Supernatural 10 - Rite of Passage (17 page)

“Answer me!”

Jesse clenched his jaw, refusing to speak. A clock ticked in his head, counting down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds until… Was he ready? It would be so easy and he ached to put an end to his father’s abuse. But if he acted now, he would face the consequences unprepared. On the other hand, if he waited until he had saved enough money and had prepared an exit strategy, he might avoid those consequences. He would have disappeared to Mexico or South America somewhere long before anyone found the body.

Through gritted teeth, Jesse repeated, “Sleep it off!”

He rushed out of the house, grabbing his hooded jacket off the coat rack without breaking stride, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

Opening the trunk of his father’s beater, he took out a
tire iron and tossed it on the passenger seat before burning rubber out of the driveway. The problem with bottling up his rage at home was that he needed to vent somewhere on something—or someone. Driving the car into a brick wall might provide momentary satisfaction, but he needed the car for his own special brand of income generation. For that, he also needed the cover of night, so he took care of his hunger first, navigating the drive-through lane of the nearest burger franchise. He ordered three of the largest patties, then tossed the sesame rolls out the window, scarfing down the condiment-smeared meat as he drove.

Bart Larribeau and Keith Kulback were standing outside the Food & Fuel mini mart, eating chips from snack bags as if they never intended to leave. The owner wouldn’t let them loiter unless they bought something, so each minor purchase gained them a half hour without harassment. They would pay the tithe until Jesse showed up to avoid any confrontation with the police. Jesse continually reminded them to stay off police radar as much as possible. Attention was bad in their line of business.

As soon as he pulled up in a handicapped parking space in front of the mini mart, they pushed off the wall, tossed their snack bags toward the overflowing trashcan and slipped into the car. Bart beat Keith with rock over scissors and rode shotgun, holding Jesse’s tire iron across his lap.

“Where to?” Bart asked.

“The Cheshire,” Jesse said. “It’s been a couple weeks.”

“Sounds good,” Keith said.

Jesse drove east and parked in an alley near the Cheshire Theater. The marquee read “Fiddler on the Roof” and listed matinee and evening performance times.

“How long?” Keith asked.

“Less than an hour,” Jesse said. “It’s close to show time.”

He leaned back in the driver’s seat and worked his way through two large cardboard containers stuffed with French fries after giving the third to Bart to split with Keith. Though they were a couple of years older than him, he outweighed each of them by fifty pounds and had assumed the role of leader.

The crowd outside the theater thinned as the smokers moved inside to take their seats before the show began.

Somebody always ran a little late, parked a little farther away, hurried to reach the theater.

Finally, Jesse spotted a middle-aged man in a dark suit holding his wife’s hand, urging her without much success to walk faster in her shimmery evening gown and high heels. When the couple were within thirty feet of the theater, Jesse grabbed the tire iron and opened his door.

“Show time,” he said. “Wait here.”

“You sure?” Keith said.

“I shouldn’t need backup,” Jesse said, and hurried along an intercept course, pulling up his hood to hide his bald head and obscure his face. He kept the tire iron flat against the back of his leg.

The woman spotted him first and whispered something to her husband.

As Jesse closed the gap between them, he said, “Sir, do you have the time?”

The man stopped, stepping slightly in front of his wife, as he assessed the threat. “Sure, it’s—”

Jesse couldn’t wait another second. Usually he would simply threaten violence and the money and jewelry gushed forth into his possession. But the rage that had threatened to explode at home, the anger broiling beneath the surface all evening, found its outlet. He swung the tire iron in an overhand arc and broke the man’s wrist.

He cried out in pain.

Jesse swung the metal rod low, smashing it against the side of the man’s left knee. He crumpled to the ground, curled up in agony, gasping for air. The woman, her hair layered over her head in a fancy hairdo that must have taken hours to prepare, opened her mouth to scream. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, the tire iron poised over her face. “Scream and I smash your teeth in.”

The woman gulped and a tiny whimper escaped her throat.

“Cash and jewels,” he said. “Now! Or I take them from your dead bodies.”

In a few seconds, he had the man’s wallet, wristwatch and cash, along with the woman’s pearl necklace and rings. He stamped both their smartphones into shards.

“We gave you what you asked for,” the woman pleaded. “Now go. Please.”

“Don’t give me orders,” Jesse said.

The man was still curled up, moaning. Annoyed, Jesse brought back his foot and drove his steel-tipped boot into the man’s belly.

As the man gagged, the woman cried out, “No! Stop hurting him!”

“What the hell did I just say to you?” Jesse demanded, his face flushed with anger. Lunging forward, he backhanded the woman so hard he split her lip open and she fell on her ass, crying. “You wear too much makeup, bitch!”

He raised the tire iron over his head, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. He was panting, his arm trembling with the urge to cave in her skull.

Somebody grabbed his shoulder from behind. “Dude!”

Jesse spun around, enraged, but caught himself when he saw Bart staring at him as if he were insane. “What … ?”

“Let’s go, man!” Bart whispered urgently.

“Right,” Jesse said. “Yeah, right. Don’t know what got …”

With Bart tugging him, they ran down the alley and jumped into the car.

Jesse’s last glimpse of the couple was encouraging. The wife was huddled over her husband, not trying to get the make and model of their car or memorize the license plate number.

“That was messed up, man,” Bart said, shaking his head. “What happened to intimidation?”

“Yeah, Jess,” Keith said. “What the hell … ?”

“Bad day, that’s all,” Jesse said. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

“Are you sure, man?” Bart said. “If you start breaking bones, nearly killing people, we’re looking at serious jail time. You’d better let us handle the next one.”

“I’m okay now,” Jesse assured him. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Bart said. “Should we take this stuff to Mickey’s? Cash in?”

Mickey owned a pawnshop and had a back door arrangement with them—completely off the books and the security cameras. He probably gave them ten cents on the dollar, but it was a simple way to convert jewelry and other valuables into quick cash. After converting the goods to cash, they would split the haul three ways.

“Sure,” Jesse said, massaging his forehead. The damn headache wouldn’t go away, not after he ate and not after he vented his frustrations on a couple of easy targets.

“Jess, me and Bart had an idea,” Keith said hesitantly.

“Really?” Jesse said, amused. Combined, they had the equivalent of half a brain. The simpler the operation the better. “What’s that?”

“Burglary,” Keith said. “Parents working two jobs, kids at school. Why not hit some homes? Go in the back door, out of sight, walk out with the good stuff. Quick and easy. No fuss, no muss.”

“Less chance of the cops catching us in the act,” Bart said. “Out in the open is risky, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “I’ll think about it.”

Now that he had a chance to look back on his violent actions, Jesse was surprised to realize how much he had enjoyed the display of power. Power gave him control. Fear bent others to his will. And what an incredible rush! He wasn’t sure he wanted to give that up. Ever.

Maybe he wouldn’t need Bart and Keith backing him anymore. With their lack of ambition, they held him back
from his true potential. Let them sneak into houses and make Mickey rich while the pawnbroker doled out scraps in return. Jesse would keep the power.

Soon everyone would fear him.

Ryan rang the doorbell at Sumiko’s house and heard her yell to her mother that she’d get the door. Her father, some sort of corporate consultant, traveled by airplane as frequently as most people commuted by car or train, and was rarely home. Ryan guessed that in ten years Roger Jones would consult primarily via video conferencing calls. But maybe he needed to tour facilities to recommend manufacturing renovations or massive layoffs. Usually Sumiko and her mother had the house to themselves. Sometimes Ryan ate dinner with them, but he was careful not to become too dependent on their generosity, too needy. He liked to retain the appearance of self-sufficiency, even though he often felt as if his world had jumped the rails and was careening out of control. Lately, panic nibbled at the corners of his day-to-day existence and he had the sensation—premonition?—that he would soon lose everything that meant anything to him. He was self-aware enough, however, to pin his anxiety on the imminent end of his senior year of high school. Every day it became harder to see a meaningful future.

Sumiko yanked the door open and beamed at him.

“You made it!”

“I only live ten minutes away.”

She hadn’t changed out of her red and black school clothes, but she had ditched her boots and stood in bare feet
with her toenails painted crimson. Without footwear, she appeared even smaller and more fragile next to him.

“Come in,” she said, tugging him into the house by his hand before pushing the door closed with her foot. Of course she was clutching her smartphone in her other hand. By this time, he pretty much considered it to be surgically attached to her palm. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“In front of your mom?” Ryan joked.

“Ha!” she caught the back of his neck and tugged him down for a quick kiss on the mouth. Her lip gloss tasted like strawberry.

“Hi, Ryan!” Mrs. Jones called from the kitchen, which had a counter with a pass-through opening to the dining room. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Thanks, but …” He felt his stomach rumble. “I really shouldn’t …”

“Nonsense,” she said as she filled a pot with water to boil on the stove. “I’ll set a plate for you. We’re having pasta with meat sauce.”

“She was gonna make
yakitori
,” Sumiko whispered, “but forgot to buy skewers.”

“I’ll eat anything that isn’t squirming on the plate,” Ryan said.

“Eww!” Sumiko said. “Gross.”

“Do you two have homework?” Mrs. Jones called.

“No, mother,” Sumiko said. “I want to show Ryan my blog.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“You’re so very funny, mother.” Sumiko rolled her eyes. She tugged Ryan’s hand again. “C’mon!”

“Door open. Two feet on the floor!” Mrs. Jones commanded with the weight of parental authority.

“Two feet each,” Sumiko asked as they climbed the steps, “or combined?”

“You’re so very funny, daughter,” Mrs. Jones said.

“Daring,” Ryan said to Sumiko.

“I’m flexible,” she replied with a wink.

“And bawdy,” he added.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m excited.”

“And I’m right behind you,” Ryan said, patting her rear for emphasis.

She let out an involuntarily squeal and raced up the last few steps.

Fifteen

Sam opened the door to Roy Dempsey’s cabin and Dean walked through ahead of him carrying the grease-stained brown paper bag containing their sandwiches and an order of fries from Famous Andy’s. While the sandwich shop boasted a healthy takeout business with a quick turnaround, the cramped interior featured only three small, circular tables and no counter seating. So rather than wait a couple of hours for a table to become available, Sam and Dean had followed the consensus and taken their order to go.

Dean removed the wrapped sandwiches from the bag along with a fistful of napkins and spread them out on the breakfast nook table. With anticipatory gusto, Dean unwrapped his sandwich: a foot-long roast-beef sub, dripping with gravy. Sam’s grilled chicken on a multi-grain roll was positively Spartan in comparison, other than the few
spots where the roast-beef juices had seeped through the paper into his roll.

Sam watched as Dean patted his hands dry with a couple of paper napkins, then picked up the dripping sandwich and soaked them all over again.

“Do you need a bib?” he enquired.

“This,” Dean said, nodding toward his sandwich, “is ‘famous.’ What you have there is… unknown and best forgotten.”

“Famous last words.”

As Dean took an ambitious bite out of his sub, Sam raised his roll to his lips and paused, about to open his mouth.

Lucifer sat across from him, next to Dean.

“Sam? C’mon, buddy! I specifically asked for the meatball sub.”

Ignoring him, Sam took a bite of his sandwich.

“Now that’s just rude,” Lucifer said, “eating in front of company. I thought we were pals, down in the foxhole, toasting our tootsies.”