Nevermore (29 page)

On the other side of the river was New Jersey, including the lengthy strip along the river that, according to what he’d read on the web, had been built up over the last ten years or so as a major shopping area.

McBain was leaning against her Saturn and holding a folder, which she handed to Dean.

“What’s this?” he asked as he took it.

“I ain’t the first NYPD cop to walk the spook beat. Guy before me was a cranky old bastard named Landesberg. He used to keep an eye on the crazy-ass stuff back in the seventies. He left me a box full of folders, and I dig through it every once in a while. Found this, and figured you guys might be able to do something about it.” Dean stared at the contents of the folder, then closed it and handed it to Sam.

Sam saw several yellowing newspaper clippings from a Cedar Wells, Arizona, newspaper in 1966, with notes made in simply awful handwriting, as well as several 8½- by-11-inch sheets of paper.

“It’s down near the Grand Canyon,” McBain said. “There were a series of unexplained killings in early December 1926 and then again at the same time in 1966.”

“Every forty years,” Sam said, looking at the Nevermore

305

pages, which turned out to be photocopies of clippings from 1926.

“Yeah, and we’re comin’ up on the anniversary.” She indicated the Impala with her head. “I fi gure that tank oughtta get you cross-country in time.”

“Definitely,” Dean said with pride. Sam tried not to roll his eyes.

“It’s worth checking out, certainly,” Sam said.

“Can we keep this?”

McBain snorted. “It’s way outta my jurisdiction, so sure. Just try to keep people alive, okay?”

“That’s what we do,” Dean said. “And if we can’t, we make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“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 homi cides, 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 guess-ing 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.

306 SUPERNATURAL

“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 fi -

Nevermore

307

nally 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 308 SUPERNATURAL

to deal with right now. I can go see if these Winchester guys are in the fi les, 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 offi cial confi -

dential 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 tele

vision. 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.

Nevermore

309

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 inspec-tor, 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
?” 310 SUPERNATURAL

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 fi bbies.” Nevermore

311

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 satisfi ed.

She loved watching the cops come and take that bastard Eddie away. She wished she had it on cam-era 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 along. He wasn’t that bad. She had thought after rehab that someone like Aldo would be better, but 312 SUPERNATURAL

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” 314 Author’s

Note

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 Butterfl y:
“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”

Author’s

N

315

ote

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”

Traffi c:
“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”

Ac know ledg ments

There are a
lot
of people who have to be thanked for this, the fi rst 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.