Chapter 4.

Keith placed the gun on the rack again. He ambled to the kitchen at the rear of the house. He took out the frying pan, and then went to the refrigerator for some eggs, and vegetables. His wife had done much of the cooking. Since her death he relied on the grill, frozen meals and the kindness of others. He had steak thawed, but those boys had affected his appetite. He hadn't given Rick Laramet and Sara Barry a second thought. All a means to an end. So instead of steak it would be an omelet.

True, his friends had died. Boone had died of a heart attack. There had been no revenge or foul play. Sully's death was still being investigated, but looked like an accident. Kevin poured the eggs, and they sizzled back. He added in some mushrooms and chopped peppers. The retired officer was tempted to call the local police on the boys as trespassers. He had taken down their plate number. But, they were mouthy, and if one person believed them, then he would be in trouble. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

He scraped the eggs onto a dish, bringing it over to the recliner. He liked eating dinner and watching television. His wife never approved of eating in front of the television. But, it was too quiet to eat alone at the table.

He finished off his omelet, with Brian Williams and the evening news keeping him company. He placed the plate on the floor and went to get a beer to wash it all down. He opened the refrigerator and the light inside flickered. He thought nothing of it.

"Probably the bulb going out." He closed the refrigerator door, and twisted open the Budweiser, taking a long drawl. But, then the kitchen lights began to dim too. "Damnit, circuit breaker panel must be going."

He went downstairs to the basement, grabbing the flashlight that was on the shelves lining the steps. Opening the panel, there was no tell-tale burning smell. Everything seemed in working order.

He began to climb the stairs, and heard thumping noises, emanating from the floorboards. He gripped the flashlight harder, ready to use it as a weapon. He lay flat against the wall, as he made his way up the stairs. In the kitchen, with the lights still flickering, he went to the cutlery draw, pulling out the butcher knife.

He waited, and the thumping noise in the living room stopped, but now seemed to be coming from the second floor. He made his way through the kitchen, and then to the gun rack. He usually didn’t leave the gun loaded, but was glad he had waited. He primed the rifle, and made his way up the stairs. The flickering lights were giving him a headache.

He went through the two bedrooms, carefully, with rifle first and found nothing. The lights had gone out completely. "Probably some weird power company thing."

He returned downstairs, still keeping the rifle close. He picked up the phone in the living room. There was no dial tone. He smashed the phone down, disgusted. It was like his whole house was revolting on him. His cell phone was on the charger in the den.

He walked past the recliner. "Shit!" he exclaimed as his socked foot crunched down on the plate he has discarded on the floor. He flashed the light on his sock and saw the blood. He felt for any shards, but there were none. He growled in frustration. “Fuck!”

He limped over to the cell phone. His phone was not in plugged in. It was no where to be found. “This is ridiculous.” Keith took a deep breath, trying to remember where he put the phone.

He was distracted by the sound of someone talking. However, it seemed at a distance. “Hello?” He called out, feeling foolish. He shook his head, and returned to the living room. He would just read a book, and then in the morning figure what was going on with the electricity and the phone.

The voices, previously muffled, were clearer in the other room.

"Given any more thought on what we said?"

"Would save you a lot of trouble, as officers of the law we can't let something like this go on."

"Only if you get a piece of it?"

"Why don't you let your husband talk?"

"He's not my husband."

"Officer Phillips, we know we're in trouble, but we don't want to always sell this stuff. Sara's an artist, and I'm working on my music."

"Marijuana is illegal in New Hampshire. We don't like pot smokers in our backyard."

"And the amount we found on you . . ."

"But, if we give you a cut, then you'll just ignore us."

"Yep, and you can continue on with your little enterprise."

"Fine, thanks for making that clear Officer Whitmore."

It was all familiar, too familiar. Keith wiped down his mouth. He looked widely around the room, using the flashlight to highlight every corner. He was alone.

"Look, we have another deal we think you would like."

"Deal? We don't want to do this anymore!"

"You'll do this until we say so!"

"Have you been smoking your product?"

"This has been good for all of us."

"So what's your idea?"

"Well, we were thinking of a bigger operation. . ."

"No!" The retiree yelled out. "You're dead! You’re all dead!" He covered his ears with his hands, trying to drown out the voices. His partners were dead. He had taken care of those kids too, all those years ago. This was all his imagination. But, it had been strange those boys conveniently at his front door earlier. . .

He strode to the back door, through the kitchen, rifle at the ready. "I know you're out here.” He called out. Keith saw some ruffling leaves. He fired the rifle in that general direction. His property was surrounded by a wooded area. Just in case, he fired in the other direction. The voices stopped.

In the still darkened house, Keith relaxed in the recliner. He was satisfied he had scared whatever was assaulting him, away. He closed his eyes, and the voices returned. He lurched from his seat, his eyes wild.

"Rick's not here."

"We'll wait."

"Hear you have plans to leave town."

"Where did you hear that? That's not true."

"The problem is we're used to the extra money."

"Cop's salary sucks."

"It's supposed to be about helping people."

"And we are. We control the marijuana distribution."

"It's only weed after all. What's a few joints?"

"Criminal activity."

"When will Rick be back?"

"A few more hours at least."

"I hear something."

"You were lying to us?"

"Rick!! Rick!"

Keith flinched at the sound of the gun shot.

"Oh my God!”

"What's going on? Sara? Sara!"

Keith covered his face with his hand at the sound of the other gun shot. He had pulled the trigger and killed her. He had to or else he would have lost everything. He yelled out into his vacant house drowning out the voices.

"Rick!! Rick!"

"Oh my God!”

"What's going on? Sara? Sara!"

He felt the omelet and beer churn in his stomach. He knew he was in the middle of his living room, but he retched and gagged at the sound of the gun shots being repeated, his throat already sore from yelling. The dealings had all been for the right reasons-to provide better for his family. But, now his wife was gone, his son was married and living in Maine, and he thought he had remained unaffected with no regrets.

"Rick!! Rick!"

"Oh my God!”

"What's going on? Sara? Sara!"

Keith dropped to his knees. His friends, if he could even call them that, were gone. They had taken the secret to their graves as he had been prepared to do. He had made peace with it, never having been confronted by the deaths he had caused. But, he had committed murder, no matter how he had justified it to himself all those years ago. He heard the gun fire being repeated again. He crawled to the door, using the door knob to lift himself up. He didn't know if he was being haunted or what to believe, but he was compelled to tell the truth.

"I did it. I'm sorry, so sorry." He stayed there, in the cold air, crying, gasping for air between the tears. Spent, he went back inside. Tomorrow he would clean up and make things right.

The Winchester brothers stood transfixed at the scene, which played out before them. When Phillips returned inside, Sam silently examined his brother's wound. Dean gave him a nod, showing the bleeding had slowed.

The ricochet of the bullet caught the boys off guard. Dean had been forced to take a step back. He had opened his mouth, and found it covered by Sam’s hand. His arm felt like it was burning. He had closed his eyes for a moment, until the pain was a dull throb. Dean opened his eyes, meeting Sam’s when he had felt back under control, and Sam removed his hand from his brother’s mouth.

The younger Winchester had checked the injury. Dean had pulled his arm away, clamping his hand over it. He had gestured for Sam to continue to play the recording. The dark-haired hunter pressed play, and they waited for a reaction from the retired officer.

They waited another half an hour, readying to pack up since they felt no one could keep hearing the tortured murders over and over again without effect. Actually, Dean had to admit, he couldn’t bear hearing the deaths again. The brothers were surprised when Phillips exited the house to proclaim his culpability.

Once Keith returned inside, Sam collected the speakers. Dean had hidden the cell phone in the house, and eventually the retiree would find it. The electricity and the phone could be fixed easily by morning light. Dean had the cut the wires.

They cut through the woods, returning to the Impala. In the car Sam sat in the driver's seat, while Dean fumbled under the passenger seat for the first aid kit. "It's a flesh wound. You can do it."

"Let's just go to the hospital." Sam started the engine, his brother having acquiesced the seat due to his wound.

Dean sat up, first aid kit in his hand. "And say what?"

"You got hurt hunting squirrels." The younger Winchester grinned.

"Squirrel?" Dean frowned. "You're fucked." He did not want to go to the hospital. They would draw too much attention to themselves along with the cabin fire. He caught the grin, so he knew his brother was teasing him.

"I'll take care of it," Sam mumbled, looking into the night and the ride back. "I think we crossed a line back there."

"Then pay attention to the road." His brother was not talking about the two yellow lines. Dean fumbled with a bandage, trying to cover the wound.

"You know what I mean." Sam drove with one hand. "Ghosts, poltergeists-they do the haunting not us."

"Just using our knowledge for good not evil," Dean answered. His brother wasn't satisfied. "Look, he admitted it. We burned the cabin and he's fine."

"Unlike his buddies,” Sam added, placing his other hand back on the steering wheel.

"Right, so we could have walked away and let Rick and Sara get their revenge but we didn’t." Dean provided his justification. He wished his brother would suspend the discussion.

The younger Winchester gave a furtive glance to his brother. "Would Dad have done it?"

"Sam," Dean warned. He did not want to start using their father as a barometer to measure their actions against. They were better not going there.

"Do you think Dad would have tortured the guy like we did?" Sam continued when his brother didn’t provide any answers.

"Yes, okay, yes. I mean where do you think we, I, got my moral standards from?" The older Winchester brother replied testily. It was inappropriate to begin to even guess their father’s character and motives. Dean felt uncomfortable, questioning if they ever knew the man. He was not prepared to examine the facets of John Winchester. "Now will you be able to sleep at night, cupcake?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, not committing to an answer. He revved the engine, and continued to drive to the boarding house.

They ascended the stairs to their room, quietly; thankful everyone in the house was fast asleep. In the room Dean cleaned up in the shower. Sam was careful cleaning out the wound, using paper towels so they left no evidence behind. It was a deep graze, but they had been lucky Phillip's shot had been haphazard.

"Stop moving. I'm trying to make them small and even." Dean might not have cared for the scarring, but Sam did, noticing the remaining mark from the hot poker.

Dean rubbed his neck. "Damnit Sam, finish it already."

The younger Winchester narrowed his lips, and tied off the black thread. “Done.” He stepped back and admired his work, before placing a think layer of antibiotic ointment and a white bandage over the stitches. Sam collected the trash in a paper bag they would take with them and dispose of later.

The older Winchester brother put on his t-shirt. From his shaving kit he pulled out two Extra Strength Tylenol, taking a swallow of bottled water to wash them down. He pulled down the covers, and bunched up the pillow. “’Night Sam.” He closed his eyes, trusting that his brother would get to sleep sooner or later.

In the morning the brothers packed their belongings. “You did good, Sam.” Dean said, admiring the neat stitches. The wound was clean, with no sign of infection. The older Winchester brother put on an over-shirt, and his jacket. He hitched his duffle bag on his unaffected shoulder.

Sam grabbed his bag, the newspapers and the box of tapes. “You okay with this?” He gestured to the tapes.

“Like, I said bro, this is your decision.” Dean opened the door, exiting to the first floor. Christopher was in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of instant oatmeal, the Quaker Oats box on the counter beside the stove.

Dean cleared his throat to get the landlord’s attention. He fished the key from his jacket pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. "We're heading out to leave."

"You paid for the week." Reynolds said, taking the key from the table and slipping it into his pants pocket.

"Just going where the road takes us,” Dean explained. “We're not asking for a refund."

Christopher nodded, shifting his glances between the two brothers. "That cabin you were asking about burned down."

"Real sorry to hear that," Sam answered. He wanted to deny their involvement, but that would have them appear to be guilty. He remained silent, knowing the former law professor was trying to connect them to the arson.

"Me too," Reynolds replied. He reached out for the bowl of oatmeal, transferring it from the counter to the table.

Sam stepped forward. He placed the newspapers on the table, then held out the box of tapes. "But, we want to give you these. You decide what to do with them."

Christopher accepted the box, and looked inside, seeing the tapes. "I decide?"

"Yeah, you'll understand.” The dark haired hunter nodded. “Do what's fair."

"You can add it to your memoirs," Dean suggested. He tugged on his brother’s jacket. It was time to leave. They couldn’t afford anymore questions.

They were five miles out of town, when there was a traffic backup. Dean drummed his hands against the Impala’s steering wheel. “Must be an accident. Traffic in this town? Not possible.”

“Looks like cars are turning around.” Sam pointed at the vehicle in front of them, who was making a u-turn.

Dean inched forward, until a police officer halted them. Both the brothers saw there had been an accident up ahead involving a late model Ford Taurus. The older Winchester brother rolled down the driver’s side window. “What’s going on, officer?”

“Accident up ahead. We need you to turn around.” The policeman explained.

“Okay,” Dean rolled up the window, and cut the wheel to the right.

“Dean! That’s Keith Phillips!” Sam leaned forward in the passenger seat. The emergency medical personnel were transferring the body of Phillips to a black body bag. The saw the visage before the body was sealed in the bag.

“Ahh, Sam?” Dean gestured with his chin to the man and the woman standing thirty feet from the scene.

The car behind them honked. Dean waved his hand, and completed the turn. The brothers looked out the rearview and side mirrors. The couple was no longer there.

“Rick and Sara?” Sam asked his brother.

Dean licked his lips. The couple had gotten their revenge. The older hunter, like his brother, wondered if they had lead Keith Phillips to his death. “Does it make a difference? What’s done is done.”

“I guess it’s over,” Sam commented, his eyes still looked out the side view mirror.

“For them,” Dean said with a low voice. The brothers still had work to do.

The End