Note: First of all, let me warn you that my research for this was kind of spotty. A lot of the "life on the lam" ideas are coming from an article in The New York Times Magazine called "Fugitive" by Jim Dwyer. It was in the Feb. 11 issue, and it was fascinating, so if you're interested, go read it. I also read a lot of and about the FBI's Most Wanted list, but my version of the inner workings of the FBI comes from old X-Files episodes.
Second, as always, thanks to Mazza for her help in making this readable.
And last, I'm not going to beg, but I would like to know what you think, one way or another.
On with the show …
Chapter 1
"Winchester?"
Sam didn't freeze – that would have been a dead giveaway, and he'd been practicing. He and Dean both continued down the street without a hitch in their steps. But without a word between them, without even a glance, they let themselves start to casually drift apart. As if their proximity had been coincidental, rather than intentional.
"Sam Winchester!"
The voice was more insistent that time, more sure of itself, and Sam fought the urge to break into a run. Instead, he ducked down the first side street he came to and crouched down behind the nearest dumpster. As quietly as possible – which, as a Winchester, was pretty darn quiet – he slipped his wallet out of his pocket and took out the small square of sandpaper he'd recently begun keeping there. He peered through the crack between the dumpster and the brick wall behind it as he began rubbing the sandpaper between his fingertips.
A tall blond appeared at the mouth of the alley looking confused, and Sam bit back a sigh of relief. He recognized the guy. Brent something or other. From Stanford. He'd tried to recruit Sam for some fraternity his freshman year.
Brent frowned down the alley for a few more seconds then turned to look back down the street, double checking that Sam wasn't still out there after all. Not seeing him, he turned back. Sam tensed again and started looking for a weapon – recognizing the guy didn't really mean anything.
He had the gun in his waistband but no way was he shooting the guy. He just needed to knock him out long enough to put some distance between them. But he'd also rather not get close enough to do it with his fist – no reason to give the guy a closer look.
There was a piece of pipe not too far away. Sam winced at the thought of using it, but picked it up anyway. A couple more steps and the guy would be at his hiding spot.
Sam tightened his grip and swallowed hard.
But Brent stopped.
"Sam?" he called.
Sam held his breath.
Brent waited a second, then shrugged and turned back toward the street.
Sam collapsed back against the wall, listening to the footsteps fade away. He squeezed his eye shut and murmured a quick thanks to whoever was listening – he wasn't real particular these days. Then he took out his cell phone and pulled up his contact list. He selected the first entry: Bob. Let it ring once, hung up and pressed redial.
"Rob's Surf Shop – Cowabunga Dude," Dean answered, sounding, of all things, bored.
"Dude. It's Bob, not Rob. Bob."
"Like a guy named Bob would have a surf shop."
"Who said it had to be a surf shop? Make it a pizza place. Bob would have a pizza place."
"Bob wouldn't have a pizza place," Dean said scornfully. "Besides, I want a surf shop."
"But Rob doesn't match the name on my contact list."
"So change your list."
"But Bob is nice and high up in the alphabet. I'd have to scroll through more than half of the names to get to Rob."
Dean snorted. "Like you have more than four friends, anyway."
"Dean –" Sam said, finally losing his patience.
"Uph! Looks like you're doing the laundry tonight," Dean broke in gleefully.
Sam's mouth snapped shut as he realized he'd been had. How many times was he going to let himself be baited into extra chores?
Dean didn't wait for him to think up an argument. "So I take it we're clear?" he said instead.
Sam swallowed a sigh but didn't deny it. "Yeah, I think we're clear. It was somebody from school. He gave up looking after a second and went in the other direction."
"We still oughta high-tail it," Dean said.
"Yeah. Give it a few minutes, though. Might as well wait 'til it's dark to head back out in the open."
"All right, then. I'll meet you back in the parking lot 15 minutes after sunset."
"'Kay," Sam agreed, and they both hung up without goodbyes.
After tucking his phone back into his pocket, Sam settled back against the dumpster, trying to find a more comfortable position. It would be a good 30 minutes until sunset, and then another 10 before he needed to head back. He couldn't believe this had happened again. Turns out you don't know how many friends you have until you're wanted by the FBI. Then they seem to come out of the woodwork, lurking around every corner, just waiting to turn you and your brother in.
Of course, he actually had no idea whether Brent knew he was wanted or had just spotted an old friend. How would he have known, really? Sam doubted the man had gone to Stanford just to graduate and work for Podunk, Louisiana's finest, and who besides cops and other law enforcement would have run across his arrest warrant?
Better safe than sorry, though. He and Dean would leave town as soon as they met back up. At least they weren't on a hunt this time. Running they could handle. But leaving that woman at the mercy of that poltergeist last time had been … well, hard didn't even seem to cover it. Especially for Dean. They had called Bobby, who had been understanding and willing to come down and take care of it. But this was their job. And if they couldn't do their job, then they really were just petty criminals, running around living off of stolen credit cards, too shiftless to get real jobs.
Except they couldn't reasonably be expected to get real jobs, could they? Illegal immigrants had a better chance of getting work than they did. People take one look at healthy, drug-free white men unwilling to put their name on the tax roll and know something's fishy.
Sam pushed that thought aside. There was no reason to rehash that now-very-familiar ground. They were doing everything they could think of to fly under the radar, so he'd just have to hope it would be enough until they could come up with a more permanent plan.
OOO
The cleaning ladies had just plain stopped coming by Victor's desk. There were two groups of them: the ones who came by around 10 a.m. to empty trash cans and clean the coffee corner, and the night shift that started in around 11 p.m. with the vacuuming and mopping and spraying of stuff. For the past few weeks, Victor had been at his desk for both of them and had made it clear that he did not have the time to lift his feet so they could sweep under the desk. And they sure as hell better not touch a single paper within a 4-feet radius.
As a result, when the overflowing trashcan was sent sprawling for the third time in less than an hour, he had no one to blame but himself. Still, he wasn't the sort to let that stop him.
"God damnit. Fuckin' god-damned cleaning crew. Can't get a fuckin' god-damned thing right," he mumbled under his breath as he tried to cram the balled-up papers and weeks-old sandwiches back into the bulging trash bag.
"Agent Henrikson?"
Victor froze and muttered one more "fuck" before straightening and turning to face his boss. Who was looking less than impressed by Victor's outburst.
"Sir?"
"My office," the man said. "Now."
Victor ground his teeth a bit, but followed without objection. Thirty seconds later, he was sliding into a chair across from Assistant Director Dave West, working on looking unconcerned.
"Everything … OK?" West began. Victor wasn't going to fall for the neutral tone.
"Perfectly, sir," he said.
West nodded noncommittally. "So the cursing, the gnats gathering around your trash can, the fact that you've been wearing the same shirt for the past three days, that's all just …"
He trailed off, leaving it to Victor to fill in the blank. Victor didn't take him up on the offer.
"Just what, sir?"
That was enough for West to give up the understanding superior act. "Henrikson, what's going on?"
"Just doing my job, sir. Trying to catch a killer."
West stared him down for a moment, letting him know that he knew that Victor knew that he knew that was plain old BS. Then he dropped the confrontational approach altogether and played the old friend card.
"Victor, come on. You're scaring the cleaning ladies. This case is obviously getting to you. I think you need to step back a little, take a few days off. Or, hell, a few hours. Just, you know, catch your breath. Get some perspective … Take a shower."
The attempt at humor fell utterly flat. Victor held his expression steady, but couldn't quite keep the chill out of his voice when he answered.
"No thank you, sir," he said, enunciating each word carefully. "I really wouldn't feel comfortable going on vacation with a murderer on the loose."
West made sour a face at him. "Come on. You know better than that. We've got more than 300 agents in this division. I'm sure we could find one to take over on this for a few weeks. Everyone needs a break once in awhile."
"On a regular case, I'd be inclined to agree with you," Victor said. "But since I can't seem to convince you to take the Winchesters seriously, I'd have trouble relaxing at the beach. I'd spend the whole time worrying that I'd come back and find you'd killed the hunt altogether."
West didn't actually roll his eyes at that, but it looked to Victor like he had to concentrate on not doing so. "Don't be so dramatic. You know I wouldn't kill it altogether. But I'll admit, I'm still not convinced this is worth the resources you're putting into it. This Dean Winchester – how many people do you really have solid proof that he murdered? Two? Three? That's hardly even a serial killer. And it certainly doesn't warrant its very own SWAT team."
Victor feigned surprise. "I thought you trusted me, Dave. I told you, we only have him dead to rights on the St. Louis murders – and attempted murder, don't forget – and the Milwaukee bank girl. But when you follow the string of credit card frauds, breaking and enterings and grave desecrations across the U.S., you see that he leaves a trail of bodies behind."
"Most of which have been ruled accidental or natural," West argued, his voice taking on a strident note despite his best effort.
"So you think that's just a coincidence? That where a known murderer goes, bodies pile up? Think about the bank Dave. I don't know what Dean and Sam were doing there to begin with, but when Dean saw an opportunity, he took it. They were hostages for God's sake, and then they took over. What these guys do is like the definition of crimes of convenience. They roll into town, hear about … some disappearances at a local swimming hole. Then they use that to cover up their own crimes. Drown a guy in the same place and then play innocent – 'Couldn't have been us, officer: We weren't even here when the disappearances started.'"
West looked at him skeptically, shrugged and shook his head. "It just … seems far fetched is all. I mean, how many times could they realistically get away with something like that?"
Victor leaned forward and pinned West with his most intense stare. The one that routinely convinced criminals he could read their minds.
"How many? I'd say dozens."
"Dozens," West scoffed. "Come on man. The guy's not even 30."
"Dozens," Victor repeated. "Easy. He may only be 27, but by my estimate, he's been doing this for about 17 years, maybe more."
"Seventeen."
"At least."
"So what? He started killing when he was in elementary school?"
"He had plenty of help."
"The brother? Isn't he even younger?"
"Not the brother. Not then anyway. The father. Ex Marine. He caught the tail end of Vietnam, then was in Lebanon for the civil war."
"You're thinking he came back messed up?"
"Maybe. Maybe he was already messed up. But four years later his wife died in some mysterious fire that he and the two boys made it out of."
West shrugged. "That happens," he said.
"The fire started in the baby's nursery, and the guy was able to save the baby but not the woman."
West shrugged again, but a little less dismissively. Victor went in for the kill.
"And 22 years later – to the day – the same thing happened to the youngest's girlfriend."
That got West's attention. "Same thing?"
"Mysterious fire, everyone got out but her."
"But the youngest? I thought you said the older one, this Dean, was the real monster."
"He was there. I think he did it. Not sure exactly why then – the kid had been living with the girl for almost a year, apparently not in contact with the other two. Least, the people who knew him didn't think he was. Some said they'd never even heard of a brother until the girl's funeral. I'm thinking either the girl did something to make the kid mad enough to call his brother to take care of it, or Dean decided he needed a partner and this was his way of bringing baby brother back into the fold. Considering Sam had a law school interview planned for the next day, my guess is the latter."
West made a skeptical noise, but didn't interrupt.
"They'd gone on a road trip that weekend to Jericho, California. Apparently the first time they'd gotten together in more than three years. While there, Dean was picked up on suspicion of murder. He escaped, and he and Sam headed back to Palo Alto, where I'm betting Sam planned to stay for another four or five years, before his brother immolated his girlfriend."
"If that were true, why would Sam go with him? Why wouldn't he turn him in?"
It was Victor's turn to shrug. "Fear? Familial loyalty? Don't know and don't really care. Whatever it started out as, Sam's in it now, too. Not as deep as Dean, but getting there. You ask me, they're both monsters."
Dave stared at him for a long time, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"OK," he said. "Fine. Keep going. But after you take a shower, OK?"
Victor's face was just splitting into a smile when there was a rap on the door behind him. Dan Johnson stuck his head in.
"Henrikson? Just got a call. Friend of Sam Winchester's thinks he spotted him in Louisiana."
OOO
Sam was trying to shift into a more comfortable position without putting a hand or foot into one of the rancid puddles surrounding him when the first police car rolled slowly past the alley. He didn't wait to see if it was a coincidence.
In seconds, he was climbing the nearest fire escape, cell phone in hand.
"Bob's Beer, Bait and Ammo – howdy, y'all," Dean answered. Sam resisted the urge to comment.
"Hey, remember what I said about us being clear?"
"Yeah …" Dean said, immediately sobering.
"Uh, maybe not so much? Cop just drove past." He spared a moment to look down. "And there goes another one."
"Where're you at?"
"Climbing the side of a building on Church Street."
"Oh, that's not conspicuous."
"Well, I'm open to suggestions. Brent saw me going down this alley. I can't stay here, and walking out into the po-po parade doesn't seem like the best idea, either."
"All right, all right. Just sit tight, Spidey. Me and the Batmobile will be there in a minute, and you can just jump right into your getaway car."
"What? Dean, no –"
"Uph! Now you're cleaning the guns tonight, too!"
"Would you just shut up for a second? You can't just drive into the middle of a stakeout to pick me up. You go ahead and start heading back, and I'll climb over the roof and down the other side. By that time the sun should have set, and I'll only be another block away from the parking lot."
Sam had reached the top floor of the office building he'd been scaling, and the metal staircase gave way to a ladder.
"I gotta' go, OK? I need both hands. Just stay out of sight and I'll meet you as soon as possible."
"What? Sam – "
"Uph!" Sam mocked. "Now who's doing laundry?" He hung up without waiting for a reply.