“So we got something.”
“Something,” Sam agreed. “Dean, I’ve been reading through old articles. Lot of press about a garment factory explosion six months ago. Gas leak. Partial building collapse. Trapped a lot of people. Sprinklers malfunctioned. Those who weren’t killed by the initial explosion and fire died from smoke inhalation.”
“How many?”
“Thirty-two dead. All locals,” Sam said. He clicked on another saved page. “Lots of editorials. Worst catastrophe in town history. Human interest stories about each of the victims and their families. Petitions for a memorial. Public debate about the location of the memorial. At the site of the explosion or opposite the town hall. Articles on the bidding and construction. Looks like the town hall location won.”
“Public grieving,” Dean said. “Think there’s a connection?”
“It’s something to consider.”
The Winchesters reached Clayton Falls by early afternoon and, after a brief stop at the Liquor Barn, checked into the StarBrite Motel, their room an instant sixties flashback with framed flower-power prints on the walls, tie-dyed pillowcases, bedside lava lamps, peace sign drawer handles and mirror decals, and a colorful beaded curtain doorway for the closet.
Clutching a brown paper shopping bag in one arm, Dean took in the rainbow color scheme with a frown.
“Place looks like they provide LSD tabs instead of complimentary soap,” he said.
“Might explain some of the weirdness in town,” Sam replied with a shrug.
Reaching into his Liquor Barn bag, Dean removed three bottles of whiskey and two six-packs of beer, lining them up on the dresser beside the secured television.
“Planning a bender tonight?” Sam asked.
“No,” Dean said, determined to avoid any further mention of his evaporating alcohol dream. “This is my... strategic reserve.”
“Worried about a shortage?”
“Keeping my options close at hand. Timesaver. That’s all.”
“All right,” Sam said, smiling as he nodded. But he let it go.
They changed into their FBI suits and drove to the municipal building to check in with the chief of police. Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” was playing on the local classic rock station when Dean turned off the Impala’s engine.
They climbed out of the car and crossed the parking lot. The sky was a crisp blue with a staggered line of cottony clouds. To the west, the Rocky Mountains loomed but their edges seemed muted, slightly out of focus.
“Look,” Sam said and pointed to a curved brick wall, fivefeet high, fifteen-feet wide, with flagpoles at each end, one flying the US flag, the other the state flag of Colorado. The concave front of the wall faced the brick municipal building, with a lofty white clock tower rising from the middle, on the other side of Main Street. “The curved wall’s the memorial. I recognize it from the online photos.”
They circled around to the front of the memorial. Mounted in the center of the wall was a bronze plaque which listed details about the explosion. On either side of the main plaque were smaller bronze plaques, side by side, with portraits of each of the victims, their names, ages, birth and death dates. The death dates were identical. At the base of the wall fresh bouquets of flowers, along with stuffed animals and framed portraits of the victims or their relatives, filled the open space and spilled out onto the sidewalk.
“This new every day?” Dean asked.
“Flowers are fresh.”
A sign directed them to the police entrance in the back of the municipal building. A short corridor led to a small lobby adjacent to the dispatcher’s elevated area behind bulletproof glass. A gray-haired woman sat on a chair wearing a lightweight headset while she knitted. Next to a microphone in front of her, a nameplate read “Millicent Perkins.”
Dean tapped the glass to get her attention and flashed his counterfeit FBI credentials.
“Ms. Perkins,” he said.
She leaned forward, switched on the microphone.
“Oh—oh, my! How can I help you?”
“FBI,” Dean said. “Agents DeYoung and Shaw. We need to see Chief Quinn.”
“Just a moment. I’ll see if he’s available.”
She turned to the side, picked up a phone and spoke into it. With the microphone off, her voice was too muffled for him to distinguish individual words.
Dean looked around. The lobby held some framed newspaper articles highlighting the police department’s activities in the community. A wall-mounted display rack held various informational pamphlets: how parents could recognize drug use in their children, how to form a neighborhood watch, emergency preparedness checklists, and gun safety tips.
The inner door, beside the dispatcher’s booth buzzed, then opened to reveal a trim man with gray hair in a charcoal-gray police uniform.
“I’m Chief Quinn,” he said. “You are?”
Dean flashed his ID again. “Agents DeYoung and Shaw.”
“Didn’t realize we had a Federal matter here in Clayton Falls.”
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who cleared his throat and said, “Homeland Security. We believe—”
“That’s quite enough.” Chief Quinn held up his hand to interrupt. “Let’s take this back to my office.”
Quinn led them down a short hall, past a row of desks with computers, two of which were occupied with uniformed police officers, and stopped at a door with a gold nameplate: “Chief Michael C. Quinn.” He ushered them into his spartan office: law books and police manuals on one bookcase, several framed photos of Quinn at community events or posing with local dignitaries, coat rack in the left rear corner, US flag on a stand in the right.
Quinn closed his office door and motioned them to the two padded chairs in front of his desk. He sat in the much more comfortable chair behind it.
The contents of his desk formed an organized triangle, a desk blotter holding a monthly calendar with a Cross pen in the center, a stack of file folders at the right corner, and a high school graduation photo of a young woman with red hair and green eyes to the left. The chief ’s daughter, Lucy, Dean surmised.
Chief Quinn leaned forward, forearms angled against the edge of his desk, hands loosely clasped.
“Apologize for cutting you off out there. Millie isn’t the town gossip, but not for lack of trying. You were about to mention something related to Homeland Security.”
“We need to question any witnesses to the unusual... events of last night,” Dean said.
“And read any statements that were taken,” Sam added.
“As far as I know the only real incident was a hit-and-run fatality,” Quinn said. “Hardly a Homeland Security matter.”
“We read reports of a giant Gila monster, and a head—” Sam began.
Quinn held up a hand. “Let me stop you right there, Agent Shaw. There is no giant Gila monster in Clayton Falls.”
“Gavin Shelburn...” Sam stopped as the chief ’s hand came up again.
“Shelly isn’t the town drunk but—”
“Not for lack of trying?” Dean finished.
“Exactly,” Quinn said, not taking offense. “Nobody else saw such a thing. How far is it from pink elephants to giant lizards? One bottle or two?”
“Lucy Quinn, your own daughter, reported being chased by a headless horseman.”
“My daughter...” Quinn sighed. Leaned back in his chair and stared off into space for a few moments before he spoke again. “Lucy is an only child. She came to my wife and me later in life. A surprise. Pleasant one, mind you, but we never thought...” He cleared his throat. “Lost my wife to breast cancer when Lucy was five. That was hard on Lucy, hard on both of us. Don’t think you can come out of something like that unchanged.” He picked up the Cross pen and tapped it against the paper of the calendar. “Then, last year, Lucy lost someone else close to her. What I’m trying to say is... I don’t think Lucy would intentionally lie about this, but...”
“What? You think she imagined it?” Dean asked.
/> “I’m not so foolish to think that she might not experiment... that she might have been involved in something she’d rather not tell her old man about.”
“Headless horseman’s one hell of a cover story,” Sam said.
“The boy who was killed by that driver ran out into the middle of the street and stopped there,” Quinn said. “He’d been with Lucy and another boy in Founders Park. I know for a fact that drinking was involved. We certainly found enough beer cans out there. Possibly drugs.”
“A witness said the car disappeared,” Dean said.
“Witnesses are, as a rule, unreliable,” Quinn said. “No surprise to a couple Feds, I’m sure. All of which brings me back to my first question. What’s the connection to Homeland Security?”
“We don’t want to alarm you or the citizens of Clayton Falls,” Sam said. “We know this town has been through a lot.”
“The factory fire,” Quinn said, nodding. “Many residents lost someone, or know someone who did. Hell of a thing.”
Sam cleared his throat, about to launch into their cover story. “We have information from credible sources indicating a terrorist cell might be testing a weaponized airborne hallucinogen here.”
“Weaponized airborne hallucinogen? In Clayton Falls? Why?”
“Small population, out of the way location, easy to monitor results,” Dean said with a shrug.
“Obviously, we don’t think Clayton Falls is the ultimate target,” Sam said. “Their ultimate objective would be a large metropolitan area.”
“And how, may I ask, did you come by this information?”
The chief looked startled, as though uncertain how to react to the information.
“Most of the details are highly classified, but...” Sam said and paused for a moment, as if debating how much to tell the local police chief. This was also part of the plan. “What I tell you must be handled with the utmost discretion.”
Quinn leaned forward and nodded. “Of course.”
“We’re relying on some ECHELON chatter and reports from some deep-cover operatives.”
The chief nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“I’m convinced you’re convinced,” he said and cleared his throat. “But I’m a skeptic at heart.”
Sam reached into his suit pocket and produced a credible facsimile of an FBI business card and pushed it across the desk.
“Our supervisor, Agent Tom Willis, working out of the St. Louis field office, can clear up any jurisdictional concerns,” he said. “Possibly provide you with more detailed threat assessment information than we’re authorized to reveal.”
Quinn picked up the business card and examined it for a long moment with one eyebrow arched before sliding it into a shirt pocket.
“Thank you. I’ll take that under advisement.” He stood abruptly; Dean and Sam rose with him. “Regardless, I see no reason why you can’t read the statements or interview witnesses.”
Dean glanced meaningfully at the photo of Quinn’s daughter. “Even...?”
“Legally, she’s an adult,” Quinn said. “Might do her good to learn the... consequences of this type of report.”
He shook hands with both of them.
“I do have one reservation.”
“Which is?”
“This is a quiet town,” Quinn said. “I’d like to keep it that way. Wasn’t always like this though. As I’m sure you’re aware, Falls Federal Prison is just outside the town limits. Couple of years ago, they added a supermax wing. Worst of the worst locked up in there. Had folks in town jumpy as frogs on a hot skillet. Protests, picketing, demonstrations—and not always peaceful. Time passed. Falls remained secure. Life goes on.
That’s where we are now. Peaceful, quiet, and orderly. What concerns me is that talk of a terrorist attack here could cause a panic.”
“Understood,” Dean said.
“But if we’re right, Chief Quinn,” Sam added, his deep voice serious, “this could turn dangerous.”
“Noted. Keep me informed.”
“Of course.”
Chief Quinn opened the door and looked out into the bullpen area. Only one uniformed cop remained along the row of desks: mid-twenties, buzz cut, earnest.
“Jeffries. Give these FBI agents—DeYoung and Shaw— copies of the witness statements from last night.”
“Everything, Chief?”
“Warts and all.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and Lucy’s...?”
“Everything, Jeffries.”
FOUR
“Well, that’s everything,” Officer Richard Jeffries said, dumping the stack of folders on the edge of his desk. “Sorry it took so long. Copier jammed. Office assistant usually takes care of this stuff, but she only works mornings. Budget cutbacks, you know.”
Dean picked up the pile of folders, itching to get out of the building.
Jeffries hooked his thumbs in his belt. “You’re taking all of this seriously?”
“Very seriously,” Sam said. “Why?”
“Even Shelly’s giant lizard?”
“No stone unturned,” Dean said.
“You hear stories about people dumping pet alligators down the sewer and they supposedly grow down there to full size. Live off rats. But that stuff ’s urban legend, right?”
“One of the great mysteries,” Dean said.
“Think somebody dumped a Gila monster down the sewer?”
“You never know,” Sam said. “Are you familiar with these reports?”
“Read them all. For entertainment value, sure beats traffic citations.”
“Impressions?”
“Hard to take them seriously,” Jeffries said and shrugged.
“Well, except for the hit and run. Bullinger stood in the middle of the road. Driver of the car should have seen him, but... who knows? We’re looking for a red car. Don’t know make and model. Not even a partial on the plate. Not much to go on, really.”
“What about Lucy Quinn’s statement?” Dean asked.
Jeffries hesitated, glancing at the police chief ’s office, perhaps unwilling to speak negatively about his boss’s daughter.
“Sticking with her story. Stubborn, like the chief. She was hanging out with Tony Lacosta, who backed up her story. Bullinger was with them earlier. Obviously we never got his statement. But, really, a headless horseman?” He shrugged again. “My first thought was—” he glanced toward the police chief ’s door again and lowered his voice—“controlled substances.”
“Thanks for your help,” Sam said. “Anything weird happens, keep us in the loop. We oughta get going.”
“Sure. Right. Didn’t mean to hold you up.”
As they walked back toward the lobby, Jeffries called after them.
“You need anything, let me know.”
“Will do,” Dean said, waving an arm without looking back.
He exchanged a glance with Sam. “Won’t be stumbling over any police follow-up.”
“Not anytime soon.”
Minutes after Dean drove from the municipal parking lot, Sam’s phone rang.
“Bobby,” Sam said and put the call on speaker.
“You jokers put Guinness on speed dial?” Bobby said. “In town less than an hour and already you got somebody checking up on you.”
“Chief Quinn rang the bat phone?” Dean asked.
“Of course, ya idjit,” Bobby snapped. “Who else would I be flapping about?”
“Just saying,” Dean replied. “That man has a distrustful soul.”
“And whatever you two were selling in there,” Bobby continued, “he ain’t exactly inclined to rush to the checkout lane.”
“But...?” Sam said.
“What I gather, he’s willing to play out enough rope for you two to hang yourselves.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“My advice,” Bobby said, “don’t go too far off the reservation on this one. Or expect a guided tour of county lockup.”
“Right,” Sam said. “Low profile.”
“Bobby,” Dean said. “Any luck with the phoenix ash situation?”
“Besides their place of honor on my mantel?” Bobby said. “Fat lotta good they are when I can’t find hide nor hair of Eve, Mother of All.”
“Something will turn up,” Sam said.
“Ain’t you the Pollyanna,” Bobby said and ended the call.
Sam looked a question at Dean.
“What? Keeps his mind off Rufus.”
“Considering one of Eve’s creatures was responsible for Rufus’ death,” Sam said, “not sure that will do the trick.”
“It’s Bobby. What’s he gonna do? Look the other way?” Dean asked. “Besides, I’d prefer directed anger over grief any day.”
He parked the Impala on Welker Street near the Mandarin Palace restaurant. He and Sam walked along the side of the restaurant and turned down the alley that ran behind a bunch of storefronts in the business district of Clayton Falls between Welker and Bell Street.
“Here?”
Sam nodded. “According to the report.”
After looking for Gavin Shelburn to no avail at the local homeless shelter, food bank, and soup kitchen—housed in two adjoining buildings—they had decided to visit the site of the alleged giant Gila monster attack.
“Police never bothered to check the scene,” Sam said. “Figured Shelburn had one too many.”
“Let’s say Shelburn wasn’t hallucinating. What are we looking for exactly? People around here would notice a giant lizard.”
“Yeah, but they might not notice this.”
Sam crouched beside a battered Dumpster with a missing front wheel.
Dean stood over his shoulder. “Banged-up Dumpster?”
“Banged up and...” Sam traced his fingers along two sets of deep parallel grooves that scored the blue paint of the trash bin. “...scratched. Dean, Shelburn said he jumped into a Dumpster to escape.”
Dean nodded, lifted the lid of the trash bin.
“Score marks on the edge,” he pointed out.
“Busted that wheel off, too,” a voice said from behind them.
They turned to face a grizzled man in a misshapen fedora, creased overcoat, threadbare jeans and battered combat boots standing at the entrance to the alley. He kept his distance from them, a wary look in his eyes, as if he would never again trust what he saw.
Supernatural: Night Terror Page 4