SIX

Officer Gruber stood with the Winchesters while the paramedics treated Kelly Burke’s impaled hand, replacing the dish towel with antibiotics and proper bandages. Hesitantly, she asked them if her hand would suffer permanent damage. Victor, the senior paramedic, said, “That’s above my pay grade, ma’am. We’ll take you to county hospital, have the doc there evaluate your injury.”

“I can drive,” she said, almost as hesitantly.

“Wouldn’t advise that, ma’am,” said Charlene, the other paramedic. “Might aggravate that injury.”

“You’re right, of course,” Kelly said, nodding. “I should call my husband, let him know… I don’t even know where to begin.”

Victor helped her into the back of the ambulance. She sat next to the gurney upon which they’d earlier secured the bloodied head-banger, Tim Powell, who continued to moan softly, his eyes closed.

While Charlene closed the doors of the ambulance, Victor approached Gruber and the Winchesters, “Guess we’re lucky it was only two.” He glanced toward the back seat of the patrol car. “He should have that elbow looked at by a doctor.”

“You looked at it,” Gruber said. “Said it was just a bruise.”

“I’m no doctor.”

“Noted.”

“If it swells or the pain gets worse…”

“Got it, Vic,” Gruber said.

“I’m serious, Tom.”

“So am I,” Gruber said. “After what he did, he goes to the back of the line.”

A minute later, the ambulance left, no siren.

Gruber turned to Sam. “Nothing from the woman? Burke?”

Sam shook his head. “No warning,” he said. “No trigger. He drove the conversation. Business as usual one minute, senseless rage the next.”

“Followed by another case of temporary amnesia,” Dean added.

Gruber glanced through the side window of his cruiser at Fred Harris, who sat hunched forward, head hanging, staring forlornly down at his feet. “Probably a member of the damn chamber of commerce,” Gruber said. “At this rate, wouldn’t surprise me if he sings in the church choir.”

“Powell, the head-banger, didn’t remember hammering his skull against the window,” Dean said. “But he did remember something. Not sure how helpful it is.” He explained how Powell suddenly had trouble reading the sidewalk sign specials before falling away into darkness.

“Never made it inside the diner,” Sam said. “So, we can’t blame the bottomless cup of coffee.”

“All kidding aside,” Gruber said. “If we rule out food, drink, chemical spills and toxic gases, are we back to my designer drug theory?”

“Even though you’ve heard nothing through the cop grapevine about such a drug?” Sam asked.

“There’s that,” Gruber admitted. “But I’m far from an all-knowing, all-seeing oracle.” He sighed. “If I was in the dark, I wouldn’t… Wait a minute. What if that’s it? A visual trigger. Like one of those subliminal ads you used to hear about.”

“Like the word ‘sex’ hidden in ice cubes in a vodka ad?” Dean asked.

“Something like that,” Gruber said. “But instead of suggesting sex, what if it could trigger violence or other uncharacteristic behavior?”

“Sounds more plausible than a massive carbon monoxide leak,” Sam said charitably, but Dean saw right through it.

Gruber scratched his chin, thoughtful. “Wouldn’t explain the simultaneous blackouts, though. How could everyone awake in town see the same image at the same time?”

“You believe the blackouts are related to the vandalism and violence?” asked Sam.

“Know my town well enough to know it only got this weird after the midnight weirdness,” Gruber said. “One night the entire town does a group faint and the next day a bunch of people start acting weird.” He looked to Dean. “Like you said, Special Agent Tench, the blackout might not have been caused by a drug, per se, but there’s been a whole laundry list of side effects.”

Dean nodded. “Hard to argue with that.”

Gruber climbed into his patrol car and drove Fred to the police station. A few moments after the cruiser pulled out of the lot, a dinged red pickup truck with patches of primer and a chassis that looked as if it had seen a quarter-million miles since its car lot debut rolled up the driveway in squeaky shocks and pulled into the vacated parking space.

“Good, you’re still here,” Marie said as she exited the diner and approached them. “When I called Pete to ask where the hell he stashed the first-aid kit, I mentioned the FBI was here, asking about the blackout and he volunteered to come in.”

A burly, olive-skinned man with a full head of wavy black hair and a pronounced five o’clock shadow climbed out of the pickup truck. He wore a gray sweatshirt over jeans, both sleeves pushed up past the elbows, revealing white bandages across the underside of his forearms down to the base of his palms.

“Pete,” Marie said. “Special Agents…?”

“Tench and Blair,” Dean said, not bothering to flash his phony credentials.

“Pete Papadakis,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. “That was one crazy night, am I right? And not in a good way.” He chuckled. “But how can I help?”

“What do you remember?” Sam asked.

“Craving a cigarette.”

“Excuse me?”

Pete chuckled again. “It’s true,” he said. “That’s about the last thing I remember before the lights went out. Not the real lights.” He rapped his skull with his right fist. “These lights. Marie was there, busy night, mostly regulars. I was trying to clear out the orders and all I could think about was sneaking out back for a puff or two.” He leaned back against the rust-colored pickup, eyes staring off into space as he spoke. “I had just scraped the flat top clean with a spatula. Basket of onion rings in the deep fryer, but I thought I could slip out for a minute. Then—boom!” He struck his palms together for emphasis.

“What?” Dean asked. “Something exploded?”

“No, the darkness came,” he said. “Almost like somebody flipped a switch inside my brain, ‘Goodnight, Pete!’” He chuckled again. “No, not a real voice. Just that sudden. Like falling asleep soon as your head hits the pillow. But, in this case, I fell forward and slapped my arms on the flat top. For a moment, I almost shook it off and woke up. You burn yourself, that pain is quick, yes sir. Faster than the sleep. But whatever was dragging me down was too strong to fight. I’m lucky I fell back onto the floor, or the burns could have been much worse. Mostly first degree. Not bad. Second degree closer to my elbows.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual before you lost consciousness?”

One eyebrow arched, Pete asked, “Other than a whiff of my own flesh cooking?”

“Yes,” Dean said. “Other than that.”

He thought it over. “Not really. Craving a cigarette. I could almost smell it, taste it. Other than that, nothing unusual. Of course, if I hadn’t fallen on the floor…” He glanced down at his bandaged forearms. “But, hey, could have been worse, right?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Sam said.

“Lots of people got hurt. Bumps and bruises mostly.” Pete looked toward Marie. “I heard Nellie Quick lost a few teeth when she fell! Right in front!”

“Oh, no!” Marie said. “I recall some blood on her mouth. Thought she bit her lip.”

“Heard she looks like a hockey player,” Pete said, chuckling. “Could play for the Blues.”

Marie laughed, then caught herself, mortified. “Sorry. That’s awful, Pete.” She looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot. “But that woman is very particular about her appearance.”

Pete turned back to the Winchesters. “So, got any theories? Terrorists? UFOs?”

“We’re investigating possibilities,” Sam said noncommittally.

As the Winchesters walked toward the Impala, Dean overheard Marie chatting with Pete.

“At breakfast this morning, Clyde Barksdale told me his bomb shelter is stocked for any emergency. Convinced it’s the end times.”

“If it is,” Pete said, “what good is a damn bomb shelter?”

Marie laughed. “You try talking sense to that man.”

Dean drove off the lot. A glance in the rearview mirror showed Marie heading back inside the diner while Pete fired up his battered pickup, a puff of smoke belching from the rusted exhaust pipe. Dean wondered if those two kept the Moyer grapevine thriving. Pete had come to the diner hours before his scheduled shift time to tell what little he knew about the midnight incident in what was more likely a fishing expedition. Harmless small-town gossip, maybe, but they were no closer to the cause of the mass blackout or the weird behavior.

“Possibilities?” Dean asked. “Got anything in mind?”

“Assuming terrorists, UFOs and carbon monoxide are far down the list,” Sam said, “could be any number of things. Demonic possession. Angel possession. Psychics. Witches.”

“Hex bags,” Dean said, latching onto the last suggestion. “What if it’s not random? What if somebody in Moyer has a hit list?”

“Wouldn’t explain the midnight incident.”

“No,” Dean agreed. “If they’re related. Maybe they’re not.”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said. “Gruber had a good point.”

“Could be coincidence.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s rule out demons,” Dean said. “Because we know demons. And some of these incidents, pranks or whatever, well, not their style.”

“I checked the diner for sulfur.”

“And?”

“Not a whiff,” Sam admitted.

“There you go,” Dean said. “And this oddball stuff doesn’t fit angel possession either.”

“But that’s also why a hit list doesn’t makes any sense,” Sam said. “It’s a mixed bag. Juvenile pranks. Things that might tarnish a reputation? Sure. But then you have extreme violence and attempted suicides.”

“So, what kind of list would cover that range of targets?” Dean asked.

Sam took a moment to consider possibilities. “Maybe it’s not one person with a list.”

“Multiple lists?”

“Or a coven, maybe a group of psychics working together,” Sam speculated. “Everyone brings their own list.”

“Meaning, what, a revenge club?”

“Or,” Sam continued, “a smokescreen.”

“Thought we ruled out a toxic gas emission.”

“Funny,” Sam said. “But we’re not talking about the blackouts.”

“We’re not?”

“Let’s ignore them right now,” Sam said. “Focus on the pranks and violence. What if the person with the hit list had a short list of real targets, but sticking to that list would point the finger right back at them?”

“So, all the rest are random?”

“More or less.”

Dean considered this for a minute or so. “That’s a big smokescreen.”

“If it’s needed to hide the real victims,” Sam said, “then, yeah.”

“Like a sniper shooting up a crowd to disguise his main target.”

“General idea,” Sam said, nodding, “but our sniper isn’t using bullets.”

“So, we start looking for hex bags.”

“Or we start talking to the victims,” Sam said. “Figure out who’d put them on a hit list.”

“Which victims?”

“Said it yourself,” Sam replied. “Ignore the smokescreen and talk to the serious victims.”

“Is Kelly Burke on that list?” Dean asked.

“Maybe,” Sam said. “But I never asked her about enemies since she was eating lunch with her attacker. Think bigger.”

“You mean—?”

Sam nodded. “County hospital,” he said. “But we’ll need a name.”

* * *

Her name was Nancy Vickers, a twenty-four-year-old graphic designer at Thornbury Printing, a company founded by her great uncle almost fifty years ago but struggling to compete in the Internet age with multiple online DIY options. “But there’s no craftsmanship and everything starts to have a sameness about it. Know what I mean? A blandness.” She shrugged and winced in pain. “That’s what happens when you start with a cookie-cutter foundation.”

She sighed, adjusted her casted left arm, grimacing as she bumped her damaged ribs. “So, yeah, business is slow, but that’s not news. And it’s no reason to try to kill myself. I would never do that!”

“Okay,” Sam said in a soothing tone. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

When Dean and Sam had arrived on her floor, introduced themselves and asked to see Nancy, the charge nurse—Beth, per her name tag—seemed startled to see them. She stood within the C-shaped nursing station, telephone receiver in her left hand, the fingers of her right poised over the keypad. “How did you know?” she asked. “I haven’t even finished dialing Officer Gruber yet.”

“Know what?” Sam asked.

“That Miss Vickers is awake.”

“We didn’t,” Dean said. “Okay if we talk to her?”

“She woke up less than thirty minutes ago.”

“We won’t be long,” Sam said. “Promise.”

“And she’ll need to go under psychiatric evaluation before she’s released.”

“Understood,” Sam said.

“But I’m calling Gruber!”

“Good,” Dean said. “He knows we’re here.”

Inside Nancy’s private room, she took a few calming breaths before speaking again. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said, “but there’s not much to tell.”

“Because you don’t remember?” Sam guessed.

She looked between them. “How—How did you know?”

“Lot of that going around,” Dean said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell us what you do remember,” Sam said.

“Right, okay, well, I was driving to work, my morning commute,” she said. “It’s not far, but I live across town. Sometimes I’ll stop for a coffee at the Gas-N-Sip. I prefer Bigelow’s Bistro, but it’s a bit out of my way and the wait’s longer. Mostly it’s the same routine. Know it like the back of my hand. And you know how you kind of zone out when you drive the same route all the time. Your brain goes on auto-pilot.”

Dean nodded. While he had no regular commute, he’d done enough driving to know what she meant by auto-pilot. Same thing happened on long, open roads.

Nancy reached for the control to raise her bed higher than the current forty-five-degree elevation, managed a steeper incline, then attempted to adjust her position and yelped in pain as she strained her ribs. She bit down on a knuckle while she rode a wave of pain.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“It’s hard to move at all without pain,” she said. “Even breathing hurts, but I’ll be fine… eventually. Besides, the pain helps me focus.”

“It does?”

“Yes. No. Not really,” she said. “But at least I’m alive.”

“So, you were zoning out on your morning commute,” Dean prompted.

“Right,” she said. “The drive was mostly a blur and then nothing until I was falling…” She furrowed her brow and shook her head. “No, that’s not right.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“I remember—I remember what happened next!”