by Tim Waggoner
It would be the better part of two weeks until John Winchester returned.
* * *
“You guys were out at the motel during the fire, right?”
Sam looked at Dean, unsure how to answer the sheriff’s question.
She smiled. “Nothing personal, but you smell like you’ve been to a week-long bonfire.”
Dean grimaced. “I’m really getting tired of stinking up the joint wherever we go.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Amanda Kopp—who no doubt had long ago grown tired of hearing jokes about her surname—was in her mid-forties, with short brown hair, minimal makeup, and a thin white-gold wedding band on her ring finger. She was friendly, but projected an air of complete professionalism, the latter undercut somewhat by the Hello Kitty cover on the smartphone sitting on her desk in easy reach of her hand.
Sam wondered if she was one of those people who was so addicted to her phone that she felt anxious if she was too far away from it.
“It’s been a long few days,” Sam said, hoping she’d let it go at that.
“Tell me about it.” She let out a sigh. “I’ve got four people dead from some kind of mysterious wasting disease, in addition to the two from last week, and now to top it off, a whole motel burns down so fast it was like it was hit with goddamned napalm. That’s why I’m sitting on my ass in my office. I’m waiting on a call back from the CDC.”
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. It was just as they’d figured.
“We understand how busy you are, Sheriff,” Sam said, “and we really appreciate your taking the time to speak with us again.”
Although it had only been a couple days since they’d first spoken with Sheriff Kopp, she looked as if she’d aged ten years in that time. The lines on her face were more pronounced, and her eyes were red and sore-looking, much like Sam figured his own did. Unfortunately, Sam was far too used to seeing law officers suffering from stress and lack of sleep, not to mention the frustration of knowing something bad was happening in their town and having no idea what was causing it or how to stop it. Most of the time, he and Dean couldn’t tell the local authorities the truth, no matter how much they might want to. Almost always, in their experience, telling the authorities resulted in one of several increasingly negative scenarios. Best case, they’d think they were crazy and stop cooperating with them. Or they’d decide they needed to be held in custody for a psychiatric evaluation. In the worst case, the authorities would believe Sam and Dean, because then they would want to help, and that would put them face to face with dangers that they were in no way trained to deal with. It had worked out okay a time or two—like with Jody Mills in Sioux Falls—but those were the exceptions to the rule.
There was a reason why hunters tended to work alone or in pairs. The fewer people that had to risk their lives, and often more than just their lives, against the dark things that lived in the world’s shadows, the better. He thought of Trish Hansen. If he and Dean hadn’t let her talk them into taking her ghost hunting...
Dean frowned. “Wait a minute. Did you say there were four disease victims this week? I thought there were only three.”
“There were. Until Harrison Brauer turned up dead. He’s a local mortician, and he was due to meet with the wife of one of his... clients. Is that the right word? Anyway, when she got there the door was open, but she couldn’t find anyone, so she started calling Brauer’s name and wandering around his place, looking for him. Eventually, she wandered downstairs into his embalming room, and that’s where she found him, looking like all the others.”
Sam gave Dean a nod to say, Nice catch. As fuzzy-headed as he was, the detail had slipped right by him. Sam hadn’t considered that Dippel might have been using a mortician as his Igor, especially as it was unlikely the man would have the necessary medical background, but he supposed it was possible. If so, the mortician’s death could mean that Dippel was closing up shop in Brennan and preparing to move on. For all they knew, he might already have left town, in which case they’d have a hell of a time locating him. Sam doubted Dean would have the patience to even try. With Dippel gone, Dean would want to return to figuring out a way to take down Dick Roman.
Dean’s thoughts must have been running along similar lines, for he gave Sam a look that said, Why are we wasting our time here?
“Sorry I didn’t call you guys,” the sheriff said. “Between trying to get hold of the CDC and dealing with the fire, I’ve had my hands full.”
“No problem,” Dean said. Sam thought he was going to tell the sheriff thanks, but they no longer needed her help. Instead he took a deep breath, and said, “But if you could answer just a few more questions for us...”
“Sure thing. It’s not like I’m doing anything at the moment besides sitting here waiting for my phone to ring.”
Sam wondered which she’d used. Her office phone or her smartphone. Maybe the latter, if for no other reason than to make sure no one else in the department could pick up their extension and listen in. If she believed she was dealing with some sort of contagion, the last thing she would want to do was cause a panic, especially among her own people.
“We’re exploring the possibility that someone with a medical background might be involved in these deaths,” Dean said.
Sheriff Kopp’s eyes widened. “You mean, someone did this on purpose? Like, some kind of terrorist? You think I should contact Homeland Security?”
“We’re just trying to cover all the bases,” Dean said. “At this juncture, we don’t have any evidence that would indicate terrorism. If we did, we’d be sure to tell you.”
The sheriff looked skeptical at the idea that federal agents would place a high priority on keeping a local like her in the loop, but she just said, “So what do you want to know?”
“Have there been any problems involving doctors or nurses in the area?” Sam asked. “Maybe even a nurse practitioner, a physician’s assistant, or a paramedic?”
“Problems?”
“Patient complaints,” Dean said. “Legal trouble. Strange behavior. Anything out of the ordinary.”
“You mean like a scandal?” she asked.
“It doesn’t have to be anything that major,” Sam said. “It could be something small, something that no one would think too much about in ordinary circumstances.”
She considered for a moment. “I’m sorry, but nothing’s coming to mind. Up until the last couple weeks, Brennan’s been a pretty quiet town. Usually, all we ever have to deal with is petty crime, marital disputes, and traffic violations.” She paused, and from the expression on her face, Sam knew she’d thought of something. “This might not be anything, but a few months back we had a father and daughter killed by a drunk driver. The girl was only fifteen, and just starting to learn how to drive. It was a damned shame. Anyway, the mother wasn’t with them when it happened, but she’s a doctor here in town. After the accident, she became depressed. Who wouldn’t, right? She started seeing fewer and fewer patients, until she finally stopped altogether. As far as I know, she hasn’t officially closed down her practice, but she might as well have.”
A grieving widow and mother who was also a doctor? Dippel would find her an irresistible candidate for an Igor. Not only did she have the knowledge of twenty-first century medicine he needed, but she had a compelling reason to want to work with him. Two reasons, in fact. Her husband and daughter. Sam thought of Walter Hansen, and he knew that if a grief-stricken parent had the opportunity to restore a dead child to life, he or she would be unable to resist taking it, regardless of the consequences.
Dean must have been thinking the same thing, for he gave Sam a quick nod before turning his attention back to Sheriff Kopp.
“We need the doctor’s name and address.”
THIRTEEN
Catherine gave Marshall’s body a final check. The tongue looked good—the NuFlesh had done its work, bonding the organ into place almost as easily as gluing two pieces of paper together—as did the new teeth. A couple
of them weren’t as straight as she’d like, but she told herself not to be overly critical. Besides, human beings weren’t meant to be perfectly symmetrical. It was the imperfections, slight as they might be, that gave a man or woman character.
While she continued her examination, checking the spots where Marshall’s limbs—both original and new—had been fused, Conrad busied himself setting up the resurrection equipment. The procedure was primarily a chemical one, and the cart that Conrad wheeled over to the table where Marshall lay contained what at first glance appeared to be a simple arrangement of IV bottles, plastic tubing, and needles hanging from a metal framework. Chemicals of various colors filled the bottles, with tiny glints of illumination that resembled glowing flecks of multicolored metal floating within. Catherine had once asked Conrad what those flecks were, but he’d only given her a thin-lipped smile and said, “It’s an ancient secret.” At first she’d thought he was making a joke, but after everything she’d seen since starting to work with him, she’d come to accept that he was telling her the truth. An ancient secret, and no doubt one as dark as pitch, but she didn’t care, not as long as it returned her husband to her. There were enough chemicals in the bottles to treat both Marshall and Bekah today—assuming all went well with Marshall’s resurrection, that was.
Catherine knew the formulae for Conrad’s chemical mixtures, save for that one ingredient. Perhaps if she had a stronger background in chemistry, she might recognize the flecks, but she doubted it. Whatever they were, she didn’t think they were the sort of thing you could simply order from a chemical supply company.
Conrad wheeled a second cart over to Marshall that contained an external automated defibrillator—Much more convenient than waiting for lightning to strike, he’d once told her—along with strips of cloth that had been chemically treated and coated with more of those mysterious flecks of metal. She knew from their previous experiments that Conrad would wrap the strips around Marshall’s chest, leaving a section bare so the defibrillator’s electrodes could make contact with his skin. His head would be wrapped in the cloth, too, down to the neck. The one new element in the procedure this time was Conrad’s stone, the so-called Lapis Occultus. She had no idea what it was and would have dismissed it as pure nonsense if she hadn’t held it in her hand and felt its power for herself. The stone, he had explained to her, would be placed on Marshall’s forehead before the procedure got underway. When she’d asked Conrad what the stone’s purpose was, he’d been even more vague than usual: It’s to ensure that death is held at bay indefinitely.
She’d long ago given up doubting Conrad’s claims. She’d seen too much, accomplished too much with him. If he said the stone would provide some kind of protection against death, then she believed him.
Satisfied that Marshall’s body was ready for the procedure, Catherine double-checked the IV bottles, tubing, and needles. Conrad had no ego when it came to his work. He insisted that Catherine check everything he did to make sure all was in order. The only thing that mattered to him was obtaining his desired outcome. He didn’t care who made a mistake, he only cared about finding and fixing it. In another person, she would have found the quality admirable, but in Conrad, she knew it arose from a single-minded obsession with success at all costs, including the sublimation of his own ego. Why he was so hell-bent on success, she wasn’t certain, but she sensed his motivation was more than merely intellectual, and it sure as hell wasn’t altruistic. He was working toward something, and had been for a long time, and helping her restore her husband and daughter to life was only one more step toward achieving his ultimate goal. She’d never asked him what that goal was, and truthfully, she didn’t care, not as long as she got Marshall and Bekah back.
Once she’d determined the chemicals and IVs were in order, she double-checked the defibrillator while Conrad examined Marshall to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. The defibrillator’s battery was fully charged, and it seemed to be in perfect working condition. When their examinations were complete, Conrad looked at her.
“Shall we finish?” he asked.
She nodded and together they wrapped the treated cloth strips around Marshall’s head and chest, Conrad lifting his body as needed while Catherine wrapped. The cloth needed to be put on immediately before the procedure, because—for reasons she didn’t understand—the chemicals it had been treated with lost their efficacy the longer they were in contact with the skin. They’d only used half the strips by the time they were finished. The other half were for Bekah. They checked to make sure Marshall was wrapped tight, and then Conrad took the Lapis Occultus from the cart and gently, almost reverently, placed it on Marshall’s forehead.
He stepped back and cocked his head as he regarded the stone’s placement. Catherine couldn’t see what earthly difference the position of the object made, but Conrad must have, for he reached out, made a small adjustment, then nodded to himself.
“I believe we are ready to begin inserting the—”
Needles, Catherine knew he’d been about to say, but he broke off, a look of astonishment on his face. He raised his hand with the X on it and stared at the mark as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The X looked the same to her, but whatever had changed about it had alarmed the usually unflappable Mr. Dippel.
“We need to hurry,” he said, tension in his voice. “They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“Two men. Hunters... Killers. They want to stop us. I thought I’d dealt with them...” He curled his hand into a fist. “...but evidently I was mistaken.”
Catherine’s head was swimming. “What are they? Police? Hit men? Secret agents, for god’s sake?”
“I don’t have time to explain fully. Suffice it to say that they will break into your home, come down here, and not only stop what we’re doing, but destroy Marshall and Bekah’s bodies to ensure they will never rise. Is that what you want?”
Conrad was shouting by the time he reached the end of his words, but it was his emotional intensity more than anything else that convinced Catherine he was speaking the truth.
“What do we do?”
“I can try to hold them off, but at this point, I’m not confident in my ability to do so alone. If I had use of the Lapis Occultus... But no, it’s needed here. No matter what else occurs, it is vital that Bekah be restored to life.”
Just Bekah, she noted. Not Marshall.
Conrad looked down at Marshall’s body, still lifeless and waiting for resurrection. A cold sly smile spread across his face.
“If I had your husband’s help...”
“No! I’m not going to bring Marshall back only to send him into harm’s way. If these men really are as dangerous as you seem to think—”
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked regarding which of your loved ones was to be resurrected first. Given the situation, what would Marshall do?”
As before, Catherine didn’t have to think about her reply. “Protect his daughter.”
Without exchanging another word, they began inserting the IV needles into various points of Marshall’s body.
* * *
Daniel raged inside the confines of the Lapis Occultus. To his perceptions, it seemed as if he was floating disembodied within an endless expanse of darkness, and that he’d been there for a very, very long time. Another being might well have gone insane in the same circumstances, but Daniel was a Reaper. Darkness, no matter how vast or unending, didn’t scare him. It did, however, seriously piss him off.
He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be captured by Dippel. It hadn’t occurred to him that the alchemist might have conceived of a way to harness the energy of a Reaper and use it in his obscene experiments. That was something Daniel needed to prevent at any cost. The question was, how? He’d tried translocating, a common ability for his kind. Normally, he could move from one location to another simply by willing it, but no matter how hard he concentrated, no matter how much power he summoned, he was unable to break free of the darknes
s. He’d tried reaching out to any other Reapers that might be in the vicinity. Considering how many deaths had taken place in Brennan lately, there were bound to be a few around. Yet although he strained to stretch his thoughts outward, he was unable to penetrate his prison’s walls. That left him with only one option—the last option, as far as any Reaper was concerned—calling the boss.
Death was a strong believer in delegating. When he assigned a task to one of his servants, he expected it to be carried out, and if any problems arose, he expected them to be dealt with. What he did not want was to be bothered every time some little thing went wrong. Whenever Death was disturbed for something trivial—and given what he was, almost everything was trivial to him—he was not slow to express his displeasure. But Daniel didn’t see any other choice left to him. If Dippel succeeded in incarnating Hel, as bad as it would be for the humans on Earth, it would be far worse for him. Death would make certain of it.
Daniel had no eyes to close in his black prison, but he imagined himself performing the action anyway. He concentrated and called out to Death—
—and received no answer.
Daniel was shocked. There was no place in existence that Death couldn’t reach. All worlds, all times, all dimensions were part of his inconceivably vast domain. Yet Death hadn’t heard him.
Whatever this stone was, it had been created by magic far greater than Daniel had anticipated. Perhaps Hel herself had taken a hand in its construction. She was nowhere near as powerful as Death, but as a goddess of death (with a lowercase d) her power could easily counter Daniel’s.