“Yeah, I noticed.” McBain smiled. Sam noticed it was a warmer smile than the snarky one she usually gave. “Listen, you guys did good work. Closed several homicides, stopped another one, and put a spirit to rest.”
“We’re not a hundred percent on that last part,” Sam admitted reluctantly. “When we got back to Manfred’s, he said that Scottso may be broken up. But still, with Eddie under arrest, I’m guessing Roxy’s at peace.”
“Hope so,” McBain said. “So you guys are headed outta town?”
Holding up the folder, Sam said, “Apparently we have a job.”
“Besides, I think Manfred could use some alone time,” Dean said with a smirk.
“Well, good luck,” McBain said. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you guys. And next time you’re in town—”
“We’ll call,” Sam said quickly.
Dean said, “Probably.”
“Very funny, brushy-top,” McBain said. “Seeya.”
She got into her Saturn and drove off.
Moving toward the Impala, Sam said, “She’s not that bad.”
Dean just looked at him. “She calls me ‘brushy-top.’”
“Like I said, she’s not that bad.”
“Hardy-har-freakin’-har.” Dean headed for the driver’s side.
Sam blinked. “You’re driving?”
“We’re gettin’ outta this crazy burg, so yeah, now I’m drivin’.”
Holding up his hands in surrender, Sam said, “Fine, whatever.”
They got into the Impala. Sam kept the folder in his lap so he could consult it while they headed across the bridge. Their best bet was to make most of their way across country on I-80 to Salt Lake City, then down I-15 to Las Vegas, then work their way on the local routes to Cedar Wells from there. That’d take a few days, though, even with Dean’s lead-footed driving style, so Sam focused on the folder for now while he waited for Dean to ask the inevitable question, which he finally asked as he went under the West Side Highway and found himself at the corner of Riverside Drive and 97th Street, with no real idea how he got there.
“Dude, how do we get outta here?”
Sam grinned.
Just as she was putting the finishing touches on the paperwork that would close the Roxy Carmichael case—at least, as a missing persons case, it was now a homicide—a voice came from the entryway to her tiny cubicle:
“Detective Marina McBain?”
Turning around, McBain found herself doing the same thing Sergeant O’Shaughnessy had done a week ago. Her first impression was black male with close-cut hair and a goatee. Then she saw the impeccably tailored suit that meant he was either a fed or a lawyer.
“Yeah, I’m McBain.”
“Special Agent Victor Hendrickson. I need to talk to you about two men named Sam and Dean Winchester.”
Great, this must be the fed after Dean. “Names don’t ring a bell, why?”
“Really?” Hendrickson folded his arms. “Now why don’t I believe you?”
“I really don’t know, Agent Hendrickson, and I really don’t care. I’ve got a metric ton of paperwork to deal with right now. I can go see if these Winchester guys are in the files, but—”
“They’re not missing persons, they’re fugitives, and I think you’ve seen ’em.”
McBain rolled her eyes. “It’s nice that you think that, but I never even heard of ’em.”
“Yeah? What were you doing last night?”
“Rescuing one of my CIs,” she said, grateful that she’d made Arthur one of her official confidential informants, so her searching for him last night could be justified. “He disappeared in mid-phone call, and I tracked him down. Some nut job had him tied to a bell. Turned out to be a serial killer.” She grinned. “Surprised you guys didn’t waltz in to step all over it, the way you usually do for serials.”
“You notice I ain’t laughin’.”
McBain’s grin widened. “You notice I don’t give a damn.”
Unfolding his arms, Hendrickson said, “I can make your life a living hell, Detective. Where were you last Saturday night?”
“Home, watching television. My landlord can confirm that.” McBain rented the top floor of a two-family house in Queens. She helped get rid of a poltergeist in the house, and since then the landlord was her best friend. Lying to a fed about whether she was home was the least of the favors she’d do. And O’Shaughnessy wouldn’t rat her out to the feds, either, and he was the only one who knew she was on the grid Saturday night. “And if you wanna make my life a living hell, Agent Hendrickson, get in line behind my sergeant, my captain, my inspector, Commissioner Kelly, and Mayor Bloomberg, okay?”
Hendrickson leaned against the side of her cubicle and refolded his arms. His facial expression had yet to change since he arrived. The slightly pissed-off look seemed to be his default. “If you think I won’t step on all those people to get what I need, Detective, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I don’t know what you need, Hendrickson! You been standin’ here threatening me, talkin’ some nonsense about two people I never even heard of—”
“You expect me to believe that, Detective?”
“Agent Hendrickson, on the list of things I give a rat’s ass about, what you believe is at the bottom, you feel me? Now unless you have actual police business to discuss with me—”
“Hey!”
McBain turned to see the wiry form of Sergeant Glover, her immediate supervisor, stomping toward her cubicle.
“Who the hell’re you?” Hendrickson asked.
“I’m Sergeant Glover, and I’m in charge of this shift. Who the hell’re you?”
Hendrickson identified himself, even going so far as to show ID, which was more consideration than he’d shown McBain.
“That’s nice. Get your fibbie ass out of my house.”
Now Hendrickson’s facial expression changed—from slightly pissed off to completely pissed off. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You got no business harassing my people.”
“I have questions for Detective McBain.”
“No,” Glover said, “you don’t, ’cause if you did, you’da done it through proper channels instead of barging through here intimidating people. Now you can leave on your own, or I can call up a couple of uniforms to haul your ass downstairs for trespassing.”
Hendrickson stared at Glover, then stared at McBain. He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “I’ll be back, Detective.”
Giving him a sweet smile, McBain said, “My door’s always open, Agent Hendrickson.”
With another nasty look at Glover, Hendrickson turned on his polished heel and left.
Glover looked at McBain. “What the hell was that?”
“Sergeant, I talked to him for five minutes, and I still can’t tell you.”
Shaking his head, Glover said, “Damn fibbies.”
As her shift commander wandered off, McBain turned around and let out a long breath, never more grateful for the rivalry bordering on hatred between federal and local law enforcement.
Watch your asses, guys, she thought in the general direction of Sam and Dean Winchester as they worked their way to the thing in Arizona.
Roxy was satisfied.
She loved watching the cops come and take that bastard Eddie away. She wished she had it on camera so she could watch it over and over and over and over.
It was over. He didn’t love her, but at least he was paying for not loving her, the creep.
She hated him. She hated everything about him. She loved seeing him suffer, and watching him break down and confess like that in front of the whole band.
It was great.
But now she didn’t know what to do.
Uncle Cal didn’t come back, so she didn’t know what was next. Would she just stay here? Would she fade away? Would she go to the right afterlife?
Maybe she could just hang out here. Manfred probably wouldn’t mind. She always kinda liked Manfred. Maybe she should’ve been with him all alo
ng. He wasn’t that bad. She had thought after rehab that someone like Aldo would be better, but that turned out to be so not the case. And she had always really really liked this house.
Still, she figured, even if she was sticking around, she wouldn’t make so much noise. Manfred might call those two creeps back, and she didn’t want that. She still hated the way those shots felt, and she wasn’t eager to repeat it.
So she stayed quiet, and would just live here in peace. Or die here in peace.
Or something.
Author’s Note
While composing Nevermore, I had a special Supernatural iTunes playlist going in my headphones. It included the following songs, which I recommend as a listening soundtrack while reading the book:
AC/DC: “Back in Black.” (Living Colour’s version works nicely, too)
The Allman Brothers: “Ramblin’ Man”
George Baker: “Little Green Bag”
The Band: “Chest Fever,” “The Shape I’m In,” “The W.S. Wolcott Medicine Show”
Black Sabbath: “Paranoid”
Blind Faith: “Can’t Find My Way Home”
Blue Öyster Cult: “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper”
Blue Swede: “Hooked on a Feeling”
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds: “Up Jumped the Devil”
The Chambers Brothers: “Time has Come Today”
Eric Clapton: “Cocaine,” “Further on up the Road”
Cream: “Badge,” “Sunshine of Your Love,” “Tales of Brave Ulysses”
Creedence Clearwater Revival: “Bad Moon Rising”
Deep Purple: “Smoke on the Water”
Def Leppard: “Rock of Ages”
Derek & the Dominoes: “Layla”
Bob Dylan: “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” “Like a Rolling Stone” (the original’s okay, but I loudly recommend the live version on Before the Flood, which is transcendent; all respect to Al Kooper, but Garth Hudson leaves him in the dust)
Electric Light Orchestra: “Turn to Stone”
David Essex: “Rock On”
Iron Butterfly: “In-A-Gada-Da-Vida”
Jefferson Airplane: “White Rabbit”
Jethro Tull: “A New Day Yesterday,” “Aqualung,” “For a Thousand Mothers,” “We Used to Know”
Robert Johnson: “Cross Road Blues” (Eric Clapton’s version of this works, too), “Hellhound on My Trail,” “Walkin’ Blues” (versions of “Walkin’ Blues” by Hindu Love Gods, Eric Clapton, and the Jump Kings are also excellent and recommended)
Journey: “Wheel in the Sky”
Kansas: “Carry on, Wayward Son”
Lynyrd Skynyrd: “Down South Jukin’”
Metallica: “Enter Sandman,” “Some Kind of Monster”
Ted Nugent: “Stranglehold”
Queen & David Bowie: “Under Pressure”
The Rolling Stones: “Gimme Shelter,” “Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby,” “Sympathy for the Devil”
Rush: “Working Man”
Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band: “Katmandu,” “Lookin’ Back,” “Turn the Page”
Spinal Tap: “Stonehenge”
Stealers Wheel: “Stuck in the Middle with You”
Steppenwolf: “Born to be Wild,” “Magic Carpet Ride”
Styx: “Renegade”
Tito & Tarantula: “Angry Cockroaches,” “Strange Face of Love”
Traffic: “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys”
Joe Walsh: “Turn to Stone”
The Who: “5:15,” “Goin’ Mobile,” “In a Hand or a Face,” “Love Reign O’er Me”
Warren Zevon: “Werewolves of London”
Acknowledgments
There are a lot of people who have to be thanked for this, the first ever Supernatural novel. So get comfy…
To John Morgan, my wonderful editor, who came to me and said, “I’m going to be editing Supernatural novels, wanna write one?” So this book is entirely his fault. John and I have known each other going back to the earliest days of both our respective careers, but this is our first time working as editor and writer, and it’s been an absolute joy to finally do so.
To Eric Kripke, who could’ve just done a show about two pretty guys who shoot monsters in the head, but has given us something far more than that in Supernatural. It’s a show about two brothers, it’s a show about family, it’s a show about demons both physical and internal, it’s a show about the importance of music, and it’s a show about people. Thanks also to his crack team of writers, in particular Raelle Tucker and Sera Gamble, who’ve provided some of my favorite moments on the show, and Ben Edlund, who has rocked my world ever since the glory days of The Tick.
To my other editor, Emily Krump; my wonderful agent, Lucienne Diver, who both rocks and rolls; to the good folks at the café who plied me with hot chocolate during my marathon writing sessions; and to CGAG, the bestest writers group ever.
To Anthony C. Greene of the Bronx County Historical Society, who generously gave me an informative tour of the Poe Cottage, and filled me with all sorts of useful facts. Also to the BCHS in general for their books by Lloyd Ultan and Gary Hermalyn about the Bronx, in particular The Birth of the Bronx, 1609-1900, and also to Kenneth T. Jackson’s superlative reference, The Encyclopedia of New York, and Susan Blackhall’s Ghosts of New York.
To Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, the voices and faces of Dean and Sam Winchester. Again, they could’ve just stood around and looked pretty, but they’ve infused their characters with, well, character, which made it much more fun to get inside their heads for this novel.
To Constance Cochran, GraceAnne Andreassi DeCandido, Heidi Ellis, Marina Frants, and Lesley McBain, for invaluable feedback that made the book a lot better.
To the various online resources, from the “Superwiki” at supernatural.oscillating.net, to the official Supernatural site at supernatural.warnerbros.com, to the Supernatural entries on the main Wikipedia, to the various other folks on the Internet who support, discuss, overanalyze, and lust over the show.
To Dr. Judith Richardson, who really does offer a literature class at Stanford University called “American Hauntings,” to the NYPD’s website at www.nyc.gov/html/nypd for research assistance, to Susan McCrackin for financial aid neepery, and to Steven H. Silver and Rachel Ward for bringing the Latin.
To Gregory Mcdonald, from whose Fletch books I stole the “Park in Rear” joke.
Finally, it should be noted that, while most of the details about the life of Edgar Allan Poe and his home and family are as true as the author could determine, the historical figure of Percival Samuels is wholly fictional, as is his resurrection ritual.
Last, but not least, thanks to them that live with me, both human and feline, for constant companionship and encouragement.
About the Author
Keith R.A. DeCandido wrote the first Farscape novel (House of Cards), the first Gene Roddenberry’s Andromeda novel (Destruction of Illusions), the first Command and Conquer novel (Tiberium Wars), and now the first Supernatural novel. This means absolutely nothing, but he likes mentioning it anyhow, ’cause it almost sounds cool.
In total, Keith has written more than thirty novels, as well as a mess of short stories, a smattering of novellas, a dollop of essays, and a gaggle of eBooks. Most are in various media universes—besides the ones mentioned: Star Trek (most recently the Next Generation novel Q&A), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (most recently The Deathless), World of Warcraft (Cycle of Hatred), Doctor Who (a story in the Short Trips: Destination Prague anthology), StarCraft (Nova), Resident Evil (the novelizations of all three films), Spider-Man (Down These Mean Streets), CSI:NY (the upcoming Four Walls), and whole bunches more. The majority of his original work is in the world of his 2004 novel Dragon Precinct.
Keith is also an editor—he’s responsible for the monthly Star Trek eBook line and has edited dozens of anthologies, including the upcoming Doctor Who: Short Trips: The Quality of Leadership—and a musician—currently the percussionist for the pa
rody band the Boogie Knights. A fan of classic rock (Dean Winchester would approve of much of his iTunes “favorites” playlist), Keith is also a practitioner of Kenshikai karate and a devoted fan of the New York Yankees. As should be blindingly obvious from the book you’ve just read, Keith was born, raised, and educated in the Bronx, and still lives there with his fiancée and two insane cats. Learn less about Keith at his official website at DeCandido.net, read his tiresome ramblings at kradical.livejournal.com, or send him your Bronx cheers directly to [email protected].
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SUPERNATURAL™: NEVERMORE. Copyright © 2007 by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. SUPERNATURAL™ & © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JULY 2008 ISBN: 9780061875809
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