’s words, but he was talking so fast they about ran together and he was shaking his head in confusion.
“You have to slow down, I can’t understand you. You hear me? Slow down!” He couldn’t help the small shake to accentuate the point. He also couldn’t help his racing heart as the boy’s terrified eyes again lifted to meet his. And he couldn’t help that he actually cared what the child was trying to say. He was only human. Even if he was a killer.
Those brown eyes pierced him again, and he couldn’t help but gasp at their intensity once again. What was it about this kid? The little guy took a deep breath, holding his gaze.
“Sam-mie hurt.” He said the two words carefully and studied him.
“Sammy? The tall guy? What’s wrong?” Okay, great. Looked like he might find both of the escapees. The child blinked. He was trembling and George couldn’t stop himself from pulling him a little closer. He pushed against his chest, but finally he raised his eyes once again and stared him down.
“Sam-mie no breaf.” He stared at him, seeming to will him to understand. Breaf? Breaf? What was that supposed to . . . and suddenly he understood.
“Show me where he is, little man. I can help him.” He ignored the small tendril of doubt in the bottom of his stomach and set the kid down, racing after him into the small chicken coop.
When George first looked at the man on the ground, he decided Larkin was gonna be pissed. He had especially wanted this one alive until the ceremony tonight.
His old military training took over as he studied the pale body, blue lips. He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. None. He leaned over to check for any breath sounds or chest movement. Nothing.
His own pulse pounding, he moved slightly over so his ear rested directly over the heart. And there he heard it. A very sluggish heart beat. The fine trembling in the young man’s body told him the rest. He had probably had another seizure, causing him to stop breathing. He remembered earlier, the day before. He had come out of the seizure okay that time.
Okay, so CPR.
He bent over and started counting while breathing. 1, 2, 3 . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . Moving in between counts to either breath or deflate the man’s chest, he was gratified when the chest suddenly rose of it’s own volition maybe a minute later. A deep shuddering breath followed. And then the rapid in and out of post-stress breathing. He would be okay. For now.
He sighed. He really hated this. He had saved the guy’s life . . . for what? So he could be killed a little later? Why should he even care? He was mad at himself, at the reaction and the emotions. Taking a walkie talkie from his back pocket, he brusquely informed the others that he had found the two who had escaped.
He was just getting soft.
Because there was no way in hell he could care whether these guys lived or died.
No way.
****************************************
Andy’s head flew up as a sudden noise outside the room registered. It was muffled, and maybe down the hallway, but moving closer. Footsteps.
He readied himself behind the door and tensed, as prepared as he could be. Be with me Lord. Please be with me.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as the sound of the lock clicking registered. The man who stepped through was thinking of other things, or something. He didn’t even react to Andy’s presence until his fist was slamming into the man’s cheek.
It wasn’t enough to drop him though. Andy shifted into a defensive stance and blocked an awkward punch. With a slight shift to his right foot, he threw his weight and kicked his left leg solidly up and around to connect with the guy’s mid-section.
It was enough to make the man stagger, but it didn’t drop him completely. He sluggishly made to rise, but Andy didn’t want to let go of the slight edge he had. He brought his fist straight forward in a hard jab, again to the man’s mid-section, but this time connecting higher up, hopefully bruising his ribs.
As the man tried to connect a sluggish jab of his own, Andy blocked and then connected a sharp chop to the side of the man’s neck, just behind the ear. He finally dropped.
He drug his limp form into the room, tying and gagging him effectively with the remnants of his own gag, then patted the man down. He was able to relieve the man of two knives and one small pistol. The pistol he slid into the back waistband of his jeans. He hated guns.
He crossed to the doorway and glanced first one way and then the other down the hallway. All clear. Great. A staticky sound suddenly brought his attention back to the room. And to the man trussed up there. He walked back over to the guy carefully, and saw what was making the noise.
He had missed it under the fold of the man’s shirt. A walkie-talkie. The static ceased, and a muffled voice came across the speaker.
“I found the two who escaped. Awaiting directions. Over.”
Nothing further came across the small speaker, and Andy stared at it, frustrated. He pulled it free from under the still unconscious man.
He knew where he had heard Annie’s voice before. It was above and to the right of the room he had been held in. He slowly crept down the hallway, slowing to study the living room before zeroing in the stairs and his goal.
No one.
Good.
He paused to listen intently, making sure he heard nothing from the room on the opposite side of this one. It looked like the kitchen. When he was convinced no one was waiting in there, he crossed swiftly to the stairs and glanced up quickly. Seeing no one and hearing no movement, he started up the stairs, keeping close to the wall and looking back several times to ensure no one was following him.
Once he was finally up the stairs, he glanced around. He counted two doorways and one open door that revealed the toilet and sink of a restroom.
Trying to center himself and visualize where his room was at downstairs in relation to where he was currently, he decided finally on the one directly to the side and across from the stairway.
He crossed the hallway and listened intently, his ear pressed firmly to the door. He eased the door open, holding his breath until he could adjust to darkened room. His breath came in a deep shudder as he accepted the reality that faced him there.
Author: Supernatural Mommy
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC, OMC (child), OMC ; no pairings
Spoilers: None really, unless you've not seen Season one, to Nightmare
Warnings: PG-13 now, R overall for adult themes. This chapter some religious references: Overall rated for language, violence (including non-con acts depicted with OC's and torture) hurt/comfort, religious references (seriously, this story uses lots of religious references, so if that bothers you, please don't read) I will try to label each chapter appropriately
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em *pity*, but new characters are my own creation.
Summary: Dean searches for clues while Sam and Bobby’s reprieve is short-lived. Andy figures something out.
Author's Notes: Sequel to Look Into His Eyes. Please read through my author's notes Here (from first chapter) and Here (Chapter listing and summary with some minor plot spoilers) if you need more information, explanations, etc.
Chapter 15 - Clued In
“G’ Afternoon, ma’m. My name’s Dean Richards and I think you might be able to help me.” Said with a wink and a suggestive look that he made look easy, the woman didn’t stand a chance. He looked up at her with a full on charming smile. “I’m a private investigator. And I wondered if we could speak . . . privately . . . for a moment?”
She didn’t ask to see ID. He even had the bikini inspector ID ready to go. And Sam thought he only made one for him. Smirk. All in the attitude, he thought as he sauntered behind the sweet manager.
She glanced back over her shoulder, obviously a little nervous. As they walked into a small office behind the clang and sizzles of the grill area, She turned to face him with a shy grin as she tucked an errant blond hair behind her ear.
She was cute. Dean grinned at her easily, working into his little speech. But she beat him to the punch.
“I hope you don’t mind, but do you have some kind of ID?” Well, what do you know . . . he smiled to hide his surprise and slight unease. Why did he have to grab the bikini inspector badge again? The one time for them to look and he grabbed the joke ID. He pulled it out with authority, placing his fingers over the appropriate parts and flashing it just long enough before hastily putting it away.
She relaxed and motioned for him to sit. She sat as well, and then leaned forward.
“So, Mr Richards. What can I do to help you?”
He turned on the charm, like always. And of course it worked.
He, or rather Mr. Richards, private investigator extra ordinaire, very charmingly convinced the sweet little McDonald’s shift manager that it was vitally important to view the videotape from two days ago.
The McDonald’s sat on the corner, just a few doors down from the small diner that Andy had been heading to that day before he was nabbed. When he had surveyed the establishments there a bit earlier, that was the obvious choice for ownership of the camera in question.
She fell for it fairly easily and Dean had his first chance at a real break. He sat to watch the tape in a small manager’s office, begging privacy - “for the sake of his client, you understand?”
He watched as Andy was surprised. He found himself cheering inwardly as he fought. And even though he knew the outcome, he flinched as he saw him beaten and wished he could hear what was being said.
He leaned closer as they loaded the big man into the van. He paused the tape, studying the part he had truly hoped to see: the license plate number.
He gathered his notes and hastily crossed to open the office door, thanking the girl as he passed. His focus was single-minded as soon as he had the information he needed and he ignored the girl’s crushed face as he hurried past her and on his way.
That had been a while ago and led him to his current situation: Stake out.
One hour passed uneventfully. The second hour he tried to just relax, still watching vigilantly. But by the third hour, he was just grateful he was in the relative comfort of the Impala, ‘cause this was beyond boring.
He’d tracked the license plate to a George Cox. Interestingly enough, the van had only been leased a few days ago. A phone call using officer Freeley’s badge number (sorry for yanking your badge there, dude) had netted the needed address. And here he sat.
It was his best lead, and at the three-hour mark he was beginning to wonder if he’d figured wrong. His chest and back were killing him. And he didn’t dare take any pain medicine just in case he needed to be sharp.
Man.
Finally, after four hours - about the time he was starting to doubt his sanity - he saw the van. It pulled in and the bulky man driving looked familiar. He stayed slouched in his seat, but his eyes were taking it all in. Not that there was much to take in.
The man pulled up and walked in his house as if he was on a mission. A mere twenty minutes later, and he was leaving with a duffle bag. Here was his chance. Hopefully, he could just follow the man on to where Larkin was holed up.
As if everything could be that easy. He started the car and pulled into traffic after the man was a block ahead. He followed the man through town, staying back just far enough to hopefully not be spotted. When the speed quickened and the driving turned slightly more erratic, he hit the steering wheel.
Then he winced and patted it lovingly, pressing on the gas at the same time.
“Sorry baby.”
His gaze narrowed in, and he could tell he’d been spotted. Shit! He pushed the Impala harder, trying to stay up with the man, who was now weaving through city streets with a mission. He was close enough . . . just two vehicles up.
He pushed it through a yellow light, keeping the van firmly in sight. Hands steady and gaze hardened, he snaked in and around vehicles and was rewarded as he finally inched a little closer to the van.
He turned a corner, tires squealing, as the van turned down an alley. Cool. He was closer now, within feet. And then with a surge of speed the van pulled ahead and out of nowhere a dump truck backed into his path. Damn!
He squealed to a stop, hitting his chest hard against the steering wheel. The pain flared intensely and the rebound reaction threw his sore back into the hard seat. The world faded to black as the pain flared to an unmanageable level. His body hung to the side, face against the window’s cool glass.
The sounds of the city were a dull blur against the grayish haze that held him. He struggled to control the pain, breathing in a harsh breath and wincing. He pulled himself free of the blur of near-unconsciousness.
He looked around wildly. Eyes flicked from side to side and he tried desperately to look around the stupid dump truck, which was still partially blocking the alley. Nothing. The alley was clear ahead.
Shit, shit, shit!
Now what?
That was his only lead and it had peeled away. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a palm against his eyes. Okay, he needed another plan. What?
Maybe he could go back to the Carver house, find something there?
Maybe he could sneak back into Larkin’s house - the one he, Andy and Annie had surveyed before. There might be something there that could help him.
But he was running out of time. He could feel it. And he needed to get there, wherever there was. It was late afternoon - he glanced at the red digits on the dash - 4:18 p.m.
Oh come on! God, just cut me a break here, would you? Please! Come on! Mikey? A little help here would be great!
He closed his eyes against the impending panic and rested his head against the steering wheel. As he opened his eyes, his gaze rested on the passenger floorboard.
Okay, he’d go back to Larkin’s and hope he could find something. But he needed the address. He thought he caught sight of his notes on the floorboard. Reaching over, painfully, to nab the notes spread over the passenger floorboard, he saw the edge of a file folder sticking out from under the seat. What the . . .
He pulled the papers, and the folder, and rested them in his lap while he glanced through them. Address, address. Where would an address be hiding?
Suddenly his hands stilled. No way. His eyes peered upwards and with a wink and a nod of thanks he pulled the file folder out of the pile and opened it fully.
A full grin lit his features as he viewed the contents, flicking quickly through the pages inside before finally studying one in depth.
Thank you Mikey! Or your boss? Whatever . . .
*****************************************
He woke with a start, shivering. The bright light seeped through cracks scattered around the small building. He looked down to find Bobby’s sleeping form against his side, his head resting on Sam’s arm.
Illuminated in a shaft of bright sunlight, the small face seemed almost angelic, his dark lashes in stark contrast to the pale skin. He studied the child’s face. Then looked his little body over carefully. He couldn’t believe it, but he seemed to be in okay shape. A few extra bruises, some scratches. A little pale maybe. But overall, the little guy looked good.
Relieved, he leaned back, resting his head on the mound of straw under him. Blinking, he raised a hand to pull at something tickling the side of his head. What the . . . it was the blanket he was sure he had put under Bobby. And it was damp. He looked over at the little guy. What had he been up to?
Shivering, he pulled the rest of the blanket forward, folding the damp section over, and spreading the rest over the two of them.
Didn’t offer much, but at least it was something. He wasn’t sure how long they had slept. Shivering still under the thin blanket, he blinked his eyes, opened, and closed his mouth a couple times, trying to relieve the cotton feeling on his tongue. Ugh.
Remembering the water, he got up unsteadily and walked toward the water bucket. They could use more water, both of them. Pushing back the pain in his ribs as he lifted the bucket, he tried to control the swaying that followed. He awkwardly walked the few steps over and finally set down the bucket, falling softly beside Bobby in the straw. Whew!
The dizziness was a bit overwhelming, so he closed his eyes against the rush as the room swam around him. When it finally passed, he took a moment to look down at his chest. The slice across was shallow. But it was red, puffy, and hot to the touch. Crap.
He grabbed the blanket and tore off a bit of the damp section. He was about to dip it in the water, until he thought better of it and poured a little of the water on it, and his hands. He was already cozying up to a nasty infection. He had to do whatever he could to stop it from getting worse.
He wiped his hands against each other and then flicked them both, trying to shake off the dirt and moisture as much as possible. Then he partially wrung out the frayed section of blanket. He pressed on the injury, wincing as pus oozed out of it. Gross. He pushed against the cut, gritting his teeth against the pain, until no more pus escaped. Then he used the bit of fabric to wipe around the edges of the wound. He used his hand to cup a little more water and rinsed it as well as he could with the water. With no first aid supplies at all, it was the best he could do for now.
He blinked his eyes and shook his head slightly; that little bit of effort caused a heavy feeling of exhaustion to wash over him. Man, they’d never get out of here at this rate.
A slight movement behind him brought his eyes around to see Bobby shifting, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks until they opened completely. Dark eyes closed in on Sam immediately. And then he smiled, and his eyes shifted. But they fell on the wound on Sam’s chest and he sat up quickly, scrambling closer to study the nasty cut.
“Sam-mie hur’.” Statement. Whispered. When he lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s for just a fraction of a second, a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. His eyes looked so sad and wounded that Sam figured the little guy’s empathy chip was in overdrive. He sighed.
“It’s okay, Bobby. Just a nasty cut. It’ll get better, buddy.” He watched as the small face relaxed. He grinned at the little guy and swiped his hair, earning him a glare. He grinned wider.
Bobby stilled, thinking seriously for several minutes, then turned his head in Sam’s direction.
“Sam-mie say spe’al wors’?” Sounding like a mimic from the last time they were kidnapped, Bobby looked up at him with serious eyes. “Sam-mie nee’ say spe’al wors.”
He was a little taken back, Bobby seemed so serious. Just a second, he had spoken clearly before, hadn’t he? What was the deal with his language? Must be harder for him to speak more clearly.
“Okay, little guy. We’ll practice together, okay?” Bobby’s quick nod was his only response, and again Sam shook his head. This kid was something else. It was like that flipped a switch with the little guy. The boy nodded to himself, whispering almost silently for a moment.
“La’n. Spec’l wor’s.” Bobby said softly. “Oratio, Psalmus et exorcismus.” Softly spoken again: Prayer, Psalm and Exorcism.
When they had been kidnapped before, they had memorized an entire section of the Rituale Romanum’s (Roman Ritual) exorcism, adapting it to make it shorter and including only one of each of the Prayers, Psalms and then the main exorcism text. It helped that Bobby had it all memorized already. But Sam, well . . . what could he say in his defense? He wasn’t an autistic savant who could memorize entire books at whim. And he’d been a little preoccupied in the few days since their first kidnapping, so he was rusty on the details of the ritual now.
It didn’t matter as much, though. They hopefully had a little time to brush up on memorizing it. Well, he hopefully had time to. Bobby was already the expert.
“Wanna use all the same stuff? Psalm 53 and the same prayer and exorcism part?” Bobby nodded his head slowly. Sam studied him. The boy looked tired, with circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that was starting to concern him. “Take a drink of water first, okay?”
He watched the boy lean over, carefully cradling some water in his hands before drinking the water. He wiped the spilled drops from the corner of his mouth, frayed shirtsleeve trailing. He took another drink, and then another. After about his fifth drink, Sam stopped him.
“Take a break or your tummy’ll get sore, okay?” He waited for the little guy’s nod and then pulled him a little closer to him, conforming his small body into his side. He was fairly surprised when Bobby didn’t fight the motion and instead leaned into him further, resting his head against the side of his chest and following the movement with a soft sigh.
“Psalmus quinquaginta et tres.” Psalm 53. Their eyes met for a second.. “’S shor’ (it’s short).” That little squirt had a twinkle in his eye, and Sam knew he was remembering the last time they did this. He started first with the prayer. “Oratio? Oremus. Deus, et Pater Fomini nostri jesu Chrisi, invoco nomen sanctum tuum, et clementiam tuam supplex¼”
They fell into a familiar pattern, repeating the Prayer, going back and forth. After a dozen times, Bobby stopped and cocked his head to the side. He smiled a gentle smile. As if he was repeating what they had done the last time, he started in with the verses from Psalm.
“Psalmus? Psalmus quinquaginta et tres¼” Bobby paused again. “Deus, in nominee tuo salvum me fac: et in virtute tua judica me....” Sam looked at Bobby and grinned. He had paused for Sam to repeat. And he obliged.
“Deus, in nominee tuo salvum me fac: et in virtute tua judica me...” Sam’s intonation was close to Bobby’s. Their soft words didn’t carry far, but created a sense of peace within their little world as they were spoken.
“Exorcismus?” Bobby questioned softly: Exorcism? “Exorcizo te. Immundissime spiritus. Omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nominee Domini nostri Jesu Christi¼” They murmured the words back and forth with careful pronunciations.
The late afternoon sun was piercing the small area with shafts of light here and there by the time they had finished. They had both taken several breaks to take drinks of water. When the bucket dropped further, Sam started taking sips instead of full drinks. He wanted to make sure Bobby drank enough.
As they finished, Sam considered their options.
His thoughts shifted suddenly as an uneasy feeling washed over him. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t a vision, but something didn’t feel right. He found it harder to link his thoughts together, and the world seemed to come to a standstill. He could feel the strange sensation of saliva running from his mouth. But it was like he had surrendered control of his body. He couldn’t do anything about it.
He couldn’t even swallow.
He felt as his body started to fold, and he fell backwards with a soft sigh as breath was expelled from the impact. His eyes drifted shut and awareness left with an image of Bobby closing in to peer at his face.
****************************************
What happened? Why was Sammy lying down like that?
He leaned over to watch as his friend’s eyes closed. Why was Sammy going to sleep now?
He was taking little breaths and his arm was doing something weird. It was moving. It just kept moving up and down. He watched it. Up and down. He grabbed it, but he wasn’t strong enough to make it stop.
And now, Sam’s whole body was shaking.
The wet was in his eyes again.
He was scared.
“Sam-mie?” No answer. He pushed at his chest and tried again. “Sam-mie!”
Nothing.
God. Help. What I do?
No answer.
He looked from one side of the room to another. It smelled. His eyes had wet in them and his cheeks were wet now too. He studied Sam again. This time he almost screamed. Almost.
He leaned down to rest his head on Sammy’s chest. He didn’t feel anything move. When he looked at his face, his lips looked like a new color. He poked Sammy’s lips. He pushed his chest. He hit his chest once and couldn’t help the sound he made then.
“Sorry Sam-mie.”
He hoped he didn’t hurt him. Did he make something hurt on Sam? He looked at the top of the room, and the wet was falling off his face now. What should he do? He bit his lip.
He could go for help. Maybe he could find Annie or Dean. He nodded. He could do that.
He pushed Sam’s chest one more time, just in case. Nothing. Okay. God. I am so scared.
With that thought, he ran over to and out the door of the small building.
*****************************************
George was walking the grounds, and had been for the last half hour. He’d finally decided that were he to escape from in the middle of nowhere he would stay close-by and look for a means of transportation. So he started looking closer to the outbuildings of the farm.
The three of them had already scoured the barn itself already, so he didn’t worry about that. Instead, he closed in on the back pen behind the barn, and the chicken coop and other small buildings that littered the area there.
His heart was still racing from his close call earlier. Someone had followed him from his house. He was sure he’d seen the sleek car before. But he couldn’t place it. At least he was able to lose them.
He wasn’t about to tell Larkin about it, even while he knew he probably should. There were only three of them instead of the original five for a reason. Two had made stupid mistakes that could have led the police to them. He didn’t much feel like a bullet to his head anytime soon.
He was just rounding the corner of the small building behind the barn when a movement caught his eye.
The boy.
George watched as the child barreled out of the building. He stepped in the little one’s path and was elated when he ran right into him. Well, this certainly made his job easier. But as he lifted the boy up, he could see that something was wrong.
Aside from the boy pushing at him and growling - which was weird enough - the little guy had tears running down his face and looked terrified.
He suddenly stilled and looked into George’s eyes. He blinked, because the intensity behind those brown eyes was shocking. The fast gibberish that came from the child’s mouth was concerning him a little. What was going on? He found himself worried for him.
Why? He had no clue.
“Sa’ hur’. Hep’ Sam-mie. You hep’. Now! You hep’, Sam-mie no brea’, no brea’.” He could almost make sense of the child’s words, but he was talking so fast they about ran together and he was shaking his head in confusion.
“You have to slow down, I can’t understand you. You hear me? Slow down!” He couldn’t help the small shake to accentuate the point. He also couldn’t help his racing heart as the boy’s terrified eyes again lifted to meet his. And he couldn’t help that he actually cared what the child was trying to say. He was only human. Even if he was a killer.
Those brown eyes pierced him again, and he couldn’t help but gasp at their intensity once again. What was it about this kid? The little guy took a deep breath, holding his gaze.
“Sam-mie hurt.” He said the two words carefully and studied him.
“Sammy? The tall guy? What’s wrong?” Okay, great. Looked like he might find both of the escapees. The child blinked. He was trembling and George couldn’t stop himself from pulling him a little closer. He pushed against his chest, but finally he raised his eyes once again and stared him down.
“Sam-mie no breaf.” He stared at him, seeming to will him to understand. Breaf? Breaf? What was that supposed to . . . and suddenly he understood.
“Show me where he is, little man. I can help him.” He ignored the small tendril of doubt in the bottom of his stomach and set the kid down, racing after him into the small chicken coop.
When George first looked at the man on the ground, he decided Larkin was gonna be pissed. He had especially wanted this one alive until the ceremony tonight.
His old military training took over as he studied the pale body, blue lips. He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. None. He leaned over to check for any breath sounds or chest movement. Nothing.
His own pulse pounding, he moved slightly over so his ear rested directly over the heart. And there he heard it. A very sluggish heart beat. The fine trembling in the young man’s body told him the rest. He had probably had another seizure, causing him to stop breathing. He remembered earlier, the day before. He had come out of the seizure okay that time.
Okay, so CPR.
He bent over and started counting while breathing. 1, 2, 3 . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . Moving in between counts to either breath or deflate the man’s chest, he was gratified when the chest suddenly rose of it’s own volition maybe a minute later. A deep shuddering breath followed. And then the rapid in and out of post-stress breathing. He would be okay. For now.
He sighed. He really hated this. He had saved the guy’s life . . . for what? So he could be killed a little later? Why should he even care? He was mad at himself, at the reaction and the emotions. Taking a walkie talkie from his back pocket, he brusquely informed the others that he had found the two who had escaped.
He was just getting soft.
Because there was no way in hell he could care whether these guys lived or died.
No way.
****************************************
Andy’s head flew up as a sudden noise outside the room registered. It was muffled, and maybe down the hallway, but moving closer. Footsteps.
He readied himself behind the door and tensed, as prepared as he could be. Be with me Lord. Please be with me.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as the sound of the lock clicking registered. The man who stepped through was thinking of other things, or something. He didn’t even react to Andy’s presence until his fist was slamming into the man’s cheek.
It wasn’t enough to drop him though. Andy shifted into a defensive stance and blocked an awkward punch. With a slight shift to his right foot, he threw his weight and kicked his left leg solidly up and around to connect with the guy’s mid-section.
It was enough to make the man stagger, but it didn’t drop him completely. He sluggishly made to rise, but Andy didn’t want to let go of the slight edge he had. He brought his fist straight forward in a hard jab, again to the man’s mid-section, but this time connecting higher up, hopefully bruising his ribs.
As the man tried to connect a sluggish jab of his own, Andy blocked and then connected a sharp chop to the side of the man’s neck, just behind the ear. He finally dropped.
He drug his limp form into the room, tying and gagging him effectively with the remnants of his own gag, then patted the man down. He was able to relieve the man of two knives and one small pistol. The pistol he slid into the back waistband of his jeans. He hated guns.
He crossed to the doorway and glanced first one way and then the other down the hallway. All clear. Great. A staticky sound suddenly brought his attention back to the room. And to the man trussed up there. He walked back over to the guy carefully, and saw what was making the noise.
He had missed it under the fold of the man’s shirt. A walkie-talkie. The static ceased, and a muffled voice came across the speaker.
“I found the two who escaped. Awaiting directions. Over.”
Nothing further came across the small speaker, and Andy stared at it, frustrated. He pulled it free from under the still unconscious man.
He knew where he had heard Annie’s voice before. It was above and to the right of the room he had been held in. He slowly crept down the hallway, slowing to study the living room before zeroing in the stairs and his goal.
No one.
Good.
He paused to listen intently, making sure he heard nothing from the room on the opposite side of this one. It looked like the kitchen. When he was convinced no one was waiting in there, he crossed swiftly to the stairs and glanced up quickly. Seeing no one and hearing no movement, he started up the stairs, keeping close to the wall and looking back several times to ensure no one was following him.
Once he was finally up the stairs, he glanced around. He counted two doorways and one open door that revealed the toilet and sink of a restroom.
Trying to center himself and visualize where his room was at downstairs in relation to where he was currently, he decided finally on the one directly to the side and across from the stairway.
He crossed the hallway and listened intently, his ear pressed firmly to the door. He eased the door open, holding his breath until he could adjust to darkened room. His breath came in a deep shudder as he accepted the reality that faced him there.