over his expression now, and his hand was resting on the butt of his sap.
“Easy or hard, gentlemen. Makes no difference to me.”
“Okay,” Dean said, “look...”
“Hard it is, then,” Jerry said, drawing the club from his belt. Suddenly he looked like a man who enjoyed using it on vagrants, bums, and anyone else who got in his way, whenever he had the chance.
“Wait!” Sam said, holding up his hands, palms out.
That was all he managed to get out before a bomb burst across the sky. It shook the windows of the sheriff’s office as it exploded.
FOURTEEN
The explosion caught Sheriff Daniels and her deputy completely off-guard. They both spun around in reaction to the noise.
Dean saw Jerry lowering the sap, and that was all the opportunity he needed.
“Come on!” he shouted. Barging past the deputy, he sprinted out of the office, through the lobby, and out the door. Sam was close behind.
The front steps of the sheriff’s building were still cluttered with reporters and camera crews, but they were all facing the other way, toward the outskirts of town, where a second roaring explosion had just gone off, spitting aftershocks across the horizon.
“What is that?” Sam shouted.
Dean jabbed a finger off beyond the low buildings of downtown Mission’s Ridge. The sun was up now, and lay behind them.
“It’s coming from out by the battlefield.”
Scrambling down the sidewalk, he bolted across the street and down the block to where the Impala sat waiting, then jumped behind the wheel almost without waiting to see if Sam had made the trip along with him.
But Sam was already there, climbing into the passenger seat.
Dean gunned it, and the Impala’s engine roared to life with a reassuring throb that seemed to say, What took you so long? Its wheels laid sizzling parabolas of rubber across the concrete as the car spun forward and went shooting off toward the outskirts of town.
Behind him, Dean could already see blue and white lights swirling in the rear-view mirror.
“Looks like them Duke boys are fixing to get themselves in a heap of trouble again,” he muttered in his best Merle Haggard drawl.
Sam checked his side-view mirror.
“Can’t you drive any faster?”
Dean grinned.
“No. But I can do this .” He threw the wheel hard to the right, sluicing the Impala’s back-end around at a ninety-degree angle, sending them straight into the ‘Dixie Boy Buggie Wash.’ One of the attendants—a skinny guy in a lawn chair—jumped out of the way far enough for Dean to drive completely into the car wash. Water and wet sponges splashed off the windshield, enveloping the car, and Dean craned his neck enough to watch the sheriff’s cruiser go flying up Main Street in the direction of the explosions.
“I think we lost ‘em.” Another explosion echoed off in the distance. “And here I thought the re-enactment was canceled.”
“I don’t think this is a re-enactment,” Sam offered.
“Then what the hell...” Dean stared, looking over, and the words faded on his lips. His brother was holding a small, bloodstained leather satchel on his lap, tugging loose the strip of rawhide that acted as its drawstring. “What’s that ?”
Sam held it up.
“I snagged it out of the sheriff’s tote bag on the way out the door.”
“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean said. “Did you happen to see the noose in there, too?”
“I didn’t exactly have time to look.”
“Crap.”
Dean pulled out of the car wash, waved to the attendant on the other side, and slammed the accelerator again, sending the Impala shrieking around the narrow alleyway.
“Man, that bag stinks . What’s in there, anyway?”
“Check it out.” Sam removed a tarnished silver coin, holding it up to examine its markings.
“Confederate?”
Sam shook his head.
“Older than that, I think.” He took out his phone and snapped a picture of it. “I’ll send it to Bobby and see if he can help identify some of the markings.”
He did so, then
“Easy or hard, gentlemen. Makes no difference to me.”
“Okay,” Dean said, “look...”
“Hard it is, then,” Jerry said, drawing the club from his belt. Suddenly he looked like a man who enjoyed using it on vagrants, bums, and anyone else who got in his way, whenever he had the chance.
“Wait!” Sam said, holding up his hands, palms out.
That was all he managed to get out before a bomb burst across the sky. It shook the windows of the sheriff’s office as it exploded.
FOURTEEN
The explosion caught Sheriff Daniels and her deputy completely off-guard. They both spun around in reaction to the noise.
Dean saw Jerry lowering the sap, and that was all the opportunity he needed.
“Come on!” he shouted. Barging past the deputy, he sprinted out of the office, through the lobby, and out the door. Sam was close behind.
The front steps of the sheriff’s building were still cluttered with reporters and camera crews, but they were all facing the other way, toward the outskirts of town, where a second roaring explosion had just gone off, spitting aftershocks across the horizon.
“What is that?” Sam shouted.
Dean jabbed a finger off beyond the low buildings of downtown Mission’s Ridge. The sun was up now, and lay behind them.
“It’s coming from out by the battlefield.”
Scrambling down the sidewalk, he bolted across the street and down the block to where the Impala sat waiting, then jumped behind the wheel almost without waiting to see if Sam had made the trip along with him.
But Sam was already there, climbing into the passenger seat.
Dean gunned it, and the Impala’s engine roared to life with a reassuring throb that seemed to say, What took you so long? Its wheels laid sizzling parabolas of rubber across the concrete as the car spun forward and went shooting off toward the outskirts of town.
Behind him, Dean could already see blue and white lights swirling in the rear-view mirror.
“Looks like them Duke boys are fixing to get themselves in a heap of trouble again,” he muttered in his best Merle Haggard drawl.
Sam checked his side-view mirror.
“Can’t you drive any faster?”
Dean grinned.
“No. But I can do this .” He threw the wheel hard to the right, sluicing the Impala’s back-end around at a ninety-degree angle, sending them straight into the ‘Dixie Boy Buggie Wash.’ One of the attendants—a skinny guy in a lawn chair—jumped out of the way far enough for Dean to drive completely into the car wash. Water and wet sponges splashed off the windshield, enveloping the car, and Dean craned his neck enough to watch the sheriff’s cruiser go flying up Main Street in the direction of the explosions.
“I think we lost ‘em.” Another explosion echoed off in the distance. “And here I thought the re-enactment was canceled.”
“I don’t think this is a re-enactment,” Sam offered.
“Then what the hell...” Dean stared, looking over, and the words faded on his lips. His brother was holding a small, bloodstained leather satchel on his lap, tugging loose the strip of rawhide that acted as its drawstring. “What’s that ?”
Sam held it up.
“I snagged it out of the sheriff’s tote bag on the way out the door.”
“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean said. “Did you happen to see the noose in there, too?”
“I didn’t exactly have time to look.”
“Crap.”
Dean pulled out of the car wash, waved to the attendant on the other side, and slammed the accelerator again, sending the Impala shrieking around the narrow alleyway.
“Man, that bag stinks . What’s in there, anyway?”
“Check it out.” Sam removed a tarnished silver coin, holding it up to examine its markings.
“Confederate?”
Sam shook his head.
“Older than that, I think.” He took out his phone and snapped a picture of it. “I’ll send it to Bobby and see if he can help identify some of the markings.”
He did so, then
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