Within seconds it was gone.
Dean dropped down into the snow, panting heavily. Sam rested, hunched forward, hands on his knees for support.
"You okay?" Dean asked between breaths.
"Y-Yeah," Sam said. "Thanks."
"No... no problem."
"Anyway," Sam said, "what the hell?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought the spirits were supposed to be easy to kill with rock salt loads. Not this one."
"Not so much," Dean agreed. A sentence as long as Sam's still seemed beyond his capabilities. He blew out a couple more big breaths, sucked in great lungfuls of air. "Maybe..." he said. One more breath. "Maybe because we're close."
"Close how?"
"Close to where the witch cast her spell. Maybe there's a distance factor involved. The farther from the ranch, or from her cabin, the weaker the spirits get. Closer in, they're more powerful because her magic is stronger here." He allowed himself a quick grin for having gotten all the way through that without fainting. Emboldened, he tried standing again. His knees felt a bit wobbly but he kept his feet under him.
"That could be," Sam agreed. "Makes as much sense as anything else."
"Your definition of 'sense' appears a mite questionable," Baird said from the schoolhouse door, "if you think any of this makes sense. I don't doubt what my own senses tell me, but I've long stopped thinkin' it's sensible."
Dean shrugged, noting that Baird had not participated in the battle against the big beast. "I guess we stopped worrying about that distinction a long time ago," he said. "Anyway, we've got to get to Dad's journal, in the car, and see if there's a way we can undo her spell."
"We'd better do it fast," Sam said. "The mall's opening in less than an hour."
"Fast as we can," Dean agreed. "I'm sure my legs'll work again sometime today."
He just hoped he wasn't being overly optimistic.
THIRTY-ONE
"Elizabeth Claire Marbrough. That was the witch's name, right?" Dean asked.
"That's what the schoolteacher's notebooks said,"
Sam replied. He remembered the precise, elaborate way Stein had formed his capital letters. "Why?"
Dean smacked the pages of Dad's journal. "Dad's heard of her."
"He has? Would have saved us a lot of trouble if we'd known that."
"It wouldn't have done any good," Dean said. "There's an entry about her in here, but it's about when she was back in Darien Center, New York. Before her son brought her out here."
"What's it say?"
Dean read further in the journal.
"I guess this is what got her shipped out to Arizona," he said after a while. "A series of girls went missing around Darien Center. One of them turned up in the nearby forest and said she had escaped from good old Elizabeth. But while a captive of the evil witch, she had seen other girls in various stages of dismemberment."
"A one-woman Chainsaw Massacre?"
"Only without the power tools," Dean said.
"Townspeople went to her house to investigate. Only two of them made it back to town alive, and one of the two had turned into a gibbering idiot. When they went back, it was in force. But apparently she clued in and booked before they got there."
Sam took this all in. "Easy to see why Jens wasn't so thrilled to see Momma come to town."
"No kidding. Dad wrote that she was eventually suspected of more than seventy disappearances, of people ranging in age from three to eighty. After she was gone, the disappearances stopped."
"Maybe she really did try to reform when she got out here," Sam speculated. "If there weren't any reports of the same kind of thing happening. I mean, sure, she was a pain, she was rude and obnoxious, and maybe she even killed a handful of people, but we haven't heard about anything like that."
"And maybe there just weren't that many people around for her to pick on," Dean said. "Or maybe because they were more spread out, the disappearances weren't reported."
"Either way, when she went bad again, it was in a big way."
"Got that right, Sammy. A real big way. One we have to put an end to."
"Does Dad have any suggestions on that?"
"There's a counterspell in here that might work," Dean said. "But it sounds like it'd be most efficient combined with the good old burning and salting of her bones."
"Always a classic. Do we have any idea where she's buried?"
Harmon Baird had been standing by the road, swaying a little as if in a stiff wind. "Maybe Elmer Fudd knows," Dean said.
"Mr. Baird," Sam said. "Do you know where Elizabeth Marbrough's house would have been? Or is there anyplace else she'd have been buried?"
"Her house?" he said, sounding startled, like Sam had just woken him up. "It's farther back in Witch's Canyon. Almost to the Grand. I think the old man wanted her as far away as he could get her without dropping her into the river."
Dean grabbed a duffel bag of weapons and tools from the Impala's trunk, unzipped it, and added a folding shovel. "Let's go."
"You should go," Sam said. He'd been thinking a lot on the walk back from the schoolhouse, and although he knew this moment would come, he'd delayed it as long as he could. "I want to go to the mall. You may not get to her in time. Or even if you do, the counterspell might not work. I want to be there to help, just in case."
"Your call," Dean said. The change in his tone was subtle, not something just anyone would catch. Sam wasn't just anyone, though. He was the only person, besides Dad, who had ever been truly close to Dean. They had spent so much time together in the last year that, to Dean, it was probably almost like having a real social life. But he wasn't used to being honest with people, and he wasn't used to being read by anybody.
Sam could read him, and he knew that while his brother pretended to be aloof, Dean was, in fact, disappointed.
"Me, I want to be where the real action is," Dean continued. "I want to nail that witch once and for all."
So did Sam. But he wasn't in the hunting business for the nailing, although that was a fine perk. He was in it to protect people, to save lives. "I guess I'll have to miss out on the fun," he said. "I think there's going to be real trouble, maybe panic, when everything starts to go down, and the people there won't know how to deal with it."
Dean gave a little shrug, still without meeting Sam's gaze. "You're probably right."
Sam knew he was. He also believed that the idea never would have occurred to Dean. His brother was a hunter through and through. Nothing wrong with that—the world needed hunters. But he knew that would never be him. He'd been headed down that road, but got lucky, tasted real life—the lives most people led—and couldn't leave that behind. Not entirely. Not like Dad had. Dean had been a kid, hadn't ever had a chance to become anything other than what Dad had made of him.
That, finally, was the gulf between them—the canyon that could never be bridged. Dean knew only one way of life, and it kept him separated from the world that he fought to protect. Sam, through his years at Stanford and the love of Jessica, had been brought into that world for a time, and the part of his soul that it claimed would always be with him.
Without saying more, he loaded up his pockets with rock salt shells and conventional ammo for the .45 he carried.
"I'll go with you, Dean," Baird said. "I'd like to see an end put to this, once and for all."
"Cool," Dean said. He also restocked his ammunition, and the Winchester brothers' shoulders brushed as they both reached into the Impala's deep trunk. "You be careful with my car," he said. "And pick us up when you're done. I don't want to have to walk back to town after this."
"Don't worry. I won't leave you stranded."
Without more conversation, Dean finished reloading and started back toward where they'd come from, toward Witch's Canyon. Baird looked at Sam a couple of times, as if for some sort of validation, then followed Dean.
Sam knew full well that any time he and Dean separated might be the last time. When they were together, they had
each other's backs. Apart, any battle might be their last.
He watched until Dean and Baird were out of sight, then started the Impala and headed for the mall.
* * *
Juliet's attention kept being pulled back to the window. Howard Patrick's Jeep sat out there in the drive, the door open. The keys—unless that damn overgrown hound has eaten them or something—were probably still on the ground next to it, or else clutched in Howard's fist.
The wolf might have disabled the vehicle, as it had the others, but Juliet couldn't see any signs of tampering, no parts littering the ground beneath the engine compartment, no pools of gasoline or other liquids in the snow.
Which meant, less than fifty yards away, was an escape vehicle. More like thirty, she thought. Twenty- five. She had tried to warn him away, but he just kept coming closer.
She regretted that she hadn't been able to communicate more clearly. But how? If she had written a sign on a piece of paper and held it up to the window glass, he wouldn't have been able to read it at that distance. She couldn't call him on his mobile phone. She'd hoped that someone would drive up, but now she prayed they didn't. She didn't want anyone else to die because of that damn wolf. Present company definitely included.
She scanned the property for as far as she could see, hoping for a glimpse of the beast. If she saw it and it was far enough away, stalking a cow or a bird or something, maybe then she could run for the Jeep.
How far was far enough? That was the tricky part. The wolf could cover ground much faster than she could. But could it cover, say, a hundred yards in the time it took her to go twenty-five? Could it do two hundred? She had to acknowledge the fact that she didn't know where the key was. If it had fallen under the vehicle, finding it and retrieving it would take extra time. She shuddered, visualizing herself on her knees, pawing under the Jeep, and the beast coming down on her back...
She shook the image away. Worrying about that wouldn't do any good. If she could see the animal and it was at a good distance, she would try it. But a very good distance—if the key was gone, she needed enough time to get back into the house. Locking herself in the Jeep wouldn't help—surely the wolf could break through the window glass in no time when it saw her inside. And getting Howard's mobile phone wouldn't help, either—his signal here would be no better than hers.
She didn't think he carried a gun in the Jeep. If he did, that would be the Jeep's main advantage, without keys. Its only advantage.
Otherwise, she was better off where she was.
She climbed the stairs again and made the circuit, window to window, looking for the canine. No sign of it to the west. None to the south. To the east, she thought for a second that she saw it in the snow, then realized it was just a beavertail cactus poking up through the snow and stirred by a sudden breeze. Back to the room from which she had watched Howard's death. She looked out past the red Jeep, combing the distance, then focusing lower, covering the ground. Nothing.
At last her gaze crossed over the Jeep.
Howard stood in front of it, looking at the house.
He was alive! She started to throw open the window, to call to him.
Caution stayed her hand. She couldn't see the wolf, so it might be on the roof, just waiting for her to open a window or stick her head out.
And as she watched Howard, she realized something else. His chest had been torn open, his viscera tugged out. Bits of intestine dangled like rope from above his belt. Could he possibly be alive, in that condition?
Besides, she could still see his corpse, on the ground beside the Jeep. Behind where the other one stood.
There couldn't be two Howards. Two dead Howards.
She thought she would begin to weep again, expected to feel tears filling her eyes.
They didn't come.
She was beyond crying, she guessed. Beyond even more than mild shock at seeing Howard upright and lying down dead at the same time. Numb.
The idea crossed her mind that she ought to just open the window and climb out. If the wolf got her, fine. If it didn't, she could make a beautiful swan dive—she had loved high board diving, ever since high school—off the roof. That might not kill her, but it would incapacitate her long enough to let the wolf finish the job.
What was the point of going on without emotional response to the world outside? Wasn't she already dead? Dead where it counted?
Her hand was actually on the window, ready to push it up, when she saw Stu, also on his feet, his own wounds red and gaping. And Stu behind him, a mess in the melted snow.
Howard was closer now, trudging toward the house with apparent purpose. His head leaned toward his right shoulder, his mouth hung open, and his steps were unsteady, faltering.
But he came.
Stu came, too.
The wolf, it seemed, had reinforcements.
THIRTY-TWO
Covering the short distance to the mall, Sam saw evidence of carnage on a scale he wouldn't have imagined even a day ago. He passed a minivan that had gone off the road, fresh black tire marks giving evidence of sudden braking, with corpses strewn around it like beer cans after a beach party. Another quarter mile up the road he spotted what looked like a backpacker, or a backpacker's clothing and gear, although the person inside them appeared to have been beaten badly enough to break every bone in his body, so that the clothes might have contained a bag of water rather than an actual person. A cabin a hundred feet from the highway was on fire, but nobody moved to do anything about it.
Apparently, the sheriff's officers weren't even bothering to respond to murder reports anymore. Or else there were so many, they couldn't get to all of them. He didn't like either option.
That's why they were here, though. Why he and Dean traveled the country, investigating the bad stuff and defeating it where they could. So far they hadn't managed to save many lives in Cedar Wells.
Maybe they still could. There was no telling when the murders would end. But if Dean and Harmon Baird could destroy the witch's bones and break the spell, and he could prevent mass slaughter at the mall, then the trip here would have been worthwhile.
If they couldn't do those things, it would be a spectacular failure. One he didn't think he could get over. He wasn't sure Dean could even survive it.
He pressed down harder on the gas, and Dean's car responded immediately. The trees blurred together and then the mall loomed ahead, its vast parking lots already filling up.
Sam pulled into a slot, grabbed a zippered duffel bag containing his weapons and spare ammo, and ran for the structure.
Even though it was not quite noon, the crowd had already been let inside. A few stragglers wandered through the parking lot, but he had expected to see hundreds milling around outside, given all the vehicles parked there. He didn't think they would have moved up the opening ceremonies, so maybe they were being held inside because of the threatening skies.
As soon as he pushed through the heavy glass doors, he discovered where they were. The center court was thronged with people. Others windowshopped, since the stores weren't open yet but every display window was decorated with merchandise. Holiday decorations seemed to cover almost every visible surface—huge ribbons and bows, snowmen and candy canes, Santas and menorahs. Live Christmas trees stood everywhere, in planters and along walkways, as if the decorators had just gone outside and moved the forest in.
The crowd's mood seemed cheerful. Clearly, no general announcement had been made that they were all in grave danger. Sam tucked the zippered bag under his arm, hoping he didn't look too much like one of those disaffected youths who occasionally opened fire in shopping centers or schools. He saw some of Sheriff Beckett's deputies mixing with the crowd. As he pushed his way into the center court, he saw Beckett himself, standing near an empty dais, locked in conversation with the mayor; Carla Krug, the shopping center manager; and Lynnette from Security. Lynnette wore a holstered gun on her hip. He noticed other mall security guards who were also armed.
He worked his
way forward until he caught Beckett's eye. The sheriff gave him a barely perceptible nod and a glance that could only mean Wait there. Sam waited.
A couple of minutes later, Beckett stepped away from the others and walked toward him. Mayor Milner spotted him, too, and his face blanched. Sam wasn't a good enough lip reader to see what the man said about him to Carla and Lynnette, but it didn't look like a compliment.
"You hold up your end?" Beckett asked as he approached.
"Trying," Sam said. With everything else that had happened, he'd nearly forgotten the bargain they cut with the sheriff. "Dean is on his way to end this thing, but something like that is always trickier than you hope. In the meantime, I thought I might be needed here."
"We have things under control, I think."
Sam kept his voice low, not wanting to stir up panic if anyone overheard. There were at least thirty people in close range, and several hundred in the court. "How much control will you have if things go bad?"
Beckett scanned the crowd. "It could get ugly," he admitted.
"There's no guarantee that Dean will succeed before we get some... unexpected shoppers," Sam said. He was pretty sure the sheriff would catch his drift. "If that happens..."
"My people are loaded up with rock salt," Beckett said. "And I've got more posted in the woods on the edge of the parking lot. Hopefully they'll be able to intercept before any of 'em make it here. You're right, random gunfire could shake this crowd up, and I'd hate to see a panicked mob on the mall's opening day."
"You might have been better off keeping them outside."
"Ms. Krug wanted them to be able to look at the store windows until the opening ceremonies. Then they'll be able to get right to spending. I went along with it, because I figured in a pinch we could lock the doors."
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