by Tim Waggoner
Sheriff Alan Crowder was a fit-looking man in his early fifties, clean-shaven, his silver hair cut in a military style. He didn’t rise from his desk to greet them as they entered, and he regarded them with a cold, level gaze that told Dean they weren’t welcome here.
Crowder’s office was professional and impersonal: a desk with a computer and office phone, chairs, an American flag on a stand in one corner, and framed certificates detailing the man’s accomplishments on the walls. The one personal touch was a large photograph hanging on the wall of the sheriff and his family—wife, sons, daughter. They were all smiling, showing perfect white teeth. Crowder’s smile looked as if it didn’t come naturally to him.
There were two chairs in front of the sheriff’s desk, but he didn’t invite them to sit. Dean figured the man was doing this on purpose to let them know this was his territory. He didn’t take it personally. They had run into more than their fair share of local cops who wanted to play Mine’s Bigger Than Yours. Let the big bad sheriff play his power games. All the Winchester brothers cared about was getting the information they needed to work their case.
“Sheriff Crowder,” Sam said. “I’m Agent Curtis, and this is Agent Olson.”
Dean kept his expression neutral as Sam introduced them, but inside he was irritated. Sam thought he had been getting too reckless with their fake names. They’d been on a case not long ago, and one of the officers they’d worked with believed Dean was related to the famous singer whose last name he’d “borrowed” and kept asking Dean if he could get an autograph from his “cousin.” “Not for me,” the cop had said, embarrassed. “For my kid.” So Sam had taken to jumping in and introducing them before Dean could speak, using generic cover names. He figured Sam was probably right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“What can I do for you?” Crowder asked, an edge in his voice that told Dean the man was more than a little irked by their presence.
“We’d like to talk to you about Clay Fuller,” Sam said.
Crowder’s eyes narrowed. “Now why would a couple of federal agents be interested in a small-time drug dealer like him?”
“We aren’t at liberty to discuss the details,” Sam said, “but the murder shares some… similarities with other cases we’ve worked on in the past.”
Cases featuring some very toothy, very hungry wolf-people, Dean thought.
“I don’t see what’s so special about a drug pusher getting killed,” Crowder said. “Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, if you ask me.”
“The reports we’ve seen said Mr. Fuller was mutilated,” Sam said, “and his heart was removed. Not exactly ‘run-of-the-mill.’”
“And the killers were described as animal-like,” Dean added.
Crowder let out a snort of a laugh. “You boys getting your news from the tabloids? I know that’s what Amos Boyd said. He’s a nice guy and all, but he’s starting to get up there, plus he’s been known to take a drink now and again, if you know what I mean. But putting all that aside, you know eyewitness testimony is unreliable. When people find themselves in stressful, traumatic situations, their perceptions go all to hell. I have no doubt Amos witnessed Fuller’s murder—the end of it, at least. Hell, he was the one who called it in, and he was on the scene when one of my deputies got there. But I think when he saw the savagery with which Fuller was attacked, and when he saw the blood… Fear and imagination did the rest. I think Fuller’s murder was ordered by a rival drug pusher or maybe someone he owed money to. But he sure as hell wasn’t killed by animal-people.”
These were all reasonable things to say, and yet Dean’s bullcrap detector was going off like crazy.
“What about removing the heart?” Dean asked.
Crowder shrugged. “Maybe it was some kind of cult thing.”
“Not to dispute your account,” Sam said, “but if my partner and I are going to do our due diligence on this case, we’ll need to take a look at the body.”
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” Crowder said, not quite smiling. “Fuller didn’t have any relatives, so once the coroner released the body, it was cremated.”
Sam asked Crowder if there had been similar attacks in the area, and the sheriff said, “You mean druggies killing each other, or are you asking about attacks of the heart-stealing variety? Either way, it’s a yes on one and a no on the other.”
They asked a few more questions after that, but Crowder’s answers were no more helpful. Afterward, the sheriff stood for the first time since they entered and leaned forward, hands palm-down on his desk. He drew his lips back from his teeth in what Dean supposed was meant to be a smile, but which had all the warmth of winter in Antarctica.
“If there’s nothing else I can do for you boys, I really should get back to work. Bridge Valley may be a small town, but there’s still plenty to do around here.”
“I guess so,” Dean said, “what with citizens getting killed on the side of your roads and all.”
Crowder’s smile, such as it was, didn’t falter. But his eyes— which were a deep forest green—flashed with momentary anger. But then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.
“One of my deputies will show you out,” the sheriff said. “You boys have a nice day.”
* * *
“That guy’s a mega-douche,” Dean said.
The brothers stood in the city building’s parking lot next to the Impala as they talked.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Awfully convenient that Clay Fuller’s body was cremated.”
“I thought the same thing. How much you want to bet that if we spoke to the coroner, we’d hear the same story that Crowder gave us? That Fuller was killed by regular humans?”
“No bet,” Sam said. He and Dean would check with the coroner just to cover their bases, though.
“You think Crowder’s got something to do with Fuller’s death?” Dean asked.
“I suppose it’s possible, but we’ve encountered local law enforcement that were reluctant to cooperate with the FBI before. And we’ve run into authorities who can’t admit that something really weird is going on in their town and conceal the truth while they try to figure out what the hell to do. Crowder could fit into both of those categories.”
Once in a while it was more effective to come right out and tell people that their real job was to protect them from supernatural threats. Sam doubted this approach would work in this case, though. Crowder didn’t strike him as the most open-minded person.
“Okay,” Dean said. “Crowder’s a jerk, but that might be as far as it goes. We should talk to the guy driving the pickup—”
“Amos Boyd,” Sam put in.
“Yeah, him. It’ll be interesting to see if he sticks to the story he told reporters or if the sheriff’s gotten him to change his tune.”
“Speaking of reporters,” Sam said, “I think we should stop by the local newspaper office. Maybe somebody there can tell us more about Amos—if he’s a credible witness, where he lives…”
“Good idea. And hopefully they can tell us if there have been other strange deaths or disappearances in the area. Let’s just hope the sheriff hasn’t told them not to talk to out-of-towners.”
Sam supposed that was a possibility, but in his experience, reporters—even small-town ones—were dedicated to informing their readers about any potential danger they might face. And reporters did not respond well to being told what news they could and couldn’t report. The trick with reporters was getting them to talk without answering whatever questions they might ask in return. And they always asked questions.
“Look on the bright side,” Sam said. “There’s a bar next door to the paper, right? If we don’t learn anything useful, we can stop in there, ask a few questions, maybe get an early dinner. I’m sure they serve something deep-fried, greasy, and thoroughly unhealthy.”
“You had me at deep-fried,” Dean said.
* * *
After the two agents departed, Crowder sat down at his desk once more, leaned back in his chair
, and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t believe the agents had told him the truth—at least not all of it—about why they’d come to Bridge Valley. He supposed it was possible the FBI was investigating mutilation murders where the victim’s heart had been torn out. Murders other than Clay Fuller’s, that is, but he hadn’t gotten wind of any outside Bridge Valley. There was something about the agents’ interest in Fuller that rubbed Crowder the wrong way. They had seemed professional enough, at least in terms of their attitude. Their suits could’ve used a good pressing, and he doubted their haircuts were regulation. But they’d projected alert, calm confidence, which said they weren’t easily intimidated. They’d resisted his attempts to stir them up. Although he had started to irritate the square-jawed one toward the end. The questions they’d asked had been normal enough, but there’d been something about the way they’d asked them that bothered him. An intensity, as if his answers mattered to them. Mattered a lot.
His instincts told him he’d have to keep close watch on them while they were in his town—and his instincts were always right. Whatever their agenda was, the last thing he needed was for a couple of feds to start causing trouble in Bridge Valley. He lowered his gaze to the family photograph hanging on the wall. This town was more than just the place where he lived—it was his territory, and he intended to defend it, no matter what.
FOUR
Nathan—nursing a lingering headache from being possessed by Anubis—sat in a black vinyl chair and sipped a cup of coffee, also black. Like most of their belongings, the chair had been reclaimed, which in this case meant it had been found on the side of the road, waiting for garbage collectors to pick it up. It held a faint odor of mildew. He found it rather pleasant. Jakkals liked things that were well-seasoned, to put it politely. He didn’t like the way the chair leaned to the right, however. Seasoned was one thing. On the verge of falling to pieces was another. At his age, he preferred comfort over thriftiness, but he would never confess this to anyone in the family, even his beloved Muriel. As an Elder, it was his duty to uphold their traditions, and scavenging was one of their oldest practices. But he could at least admit to himself, if only privately, that tradition could sometimes be a pain in the ass. He shifted his weight on the lopsided seat in a futile attempt to get more comfortable.
Sometimes literally, he thought.
Aside from the vinyl chair, there was an orange couch, several plastic milk crates that served as end tables, and a soiled throw rug that might once have been white but which now was a mottled gray. There was no television in the room, for the building had no cable or satellite connection. Their people lived off the grid as much as possible, and when they wanted to watch movies or listen to music, they had DVDs and CDs to play on the communal laptop they shared.
Muriel entered the room from their small kitchen. Their current quarters were somewhat cramped—a handful of rooms that had once served as office space—but Nathan was used to living in close quarters. When you moved around as much as their family did, you made do with whatever living spaces you could scrounge up.
Muriel carried in hot tea in a chipped mug, and she took a seat opposite him on the couch, which had been repaired in numerous places with duct tape. It might have been functional, but it was one of the ugliest pieces of furniture Nathan had ever seen.
“How’s Greg doing?” he asked.
“How’s your head doing?” Muriel countered.
He could hear the worry in her voice. While they’d done their best to reassure Greg that what had happened with Anubis wasn’t anything to be concerned about, Nathan had never experienced anything like it. Nathan had seen their god stir unexpectedly before, but he’d only witnessed a twitch of a hand, a turning of the head. Nothing compared to the god forcibly taking over Nathan’s body as if he had no more free will than a puppet. There had been almost no warning, only a sudden tingling sensation on the back of his skull, and then his very self had been shoved roughly aside. Anubis’s mind—or at least a portion of it—had taken over, forcing his body to change before attacking his grandson. If Muriel hadn’t managed to convince the god that he was safe, Nathan didn’t know what might’ve happened. Would Anubis have used his claws and his teeth to kill Greg? If one jakkal wounded another badly enough, they could die. The thought sickened Nathan. He’d been aware the entire time Anubis had possessed him, unable to do anything but watch as the god went after Greg. If Greg had died, Anubis would’ve been the one who’d done the killing, but Nathan would’ve been there every second, helpless. He took a sip of coffee, hoping it would settle his stomach, but it stung his throat and hit his gut like caffeine-infused lava. His head throbbed harder, and he winced.
“Don’t worry. My head’s still attached.” He tried smiling, but it came out as a grimace. “Greg?” he prompted.
Muriel sipped her drink, which smelled of pungent spices. The tea’s recipe had been passed down through the millennia, and its scent was as familiar to Nathan as his own. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Muriel had brewed it for that very reason.
“His wrist is starting to heal, but the process is far slower than it should be. I believe he will make a full recovery, but it will take some time.”
Muriel didn’t sound as sure of herself as Nathan would’ve liked, but then how could she be? As far as he knew, nothing like this had ever happened before.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s having his lessons with Marta,” Muriel said.
Given how often the Monsours moved, and more importantly, to protect their family’s secret, the children were homeschooled. Greg would be in one of the bedrooms with his mother, going over educational material on the laptop, although for their kind, the word bedroom meant the place where they laid out their sleeping bags. He was glad Marta was keeping the boy busy. Hopefully, it would prevent him from dwelling on what had happened during the Rite of Renewal. And just as importantly, while Greg was occupied, Nathan and Muriel could speak plainly without hurting their grandson’s feelings. They didn’t have to worry about anyone else in the family overhearing. Greg’s father and older sisters were out on a scavenging run and wouldn’t be back until later.
“Do you have any idea what went wrong?” Muriel asked.
Nathan started to shake his head. The motion set off a fresh wave of pain and he instantly regretted it. “None whatsoever. You?”
“No. I paid close attention to Greg’s every word and action—as I know you did, my love—and as near as I could tell, he performed the rite perfectly.”
“That was my assessment as well.”
He took another sip of coffee, Muriel drank more tea, and the two of them sat in silence for a time as they thought.
“Perhaps the ingredients for the amaranthine—” Muriel began.
“They were fine,” Nathan said. “We both inspected them beforehand. Their scent and texture were in acceptable condition.”
“Then perhaps there is something wrong with this place,” she ventured. “This was the first time we attempted the rite since moving here.”
Attempted being the operative word. Greg had completed all the steps of the rite before Anubis had stirred, but Nathan didn’t know if the rite had worked. If it had, Anubis’s sleep should’ve remained undisturbed. But it hadn’t. Did that mean the rite needed to be conducted again? If so, they couldn’t afford to wait. The cycle of the full moon lasted three days. The day of the full moon itself, and the days before and after. The rite worked at any time during the cycle, regardless of whether the sun was high above or if it was the dead of night. Tonight was the actual full moon. They still had some time left, but not much.
As far as Nathan knew, the rite had never been conducted twice during a single cycle. He didn’t know what effect it might have on their god. It could ensure his slumber or it could wake him, and Nathan didn’t want to chance that.
“A thought occurs to me,” Muriel began. “One so terrible that I don’t wish to speak it.”
Muriel was not prone to ex
aggeration, and if she spoke these words, she meant them.
“Go on,” he said, unsure if he wanted to hear what she had to say but knowing he must listen. It was his duty.
“How old do you think Anubis is?” she asked.
The question took him by surprise.
“I…” He trailed off and thought for a moment. “Our family history goes back almost four thousand years, and our people were guarding our sleeping god even then. There is no way to know how long we have been his keepers as well as his worshippers.”
“All we know is he is old. Immeasurably so.”
“Yes.”
“He is a god, and time does not affect him the same way it does us. But it does affect him. We must change his cerements from time to time, and even the need for the Rite of Renewal proves that time passes for him. If it did not, there would be no need to help him sleep.”
Nathan didn’t know where Muriel was going with this line of reasoning, but it did not seem productive to him. Still, he continued listening.
“So what does old mean for a being such as him? Is he so old that his power is not what it once was? Is he so old that his body—perhaps even his mind—has aged to the point where the Rite of Renewal is losing its effectiveness?”
He understood what she was driving at then, and the knowledge caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise in alarm, and his teeth and fingernails to grow sharper, as if he suddenly found himself in danger.
If what Muriel was suggesting was true—if after all these long millennia Anubis was finally growing old—they might not be able to keep him sleeping much longer. And if he woke and refused to listen to the family’s guidance, it was impossible to say how much damage he might do. Nathan thought of Anubis as a powerful protector of the jakkals on those rare occasions when his great strength was needed and they were forced to wake him. But if Muriel’s theory turned out to be correct, their god had become a ticking time bomb that could go off any moment, threatening the family’s survival.
