Supernatural: Night Terror (6 page)

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.”

“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.

“Gavin Shelburn?” Sam asked.

“Shelly’s fine,” the man said, making no effort to approach them. “You with the government?”

“FBI,” Dean said. “Okay if we ask you a few questions, Shelly?”

“I’m not crazy,” he said.

“Good to know.”

“It happened right here. Quinn’s boys think I’m nuts. But I ain’t nuts. Sure, I drink. Who doesn’t? But I see what I see... at least I...” He stuffed his hands in his overcoat pockets. “It was a Gila monster attacked me. But big. Size of two cars back to back! I know that ain’t right. But I can’t explain it.”

“Did you see where it came from?” Dean asked.

Shelburn shook his head. “I was walking back from Joe’s Pizza Shack and I heard it. Heard something. Turned around and there it was. Chased me. I ducked in here and, well, jumped in there. Guess you could say Dumpster diving saved my life.”

Sam pointed at the scratch marks. “Then it attacked the Dumpster?”

“Yep,” Shelburn said, finally coming a few steps closer. He walked along the brick wall and showed them scrape marks at Dumpster height. “Pushed it, slammed into it, then tried to climb inside after me. That’s when the wheel busted off, under its weight, I guess.”

“But it gave up and left?” Sam asked.

“That’s the weird thing. It never walked—crawled away. I would’ve heard that, with its claws scraping the ground and that tail thumping everything in sight. But nope. Nothing. One minute it was there, the next it was gone.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“Seemed mighty hungry.”

“Right,” Sam said with a slight smile. “Thanks for your help.”

“You know what caused it?”

“No,” Dean said. “We’re here to find out.”

“Bet it was radiation,” Shelburn said. “Or toxic chemicals. Illegal dumping. Or... some top-secret government experiment? Is that it?” He backed up a few steps. “That why they sent you FBI types to Clayton Falls? A cover-up? They send you to kill all the witnesses?”

“Whoa! Nothing like that,” Dean said.
Batting a thousand,
he thought.
First witness already panicking
. “The ‘I’ is for investigation.”

Shelburn nodded slowly, as if trying to convince himself, calm himself.

“Okay, all right. I’m not a conspiracy nut. Never was. But you see a giant Gila monster and you start to rethink everything, right? Down is up; up is down.”

“You might want to steer clear of this alley,” Sam suggested.

“You believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Shelburn said, suddenly smiling broadly. “I may be down on my luck, but I ain’t crazy.” He doffed his hat and extended it in his arm. “Wouldn’t mind a donation...”

Sam smiled.

Dean reached into a pocket, peeled off a twenty and dropped it in the hat.

“Mighty generous of you,” he said, tucking the bill into a pocket. “I’ll take your advice as well and clear out.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “You’re out most nights?”

“About every night. Why?”

“Wait here,” Sam said. He walked to the Impala and returned with a pair of two-way radios from the trunk, handing one to Shelly. “You know how to use these?” The man nodded. “Keep it on channel five. You spot anything weird, out of the usual, call me.”

“You deputizing me?”

“Think of it as neighborhood watch activity.”

They spent a moment checking the battery levels, sending and receiving messages. Shelly adjusted the volume on his unit and nodded, satisfied, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Anything weird or unusual. Got it.”

“Don’t put yourself at risk,” Sam said. “Just call it in.”

“No worries on that account.”

As Shelly sauntered off, Dean shook his head at Sam.

“What?”

“Dude, you realize that radio’s headed for the nearest pawn shop.”

“Not like I gave him the pair.”

Shelly paused at the entrance to the alley and looked back at them.

“Remembered one other thing,” he called. “White mist, clinging to the ground. Noticed it right before the beast attacked.”

Blake Dobkins, marketing manager at an organic food company located in an industrial park at the south end of Clayton Falls, met Dean in the lobby and led him to a conference room where they could speak in private.

“Not much to tell, Agent DeYoung,” Dobkins said. “My wife and I were out celebrating our fifth anniversary at this Italian place where we had our first date. Actually, we were leaving the restaurant to go home, when I saw the speeding car hit that young man in the middle of the street.”