Whispers in the Night

Chapter 2: Getting Acquainted

Buttonwood. Friday, April 8, 2005.

"That was depressing," Neal said, pouring himself a mug of coffee from the coffeemaker in the parlor. Sam smiled in sympathy, his eyes remaining focused on his laptop monitor.

The results of their canvassing were not encouraging. Everywhere more cases were popping up. Any man eighteen and older appeared to be at risk. So far no women had been discovered to be similarly afflicted, although there were a few whom Neal would have to classify as having chronic symptoms.

He'd seen plenty of examples of the adult male population running amok—guys painting mustaches on posters, chasing each other with fly swatters. Three elderly men staged an impromptu clown act on Main Street, oblivious to the traffic. He considered it one of his few successes for the day that he'd managed to persuade them to move their act to the sidewalk. After the clown incident, Sam's alarm over the phenomenon escalated dramatically. He urged an immediate return to the inn so he could research dorks on the web.

Mozzie, along with the rest of the afflicted men at the inn, was corralled in the TV lounge with concerned women taking turns monitoring them. Janet had gone upstairs to rest.

Neal sprawled on the sofa watching Sam work. When he wasn't hunched over his laptop, he pored over an old journal. The book appeared to have gone through several wars with many of the pages on the verge of falling out. Sam resisted Neal's attempts to learn more about the journal, but he managed to sneak the occasional peek. Surprisingly, much of it was written in Latin.

During their afternoon reconnaissance, he'd been able to extract a few details about Sam. He'd attended Stanford but dropped out when he was a senior. He gave up on his plans to go to law school so he could join his brother on the road.

Neal sensed the cause was some traumatic event, and he could relate. He'd run away before graduating from high school and spent the next few years drifting with his cousin Henry. In 2003 in a moment of clarity, he gave up on his goal to become the world's preeminent con artist, thief, and forger and began working for the FBI instead. What Sam and Dean were doing with their lives was less obvious. Was it simply investigating strange phenomena? Who would do that? What would they live on? They weren't spending much on clothes, but still ...

"No other outbreaks in New Jersey," Sam reported. "The effect appears to be localized to Buttonwood." He paused and glanced over at Neal. "You told me you're a consultant for White Collar at the FBI? What do you advise them on?"

"Art thefts, frauds, and forgeries mainly. What do you call your profession or is researching weird occurrences a hobby?"

Sam hesitated a moment. "You could say we're in the family business."

He didn't elaborate but Neal was interrupted from questioning him further by Dean and Peter's return.

"That's a dream machine," Peter said. "You have it purring like a kitten." Dean acknowledged the praise with a satisfied shrug. Neal was impressed. He assumed they would have been at each other's throats by now.

Peter turned to Neal. "That Impala we saw? It's theirs."

That explained it. Auto diplomacy. If it had been an Aston Martin like James Bond drove in Die Another Day, Neal would have understood. Now that was a car.

They spent several minutes reviewing what they'd learned. The earliest cases appeared on Monday morning with the most recent victims developing symptoms on Thursday. Based on the sampling they'd conducted, Neal estimated that about half of the adult male population was afflicted.

"The only other item that popped out," Peter added, "was an unusually high number of will-o'-wisps this spring. Some of them have even been spotted in town. It's also been a record year for spring peepers. Some of the women claim that it's the noise of the peepers that have driven their men goofy."