Fic: Never Say Die 1/16

[briarwood]

Title: Never Say Die (1/16)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: John/Ellen (see notes in Part 0)
Summary: After a hunt that went horribly wrong, John wakes up in a California hospital. It's thirteen years later, everyone he trusted seems to be dead, and he has no idea how to find his sons. Meanwhile, unknown to John, Dean's time is running out.
Warnings: Darkfic. Character death. Torture. (See notes in Part 0 for more details)
Spoilers: Up to Jus In Bello.

---

NEVER SAY DIE

Part One

May 1995, Devil's Gate Reservoir, California

John knelt beside Bill Harvelle, taking cover behind the scrub. Dampness from the earth seeped through his pants at the knees. This close to the reservoir all of the ground was moist, the earth rich and green. John could smell it: the scent of living things.

It gave him no comfort as he gazed across the water to their quarry. "My God, Bill," he breathed, giving voice to what he knew they were both thinking. "They're just children."

Bill nodded grimly. "Makes it harder," he agreed gruffly, "but it's them alright." He checked the bullets in his gun for the umpteenth time; something John recognised as a nervous habit.

Not much fazed John Winchester after over a decade of hunting evil, but he stared at the three children gathered around the fire, horrified by what he and Bill had to do now. They looked like kids on a camping trip, their faces illuminated by the flames. The oldest of them was about Sammy's age, a golden haired boy. The youngest was a girl no more than six years old.

Bill turned his dark eyes to John. Bill had covered his pale hair with a wool cap and rubbed dirt into his face. "John, those kids have killed three people already. Four, if Father Michael's disappearance is anything to go by. They ain't what they look like. They're demons. We're gonna take care of 'em."

Don't get soft on me now. Bill didn't say the words, but John heard them clearly. "Two of us," he argued, "three of them. Kids, Bill. We can try an exorcism."

"They've been possessed for months," Bill objected.

He meant there was a good chance exorcism would kill the children. John nodded, but he was already searching through his pack for salt and holy water. They were both carrying salt – it might be enough to create a circle.

"John. You're really serious about this?"

John gazed across the moonlit water to the children's camp. "I'll kill them all if we have to, Bill. If you want to stick to the original plan, we can." Yeah, he was serious. Most humans who became possessed had invited it somehow. But if these children invited possession, they certainly couldn't be held to blame for it as an adult could. John was a hunter, not a murderer.

Bill swore under his breath. "You're right. I can't slaughter kids any more than you can. Damn it, John." He met John's eyes over the brush. “What's your plan?"

John considered that for a moment, then answered, "Bait."

After some discussion, they put the plan into action. Bill approached the campsite from the other side. He walked down openly, pretending to be a cop checking up on them. While Bill kept the demon children distracted, John approached from the other side. He had his handgun in his belt and carried the shotgun, because that was the closest thing he had to a club: a non-lethal weapon.

He watched Bill and the demons warily. Even with the moonlight and the campfire, it was too dark for John to see everything. He saw one of the demons move. Bill went for his gun. John saw the flash of a blade and the demons shifting to flank Bill.

"Bill!" He yelled a warning.

It was a mistake.

Bill looked toward John when he shouted. The next instant, the demons were on him. John was too far away. He ran toward them.

Bill shouted in pain. John reached them and struck one of the demons away. He could only hope he had judged the blow correctly as he swung the shotgun upward and fired both barrels at the next demon. The third was nowhere to be seen.

John called to Bill, "You okay?" He scanned the surrounding area for the third demon, adrenaline still pumping through him. The demon was gone.

"I'm fine." Bill rose to his feet and spat on the ground. "John, forget him. Let's take care of these two."

Reluctantly, John turned his back on the darkness and reached for the salt. Two out of three wasn't a bad score, he told himself. He tossed the salt to Bill and knelt beside the demon he'd shot. It was the little girl. There wasn't much blood, but that was the demon holding its host together. When they exorcised it, the child would die.

There was nothing he could do about that now.

John stood, lifting the girl in his arms, and carried her into the salt circle Bill was laying down. "I'll do it," he volunteered. "Watch the other one."

Bill didn't argue.

The Latin of the ritual came easily to John. Once he doused her with holy water, the demon-child quit feigning unconsciousness. It would fight; they always did. The salt held it, though, and all it could do was hurl threats at John while he chanted, relentlessly, driving the damned thing out of the little girl it hijacked. Finally, the girl screamed, a high-pitched wail as black smoke poured from her mouth. Blood dripped down her chin and neck. Blood spurted from wounds appearing in her chest and her shoulder, soaking through her clothing like scarlet flowers blooming in the cloth.

John knew before she fell that the child was dead.

He shoved the unknown child's fate into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all such horrors. He lifted her body out of the circle and turned to Bill.

Bill had bound the second demon with ropes. They dragged it into the circle together. John raised the bottle of holy water and brought it down with a slashing motion, splashing it over the demon from head to waist. It recoiled and yelled with pain.

Bill began the exorcism ritual. John joined his voice with Bill's, moving around the edge of the salt circle.

It came out of the darkness, swift and deadly. John never even saw it coming. He was just suddenly airborne. He heard Bill scream. He crashed to the ground at the edge of the reservoir. He reached for his sidearm, slid out the magazine and rammed home his spare – the one with the special ammo. Bill's screams reached him and he scrambled up. Pain shot through him; he ignored it. He took aim and fired, terrified he would hit Bill. He ran toward them, not as fast as he could, but checking his speed so he could keep shooting. The demon on Bill fell. John fired at it again, point-blank, blowing half of the kid's face away. Black smoke sprayed out with the blood.

John didn't spare a glance for Bill. It was a soldier's instinct: to take care of the enemy behind him first. He stalked over to the salt circle, aimed his gun at the possessed child, and fired. He shot, over and over, until the gun was empty and the kid was a bloody mess on the ground.

The children had been possessed for months. They were probably dead already.

Only then did he see what the demon had done to Bill Harvelle.

Bill lay on his back, near the still-glowing camp fire. Something had slashed through the front of his jeans, just below the belt, and through Bill's flesh beneath the denim. Bill clutched at the wound with both hands, as if trying to hold his flesh closed. His hands were covered with blood. He seemed to be struggling to sit up, his spine curved, his chin in his chest. All the while, he muttered to himself, his voice strained, the words meaningless.

John took it all in swiftly. He knelt beside his friend and pushed at his shoulder to make him lie flat. quot;Bill, lie down. Don't struggle, you'll make it worse." How much worse could it be?

As gently as he could, John drew Bill's hands away from the terrible wound. He saw what he feared he would see: the gash was wide and deep, parts of Bill's innards bulging out of the torn flesh.

"Oh, God," John choked. "Oh, Bill."

John had seen men die before. In Vietnam, he held a dying friend in his arms, gave him a last drink of water and pretended he couldn't see that half the man's body was gone, blown apart by a land mine. In Lawrence, John watched his wife die in flames hotter than any napalm. John looked down at Bill's wound and he knew it was fatal.

But maybe it wasn't, his heart insisted. Stomach wounds hurt worse than anything, but the real danger was infection. A stomach wound killed slowly, which meant that maybe, if Bill received hospital care quickly, if none of his internal organs was perforated, he might live. It was a hell of a long shot, but it could happen.

John stripped off his leather jacket, and the shirt beneath it. The shirt was a lousy bandage, but it was all he had. He folded it and looked again at the wound. He was going to have to lift Bill to fasten this in place. Shit. Bill was going to hurt.

Deep down, John knew it was hopeless. There was too much blood, too much damage. If they'd been someplace where John could get a cell signal and call for help, then maybe. But he was going to have to carry Bill to the Impala and drive him to the nearest hospital. It would take too long. But, damn it, he was going to try. How could he not try?

John leaned close to Bill's face. "Bill, can you hear me? Bill! Stay awake, damn you!"

Blood glistened on Bill's cheek. He opened his eyes. His forehead and the skin around his eyes creased with pain, but Bill seemed lucid. Thank God for that.

"Bill, I need to lift you," John tried to explain. "It's gonna hurt, but hold on to me if you can. I'm gonna get you some help, buddy. Just hold on."

Bill's eyes pleaded. "Ellen," he whispered, breaking John's heart with the word. "John...please..."

"No!" John almost shouted it. "No. I'm not gonna let you die. Don't you fucking dare die on me."

Bill's voice held that awful rattle you only hear when the speaker is near death. "John...tell...Ellen..."

Damn it, Bill. John could barely make out what he was saying. He leaned closer, not wanting to miss Bill's last words.

Bill's hand closed around John's throat. With impossible strength, he lifted John away from him, sitting up as if that terrible wound wasn't even there. John grasped Bill's wrist with both hands, fighting to free himself. Bill's hand squeezed John's windpipe. He couldn't breathe! Bill's hand continued to close, slowly, inexorably. John fought for breath in vain. Rushing blood filled his ears. Jesus, Bill was going to snap his neck!

Spots danced in front of John's eyes, the edges of his vision darkening. Suddenly, all he could see was Bill's eyes, glittering black like coal.

"I know who you are, John Winchester!" Bill snarled. "I know about your boys!"

Terror lent John strength. He ripped the gun from his belt. It was empty, he remembered in time, and he reversed it, using the gun as a club. Bill's hand on his throat loosened just a little. It was enough. John wrenched himself away, grabbing for a fresh clip. He rammed it into the gun even as he coughed in air and rolled, almost helpless, onto his back.

He raised the gun. Oh, God forgive me!

And he fired, right between Bill's demonic eyes.

Black smoke filled the air around them, blocking out moon and stars for an instant. Then it was gone.

---

St. Thomas Hospital, Sacramento, California

The first thing John became aware of was sound. An electronic beep, just loud enough to be annoying, beat out a steady pulse somewhere nearby. John focussed on that sound, following it back to the world. Then there were other sounds: a P.A. system with a woman's voice making some announcement. Footsteps, voices.

John opened his eyes and a white, tiled ceiling swam into view. He looked for the source of that beeping sound. Moving his head made things swirl around in his brain, but he saw it: a hospital heart monitor, its electronic green display counting the beats of his heart. Beside it, a bag of clear liquid hung from a stand; a long tube ran from it to John's arm.

John frowned, struggling to remember. He must have been badly hurt to be hooked up to machines like this.

The only memory that came to him was Bill Harvelle, black-eyed and crazy, yelling something about John's sons. Then John had...

Bill? Bill's dead? Oh, God, no.

He tried to sit up. His vision blurred and pain knifed through his skull. Okay. No sitting up. John turned his head cautiously, moving as slowly as he could, craning his neck to look behind him. He was in a hospital bed so there should be a call button somewhere.

The heart monitor began beeping more quickly. John saw what he was looking for and reached above his head. It seemed to take a superhuman effort just to reach up, grab the small device and push the button. He kept it in his hand, gazing at the ceiling.

A woman appeared in the doorway, hesitated, then approached the bed. She was African American, her hair braided in cornrows. Her uniform was pale blue and very neat. There was a name badge on her chest, but John couldn't read it. She smiled professionally, meeting his eyes. "Well. Welcome back," she said. She checked the monitor beside him.

John couldn't return her smile. Her words suggested he'd been out for a long time. He tried to ask, What happened to me? but couldn't manage more than a whisper. His mouth felt very dry.

She seemed to sense his difficulty. "I'll get you some water," she offered. She disappeared, returning a few moments later with a cup and a straw. She held the straw to John's mouth and he drank.

John cleared his throat and tried again. "How long?"

She set the cup on the nightstand beside his bed. "I've called Doctor Owen. He'll answer all your questions."

Her evasion scared him. "Please," John insisted. "Just tell me how long I've been here." He actually got the whole sentence out. Good.

"You've been unconscious for about two weeks," she answered.

Two weeks! He'd left his boys alone for two weeks? Where were they? Did they know he was here?

"I need a phone," John told her.

"As soon as the doctor sees you..." she began.

Fear lent John strength and he interrupted her. "I don't know what happened to me. Last thing I remember, I left my kids alone in a motel. I was only going to be gone an hour. Please. I've got to call my boy." The half-truths came to him easily, even now.

Her professional smile vanished. He could almost hear thoughts of calling social services and don't-those-kids-have-a-mother running through her head. He'd seen that look too often.

She recovered quickly, though. "Of course," she said. "If you tell me where they are, I'll – "

"No, I need to call mys- " John broke off as the door opened again and a doctor walked in. Doctors were getting younger all the time, John thought. The man looked like he was in his early twenties.

He spoke quietly to the nurse and then to John. "Hello, I'm Doctor Owen. I'm just going to check you over, and then we can talk, okay?"

John swallowed his frustration, knowing from experience that with doctors it's best just to go with it. "Sure," he answered, because nodding his head still hurt.

At the doctor's direction, the nurse helped John to sit up a little. She adjusted the bed to give him a firm backrest. It helped. "I need a phone," John repeated.

"We'll get to that," Owen said. "Can you tell me your name?"

John knew the routine. Saying a silent prayer that he wasn't registered under some alias he couldn't remember, he answered, "John Winchester."

Owen shone a pen light into John's left eye, then his right. "Who's President?" he asked.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Bill Clinton," he said.

"Okay. Follow the light for me, please." Owen held the pen light in front of John's eyes, moving it to one side, then the other, then up and down. He nodded and, apparently satisfied, clicked the little flashlight off and pocketed it. He held up one hand with two fingers curled down into his palm. "How many fingers?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Two. Are we done?"

"Almost. What year is it, Mr Winchester?"

For the first time, John felt uneasy. "1995," he told the doctor. He saw him exchange a glance with the nurse. "What? What's going on?"

The doctor's face was sober. "Mr Winchester, you've been through a massive trauma. It's normal to be disoriented for a while, or to forget..."

"Cut the crap, son. Just tell me."

"Alright. The year isn't 1995, Mr Winchester. It's 2008."

---

John stared at the telephone for a long time.

Since he woke up the day before, he'd endured tests and long conversations with a shrink and other doctors. He'd begged over and over for a phone, and every time had been met with the same response: the hospital would call anyone he wanted, but he wasn't well enough to get out of bed. Finally, they agreed to unhook him from the machines and let him make a call. For his part, John promised not to exert himself, whatever that meant. Apparently it meant using a wheelchair he didn't need, and making his call in a hospital corridor, wearing a borrowed robe.

He'd rather be under arrest. At least then he'd be entitled to make a private call.

John had a stack of quarters ready to feed into the phone, but now he was there, he wasn't sure who to call. Calling the motel would be useless: whatever happened to his boys, it happened thirteen years ago.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of his life were missing. John had no idea where his boys were, nor even if they were alive. He didn't know if he'd lost them thirteen years before or if some more recent incident had wiped his memory clean. He needed answers that doctors couldn't give him. Who could he contact?

Ellen Harvelle was the first person he thought of, but John's last clear memory was of killing her husband. Perhaps for her that was a long time ago, but for him it was just a few days. The thought of facing her after what he'd done...what he'd been forced to do...was unbearable. What could he say to her after that?

If not Harvelle's Roadhouse, then who could he call? Who wouldn't have moved on in thirteen years?

John dialled a number and listened to it ring, over and over. He let it ring. After what seemed like far too long, a woman's voice answered. He was relieved to recognise her voice. He remembered Patty as a motherly woman with a gentle smile and a fondness for sugar candy. She must be older now, but her voice still sounded like she was smiling.

"Hello, Patty. I'm trying to reach Jim. Is he around?"

Patty's sharp intake of breath told John something was wrong before she answered. "No, he's... Are you one of his war buddies?"

"Yes, I am," John answered. It was a kind of code: war buddies was how Jim Murphy referred to hunters. Patty was his housekeeper, and she knew about their secret life. She knew enough, anyway.

"I'm terribly sorry," Patty said, her voice suddenly quiet. "The pastor...died two years ago."

John gripped the arm of his wheelchair hard. Dead? No. Not Jim.

"How is it you didn't know?" Patty asked him.

John improvised quickly. "I...er...I've been out of touch for a while. Just got out of prison. I was hoping Jim could hook me up with the old crowd. You, uh, you don't know any of his old contacts, do you?" It was a weak story; she would probably be suspicious.

"I'm sorry, no. So many of his old friends are gone now."

John swallowed. "Who else died?" he asked nervously.

Patty was silent for a moment. "Caleb died the same time as Jim. Steve Wandell last year. John Winchester. Gordon – "

"Wait. Did you say John Winchester?" He dropped his voice low, conscious of people all around him. He gripped the phone, willing himself to stay calm, think this through. She was wrong, obviously, but what did that mean?

"I'm afraid so," Patty confirmed. More gently, she asked, "Was he a friend?"

"We're...close," John answered ironically, feeding more coins into the phone. Either she had been misinformed, or he'd chosen to fake his death sometime in those years he couldn't remember. It was possible. John made plans long ago in case he needed to drop out of sight. "Do you know," he asked carefully, "what happened to John and his boys?"

"It was young Sam Winchester told me about his daddy, but that was near a year ago. I don't know what happened, only that John died."

Sammy's alive. God, thank you, he's alive. But what about Dean? What about me? John thought he'd pushed Patty about as far as he could. Reluctantly, he swallowed back his questions. "Well, thank you, ma'am. I won't take up more of your time." He hung up quickly.

What in God's name was going on?

John leaned his forehead against the cool wall beside the telephone. He felt weak. He drew in a deep breath and tried to process what he'd learned. Jim Murphy was dead. So was Caleb. They and the Harvelles were the people John trusted most. And Bill was gone, too. For a moment Bill's face, black-eyed and bloody, rose up in John's memory.

I know who you are, John Winchester! I know about your boys!

Where were his boys now? What was happening to him?

Someone touched his back. "Are you alright?"

John looked up. It was Cindy, the nurse who he first met when he woke up here. He straightened up, nodding. "I'm fine. Just got some bad news is all."

"I'm sorry." She leaned down, looking into his eyes. "You look a little shocky, John. Let's get you back to bed."

John glanced at his meagre stack of quarters. "Not yet. I need to make another call."

Cindy looked like she wanted to argue, but something in John's expression must have stopped her. She shook her head as if he were a naughty child, but said, "Alright. I'll be at the desk when you need me."

When not if. That right there: that was why he liked Cindy. She didn't come right out and remind him he was a patient and should be taking it easy. No, she found a more subtle way to let him know he was being stupidly stubborn. John gave her a smile to show he understood. "Thanks." He turned back to the telephone.

He called Harvelle's Roadhouse. Who knew if he and Ellen were still on speaking terms. He killed her husband. They'd been close, the three of them, but John had no illusions about his place in Ellen's heart. She wasn't the forgiving type. But John had nowhere else to turn. At least Ellen might be able to give him someone else to call.

It never crossed John's mind that Ellen, too, could be gone. When he found the Roadhouse number out of service he assumed he must have mis-dialled. John hung up the phone and tried again, but got the same result. He tried calling Information for the number, giving the address of the Roadhouse.

"I'm sorry, sir. There is no number listed."

Bullshit. John struggled to control his frustration. "It's got to be there. Is there any Harvelle in Rock county?"

"One moment, please..."

John counted to ten while he waited.

"No, sir. No Harvelle."

The thought sneaked up on him unbidden and pounced. Ellen's dead, too. They're all dead. John swallowed. "Thanks." He hung up. No, not Ellen. Not Ellen, too.

There was no one else he could call. Hunters rarely put down roots; they lived life on the road, as John himself did. They changed identities like clothing. It was what made the few places like Jim's church and Harvelle's Roadhouse so valuable. Without them...

John was on his own.

Where the hell were his sons?

John slammed his fist into the wall. Remember, damn you! Remember! But all that came into his mind was Bill, dying. Again.

No one exists in a vacuum. John was in a hospital and he was sure they had him registered as John Winchester because no one blinked when he gave that as his name the day before. From those facts alone he could deduce that whoever brought him here was someone he knew. The hospital must have more information. At the very least, they should have someone named as his next-of-kin. That was a place to start.

Gathering up his remaining coins, John turned the wheelchair toward the nurses' station. He looked for Cindy and saw her watching him, while working on some papers. She rose at once and came toward him.

"All finished?" she asked brightly.

"Yeah," he agreed.

Cindy moved behind his chair. "Let's get you back to bed, then."

"Wait. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Since I woke up, no one has asked me about insurance. I guess because I can't remember anything, but I just want to make sure everything's taken care of."

"Oh!" She sounded startled, as if she'd expected a quite different question. "I can check for you." She turned the wheelchair toward the nurses' station, carefully set the brake and walked around the desk to the computer. "It's Winchester, isn't it?" she asked as she sat down.

"John Winchester," he confirmed.

"There's no insurance on file, but..." Cindy tapped keys and he waited impatiently. "Here it is. Your bills are being covered by someone."

"Is there a name?"

Cindy nodded. "Mr D Hunter."

For an instant, John thought, Dean! and his heart leapt. Then he thought, no. Dean wouldn't use such a clumsy alias. Might as well paint a target on your forehead. D. Hunter. It seemed vaguely familiar, but no face came into his mind, no association.

"Cindy, how did I get here? Does the file say?"

"The file is confidential..." she objected.

"It's about me, ain't it? Come on."

"Alright." She tapped keys, then looked at him. "It's here, but it's not very helpful. You were a patient at the free clinic on Blackwell and they transferred you here for long term care. Your records from Blackwell don't seem to be on file. They can be pretty slow."

It told him nothing. "Who's listed as my next of kin?" he asked.

"Mr Hunter is the only contact we have for you. He's been informed of your...condition."

John nodded uneasily. "Thanks. I guess I'll be good and go to bed now."

---

At night, a hospital becomes a little quieter, a little slower, but a hospital is never still. John lay awake, his mind too active for rest. He kept turning over the facts in his mind, trying to make sense of what was happening to him.

Fact one: he had been in a coma for at least two weeks, but he didn't seem to be injured. He felt as weak as a kitten, but that seemed to be mostly from inactivity. Less than 48 hours since he woke up and aside from a nagging headache John felt fine. He had found no recent stitches, no new wounds on his body, though he had a few scars he didn't remember. So what in God's name put him in a coma in the first place?

Fact two: he was missing thirteen years of memories. Could be that was related to whatever left him unconscious, but it seemed dangerous to make that assumption. Those missing memories covered a lot that he needed to know. Why did Patty believe he was dead? Where were his sons? Thirteen years...they were adults now. Patty implied that Sammy, at least, was a hunter like John, but she hadn't mentioned Dean.

Fact three: A man using the name Hunter was paying for John's medical treatment, but that man hadn't visited or even called him. Though he still had a nagging feeling he'd heard the name somewhere before, the inconsistency bothered John. He was in a private hospital room, which suggested money wasn't an issue. Yet if this man Hunter was a friend of John's, why hadn't he shown up before now?

There were too many unanswered questions. Perhaps John was being paranoid, but then, he'd learned the hard way that in a world where all too often, something evil was out to get you, paranoia was simply a survival trait. Like breathing.

John slid out of the hospital bed. He couldn't stay here. He needed answers and he would not find them lying in bed. Earlier that day he had searched the room and discovered a small duffel bag in the closet. The bag contained clean clothing that looked like military surplus, boots and a watch. There was no sign of anything that could identify John to himself: his journal was missing and his wedding ring: two things he never travelled without. There was no sign of his car keys, his wallet or any ID. That lack made John even more uneasy about his mysterious benefactor. What if this man was not a friend? What if there was trouble John couldn't remember?

It took him a long time to dress and when he was done he collapsed into a chair, exhausted. This was no good at all. He needed to be stronger than this. When he felt better, he picked up the empty duffel and headed for the door.

It was easy to slip past the nurses' station; the nurse was studying something on the computer screen and didn't even look up as he went by. He took the fire exit which led into a stairwell. From there, he found his way outside quickly and walked around the perimeter of the hospital until he found a parking lot. Here, he leaned against the wall to rest and looked around. There were big lights above the parking lot and he spotted several security cameras. The lot exit opened straight onto the road, though. So the real question was whether those cameras were being monitored. John had no way to know.

A man walked across the parking lot, then, and John grabbed the opportunity. He headed toward the man, staying low. He watched the man take a collection of keys from his pocket and hold it out. A nearby car flashed its lights and beeped loudly. John smiled. It was like a gift. He just had to hope his strength would hold out.

John approached the man as silently as he could. He got within a metre before the man turned around. The man started to say something. John moved, grabbing him and shoving him against the car. He got his arm around the man's neck and tightened his grip. The man struggled. John held on. His struggles became weaker...and stopped. John lowered his victim to the ground and searched him quickly. He found the car keys and the man's wallet with a nice wad of cash. He left the man unconscious on the ground and got into the car.

He felt no guilt. He hadn't harmed the man, and right outside the hospital he would have no difficulty getting help when he woke up. John's need came first.

John's first priority was to get away from the hospital and any possibility of pursuit. He drove into the city looking for the poorer areas. It took a few hours to find the kind of place he sought. There, he abandoned the car and stole another, this one older, a bit beat up and dirty. Something that wouldn't get noticed.

At last, John headed for the highway. When he crossed the state line, he would find a motel, and then he could rest and plan his journey. John knew where he had to go, but he didn't know what he would find when he got there.

Part Two