“Call me Norrie.” Oiler leaned his musket against one of the big stones that formed the fire-pit and brought out his bayonet, wiping it with a chamois. “That was my guy’s nickname.”
“Cool.” Johnson started to put the banjo aside, and Oiler stopped him.
“No, man, keep playing. In the camps that was what kept the men’s spirits up.” Reaching into his jacket, he brought out a dented metal flask, removed the cap and held it out. “Whiskey?”
“Thanks.” Johnson tipped it back and took a sip, letting it burn. It was good, smooth stuff, probably not what the boys on the battlefield had sipped a hundred and fifty years earlier, but who knew? This was the South, after all. Maybe it was even better then.
“Much appreciated.”
“That’s an authentic Civil War flask, by the way,” Oiler said. “1860s.”
“Pretty cool.”
“Set me back a pretty penny, but it’s worth it.” He fell silent, regarding the flask in the firelight. “You know any more songs?”
“Just a handful, really. ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown,’ and the first part of ‘The Rainbow Connection,’ that’s about it.”
Oiler sighed and placing the bayonet on a piece of cloth sat back in the flickering firelight.
After a moment of silence, Johnson picked listlessly at the banjo while casting about for something to say. He was relatively new to the 32nd, having only joined up a few months earlier, after his wife left him for some orthodontist that she’d met online. The loneliness had driven him to seek out men with similar interests. He didn’t know Oiler very well, except that the man sold insurance and had a family somewhere in Atlanta.
Oiler, for his part, didn’t seem to mind the silence. He passed the flask back again, nodding his encouragement, and Johnson took another pull of whiskey. All around them the night intensified, gaining bulk and breadth until the hillside and trees and everything outside the campfire’s immediate glow was rendered in varying shades of blackness.
“Almost feels like 1863,” Oiler said, “doesn’t it? So still...”
“Yeah.”
“Here, let me show you something,” Oiler said. He sounded different now, his voice soft and strange. The fire crackled and popped hypnotically in front of them.
“What is it?” Johnson asked.
Oiler didn’t answer right away. For a moment the flames guttered low, dropping them into near-total darkness.
When the fire brightened again, Johnson thought he saw something around the other man’s neck, just for an instant. Then it was gone, a trick of the shadows. He rubbed his eyes.
It has to be the whiskey, he thought. I’m seeing things.
“Phil...”
“Call me Norrie.” Oiler was smiling now. “Did you see it?”
“Did I see... what?”
“I know more about Jubal Beauchamp than what I let on,” Oiler said. “A lot more.”
“You mean Dave?”
Oiler shook his head and smiled.
“He let me try it on for myself, you know—around my own neck. And it felt good.”
Johnson stood up a little unsteadily. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.
It was time for bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Oiler’s voice asked gently.
“I—I’m just—”
Sudden, shocking pain exploded through his foot, erupting up his leg. Looking down, he saw that Oiler had jammed his bayonet down through his boot, impaling his foot directly into the ground.
Before Johnson could even scream or get loose, Oiler yanked the blade free and landed on top of him, clapping a hand over his mouth and pinning him to the ground, holding him in the dirt with the full weight of his body.
Johnson fought to get free, but Oiler was too strong. One of them kicked over the banjo in the struggle, knocking it into the fire where it emitted sour little blunks and twangs. Then Oiler’s face was right next to his, close enough that he could feel the other man’s chin-stubble scrape against his cheek and smell the whiskey on his breath.
There’s no noose around his neck, Johnson thought dizzily. There’s nothing there at all.
“War is hell,” Oiler whispered in his ear.
He seemed impossibly strong, an instrument of coiled muscle. Vaguely, through his agony, Johnson realized that smells were pouring off the other man’s skin in waves: alcohol, tobacco, and something else, the stink of a moldy old cellar. “Welcome to it.”
“Please,” Johnson muttered into the other man’s palm.
“Put this in your mouth.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Johnson looked down and saw the bayonet poised just below his chin.
“Please. No.”
Oiler slammed the blade’s tip upward, cracking Johnson’s teeth. He gagged as the oily metal invaded his mouth, pain spiking deep as the sharpened edge sliced through his lips and tongue. His sinuses began to fill with salty warmth. All his life he’d wondered what went through men’s minds as they faced death. Now he understood.
His thoughts circled back to his parents and his estranged wife and his sister in New Jersey, and all the things he’d never done and would never get to do. He tried to talk but his lips couldn’t form the words beyond a few desperate whining sounds. Tears flooded his eyes, spilling down his cheeks.
Above him, the stars had lost their shape—they shivered and streamed like mad planets against the outer wall of a universe that no longer made any sense.
Still pinning him, Oiler whispered something, speaking words in some other language that Johnson couldn’t understand.
He felt the blade jerk forward.
And then nothing.
TWELVE
Sam and Dean awoke to the wail of police sirens coming from somewhere outside the motel room, howling down the pre-dawn streets of Mission’s Ridge. Dean climbed out of bed and drew back the heavy curtains to reveal daylight just starting to raise a bleary eyelid on the horizon.
“That’s never good,” he said, and he glanced at Sam. “This is supposed to be a quiet little burg.”
“Sounds like they’re heading west.”
Dean nodded.
“I’m thinking the battleground.” He nodded toward the bathroom. “You want the first shower?”
“Go ahead.”
Moving with practiced efficiency, they got dressed in their FBI suits and went out to the Impala. Pulling onto the road, they headed west, stopping at a convenience store for coffee on the way. Twenty minutes later they swung up into the parking lot outside the battlefield. The sky overhead was a bloody, cloud-streaked ruin with mile-long bars of darkness and bronze raked across it from horizon to horizon.
“We should’ve come out here last night,” Sam said.
Dean gulped a scalding mouthful of coffee.
“Would it have made a difference?”
They got out and started walking across the dew-damp grass. Through the early morning mist, Sam could already see the yellow tape flapping around the tents of the 32nd Georgia. Confederate and Union re-enactors milled outside the police barricades, trying to get a look at the crime scene.
Dean pulled one of the Confederate soldiers off to the side, away from the rest, while Sam tried to see what was happening beyond the crush of bystanders. Just as he was ready to give up, Dean stepped back over.
“One of the guys found ‘em out there when he got up to drain the snake,” he said. “That was about an hour ago. They’d been lying out there most of the night. Phil Oiler and friend.”
“Damn.”
Pushing through the crowd, they waved their badges at a cop who was about to protest, then made their way through the rows of blue-and-red flashing emergency vehicles lining the edge of the hillside. Approaching the tent, they stepped over the tape and walked toward the two long gray bags sitting on either side of the darkened fire-pit.
Sheriff Daniels was hunched over one of the body bags, zipping it up. The expression on her f
ace was one of stiff and implacable distaste.
“Sheriff?” Sam called out.
She didn’t bother looking up at them. State police and local emergency medical technicians were re-directing foot-traffic, ordering people back in the loud impersonal voices of those who did these things for a living. There was a sharp click from overhead, and a voice—heavy with Southern twang—came from the loudspeakers that were mounted along the perimeter.
“Attention. This is Sergeant Earl Ray Harris of the Georgia State Police. Due to the events of last night, the rest of the re-enactment has been canceled. Please gather your belongings in an orderly fashion and vacate the premises immediately.”
Why the hell would they do that? Sam wondered. This is still an active crime scene...
A communal groan came from the hundreds of men bivouacked out on the hillside, and the groups began to dissipate. Looking back at the crime scene, Sam saw Sheriff Daniels coming toward him carrying a canvas tote bag.
“Sheriff—”
“Not now.” She pushed past them without breaking stride, the bag swinging at her side. As it nudged her leg, Dean thought he heard something inside making a clinking sound.
“Come on,” Dean said, nodding at the bodies by the fire-pit. “Before they haul them off.”
He and Sam approached the EMTs just as they were placing the body bags on stretchers, and Dean badged them with a perfunctory flick of the wrist.
“Federal Agents Townes and Van Zandt. Mind if we take a quick look?” Without waiting for permission, he pulled the zipper down on the nearest bag, widening it until he could make out the face inside. It was a man in his early twenties, with dried blood splashed around his mouth and chin like some grotesque attempt at clown makeup, his blank eyes bugged open almost comically in butcher-shop burlesque.
“You recognize this guy?” he asked his brother.
“No,” Sam responded. “But I know this one.”
Dean glanced at the second body, and immediately identified the man as Oiler, the bull-shouldered re-enactor they’d interviewed the previous day.
“My guess,” one of the EMTs was saying, “is that Oiler stabbed Johnson, then cut his own throat. Must have kept it quiet, commando-style. Nobody in the tent heard any screams.”
“Got an extra set of gloves?” Sam asked, and the EMT tossed him a pair. Sam reached down and turned Oiler’s head sideways.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Check it out.”
Dean squatted down next to him, and they both looked at the red rope-burns around what was left of Oiler’s neck.
“Was there something around his neck when you found him?” Sam asked the technician. “A rope or something?”
“Not that we saw,” the EMT said. “But we just got here. The sheriff was on the scene for half an hour before we arrived. You might want to ask her.”
“That’s a heck of an idea,” Dean said, and stood up, looking at Sam. “You ready?”
Sam nodded. But he was gazing off into the middle distance, where a group of figures in Confederate uniforms were hitching a wheeled cannon to the back of a Ford Bronco. Glancing around, he prodded one of the re-enactors standing beside him.
“What are those guys hooking up to their truck?
The man squinted.
“Looks like a siege howitzer. It’s a rifled-cannon.”
“What’s it shoot?”
“The real thing? Whatever you put in it. Solid shot, grape, canister, shell, even chain shot—that’s two balls connected by a chain. Like getting slammed head-on with the devil’s own hairy beanbag.” The man sounded envious. “We’re talking badass.” He shook his head. “‘Course, that one up there wouldn’t fire a thing.”
“So it’s a replica?”
The re-enactor snorted.
“Let’s hope so. Otherwise they’d be driving off with an authentic wartime relic. That’s a Federal offense—but you know all about that, don’t’cha.” He gestured back at the crime scene, where the EMTs were picking up the stretchered bodies. “Can you believe this?”
“Guess I have to,” Sam said. “Are you leaving?”
“No way. None of us are. Not until we find out who did this.” The re-enactor met Sam’s gaze, and Sam saw deep determination there, as if the man and his fellow soldiers were genuinely at war. “Some of those guys were my friends.”
“Sam!” Dean shouted, already halfway to the parking lot. “You coming or what?”
Sam went after him. When he looked back at the battlefield, the men in gray were hooking a second howitzer up to the back of a pickup truck.
THIRTEEN
Reporters were already clustered in front of the sheriff’s office when Sam and Dean got back into town. The only available parking was two blocks away, between two TV news vans. Backing the Impala toward the curb, Dean checked the rearview mirror and saw Castiel sitting in the back seat, looking at him.
He jumped a little reflexively and slammed on the brakes.
“Damn it, Cass, how many times do I have to tell you, don’t do that.” Sam jerked round in his seat.
“You have to get out of here,” Castiel said.
“What? Why?”
“There’s some extremely heavy demonic activity gathering in the area. You both need to be as far away from it as possible.”
“Right,” Dean growled, “running from demons, ‘cuz that’s exactly how we roll.”
“You don’t understand.” Castiel sat forward, gripping the seatback with both hands until Dean could hear the springs in the upholstery creaking. He spoke with an intensity that made each word hiss like molten iron plunged in cold water. “I thought I could identify the source of the Moa’ah. But you’ve been drawn back here as a trap. The Witness is closer than ever.”
“Judas, right?” Sam asked. “That is who we’re talking about, isn’t it.”
“Yes,” Castiel admitted.
“Then why didn’t you say so before.”
The angel shook his head.
“At first it didn’t make sense, that so powerful a Witness would be involved in a simple local skirmish.”
“And now it does?”
“Judas is the custodian of the noose. He and his minions are compelled to be here in Mission’s Ridge because someone has reactivated the noose’s power. And they are not happy about it.”
“How do you know all this?” Sam asked.
“The knowledge was placed in my head.”
“By...?”
Castiel regarded him with absolute earnestness.
“By the only one capable of such things, I presume. God Himself.”
“You know, Cass, God’s told a lot of crazy people to do a lot of crazy things, and some of ‘em aren’t so nice.”
“There’s more.”
“Swell.”
“You’re not the one they want.” Castiel turned to focus on Sam. “Whoever’s behind this is forcing your hand, Sam. Using the Judas noose to speed up the Apocalypse clock. They’re trying to create a situation where you have no choice but to become Lucifer’s vessel.”
Before Sam could respond, Dean spoke up again.
“Of course, the Almighty didn’t bother telling you how this is gonna happen, did he?” he said.
“No.”
“Sounds more and more like Him all the time.” Dean glanced at his brother. “You ready?”
Sam nodded.
“Dean, wait,” the angel said, his voice almost pleading.
“Sorry, Cass. Never been good at that.”
He and Sam climbed out of the Impala and started walking up the sidewalk toward the crowded entrance of the sheriff’s office.
“You realize he’s probably right,” Sam said, without looking over at his brother.
“Uh-huh.”
“But we’re going in anyway.”
“You got an issue with that?”
Sam shook his head.
“If they want me bad enough, they’ll just come after me anyw
ay.”
“So we hit first,” Dean said, “and hit hard.”
They arrived at the entrance to the sheriff’s office and pushed through a throng of reporters and spectators gathered outside the entryway. The door itself was locked.
Dean took out his badge and rapped it sharply on the glass. From inside, the sheriff’s deputy—a paunchy man with a cartoonishly thick black moustache—looked up at them then down at their badges. He came over and unlocked the door.
“Sheriff here?” Dean asked, as they slipped inside.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to interrupt her right now.”
“It’s important,” Dean said. Across the office he could already see Daniels at her desk, phone clamped to one ear, almost yelling into the receiver.
“I don’t give a damn what they’re telling you,” she was saying, “I want them cleared off that battlefield now. Those men are contaminating my crime scene.”
“Your crime scene?” Dean strode up to the desk and stared at her until she was forced to look up and acknowledge him. Then she just turned away, trying to find somewhere else to fix her attention.
Dean moved with her, holding eye contact. She glared back at him, and finally ended the conversation, hanging up the phone.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Where’s the noose?”
“The what?”
“Phil Oiler was wearing a rope around his neck when he died last night, and now it’s gone. You were the only one around before the EMTs showed up. You’ve been withholding information this whole time. So where’s the noose?”
The sheriff’s face went very white, except for a red patch on either cheek. Her lips tightened, and Dean could see a small blood vessel throbbing high up on one side of her forehead.
“Get out of my office,” she gritted.
“Not yet.” Dean didn’t move.
The vein in her head pulsed harder.
“I’ve got two hundred Civil War re-enactors refusing to pack up and let me do my job out there. I don’t need you two clowns making things worse.”
“We’re not leaving until we get some answers,” Dean said.
“Oh, I’m getting answers. In fact...” Her lips turned slightly, forming into a thin and totally humorless smile, “I’ve got the Atlanta field office of the FBI calling me back right now. That is where you two said that you were from, isn’t it?”
Supernatural The Unholy Cause Page 8
