Supernatural: Carved in Flesh (15 page)

“But my assessment of your skill level turned out to be premature,” Conrad said. “Have you seen today’s paper?”

Harrison could now guess where the conversation was heading, and he really didn’t like it. “I don’t follow local news. Nothing interesting ever happens in Brennan.”

“Then it’s most fortunate that I happened to stop at a convenience store on my way over and purchase a copy. I discovered an article I think you might find intriguing, and I clipped it out for you.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, removed a folded piece of newsprint, and held it out to Harrison.

Harrison didn’t take it right away. He kept the temperature cool in the embalming room—not out of any professional need, simply because he was more comfortable that way—but in the last few minutes the air had grown decidedly chilly. It could have been his imagination, but he didn’t think so. The drop in temperature felt like a sign of danger, the equivalent of an angry rattlesnake shaking its tail in warning. Because of this, Harrison stood frozen, unsure what to do—or not do—next. In the end he reached out and took the clipping from Conrad. He unfolded it, trying to convince himself that he only imagined the newsprint felt cold as ice, and read. It didn’t take long to get through the article, and when he was finished, he looked up and met Conrad’s gaze, although he really didn’t want to.

“I know you’re responsible for this monstrosity,” Conrad said, “so don’t insult my intelligence with a denial. You’re the only person in town, aside from myself and my current colleague, who could’ve hoped to even have a chance at restoring the dead to life, let alone...” His lips pursed in disgust. “...altering their physiognomy.”

Despite Conrad’s warning, Harrison nearly denied it anyway, but chose instead to remain silent.

“I had barely begun tutoring you in the alchemical arts, and the instruction I gave you was minimal at best,” Conrad continued. “You shouldn’t have been able to resurrect an insect, let alone a human.”

“He has two heads,” Harrison said. “Does that mean he counts as two people?”

“I understand why you did it.” Conrad glanced at the clown-faced corpse lying on the marble table. “Perhaps
understand
is too strong a word. I
recognize
that you have a proclivity for the outré in your work. What I don’t understand is
how
you accomplished it on your own. Pray, enlighten me.”

Harrison didn’t see how any good could come from his admitting the truth, but was so thrilled with what he’d done that he had to tell
someone
—even if that someone might kill him for it.

“I paid attention to you as you worked,” he said. “Much more attention that you realized. You carry an ancient leather-bound notebook with all sorts of alchemical formulae in it. You left it lying on the counter once, and I was able to flip through it while you were busy with other tasks. I may not have an eidetic memory, but my memory
is
excellent. Plus, I took pictures of the formulae with my phone for later reference. That information was all I needed to begin my search on the Internet. Then, after you moved on to a new assistant, I got to work. Most of the information I found was nonsense, but I knew what to look for, so I recognized it when I came across the real thing. Once I’d amassed enough knowledge about technique, all I needed was some NuFlesh. I paid a call on Dr. Martinez and told him that I was interested in trying out his wonderful new product as an alternative to mortician’s putty. He gladly sold me several boxes of the material. After that, it was mostly a process of trial and error. Getting hold of the proper chemicals, mixing them in the right proportions under the perfect conditions, performing the rites without a flaw...” He trailed off and gave Conrad an embarrassed smile. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?”

“You must have used fresh corpses. If any significant decay sets in—”

“The resurrected’s physical form won’t be stable, and will eventually rot away. I know. Despite the fact that I do have access to the bodies of the recently deceased, families would notice if any of their loved ones turned up missing. So I drove my hearse to Crichton—it’s fifty miles from here—found a pair of donors outside a bar late one night, and picked them up. It really wasn’t any trouble. Ether might be old-fashioned, but it’s a wonderfully effective hunting tool.”

“You assembled the creature here?” Conrad asked.

“Yes. I’ve taken to calling him Byron.” He paused, but Conrad gave no reaction. “By-ron? Bi? As in two? Two heads, get it?”

Conrad looked at him blankly.

Harrison sighed. It seemed neither the living nor the dead appreciated his sense of humor.

“And where is the
creature
now?”

“How should I know? He’s like a cat, comes and goes as he pleases. He sleeps in an old shed out back where I used to keep lawn equipment. Which works out well. I mean, I can hardly have a naked two-headed man running around inside when there’s a service going on, can I?”

He thought for a moment. “Do you think Byron will eventually become Brennan’s version of Bigfoot? I hope so. It would be good for the tourist—”

Before he could say the word “trade,” Conrad’s right hand shot out and grabbed hold of his throat, cutting off both his voice and his air. Conrad’s hand was so cold it burned Harrison’s flesh. He gripped Conrad’s arm with both of his hands and tried to break free, but even though the man didn’t look all that strong, his grip was like frost-covered iron, and Harrison couldn’t dislodge it.

“While I must admit to being impressed by your initiative, I can’t allow you to interfere with my plans. The last thing I need is any undue attention to be drawn—”

Conrad’s phone went off in his pocket. Harrison was surprised to hear it had a musical ring tone, and even more surprised that it was Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Maybe the grim and oh-so-proper Mr. Dippel had a sense of humor after all.

Conrad maintained his grip on Harrison’s throat as he dug his phone out of his pants pocket with his left hand and answered the call.

“Hello?” He spoke that one word and no more. He just listened, scowl deepening and jaw clenching. His grip tightened too, and Harrison began to feel lightheaded, almost as if he was floating, and gray spots danced in his vision. He heard the sound of a vast amount of water—a river or even an ocean—roaring as it circled an unimaginably large drain, one that led down into a darkness blacker than any he’d ever conceived. He knew he’d soon be caught up in the swirling tide and swept down into that endless night. He wasn’t afraid, though, was rather looking forward to it, in fact. After working with death for so long, he was finally going to get to experience it for himself. His only regret was that he hadn’t specified in his will who he wanted to prepare his body for burial. There were a couple other morticians in town, but Harrison wouldn’t trust either of them to stuff a turkey, let alone work on his corpse. He supposed he’d have to take what he could get. It was too late to—

Conrad’s hand sprang open. Released from the man’s grip, Harrison fell to his hands and knees and sucked in wheezing lungfuls of air. It looked like he wasn’t going to die today. He was disappointed, but he consoled himself with the thought that the drain would be there waiting for him when his time came at last.

Into his phone, Conrad said, “You have my gratitude. I shall bring some more unguent by for you later as a thank you. No charge.”

He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket.

“It seems the undue attention I spoke of has already come to us. You are fortunate the call came when it did, for now I have need of you.” He smiled. “For a while longer, at least. I want you to find this creature of yours, bring it here, confine it, and then contact me immediately.”

Harrison almost said, “And what if I don’t?” but he already knew the answer to that question, so he simply nodded.

Without another word, Conrad turned and left the chamber. As soon as he was gone, the temperature began to rise. Harrison got to his feet, still wheezing. He rubbed the frost burns on his throat. He’d do as Conrad ordered. He’d bring Byron home, and the two—or maybe it was three—of them would wait for the grim-faced prick to return. They’d have a surprise in store for Mr. Dippel. Oh yes they would.

Humming and ignoring his sore throat, Harrison turned his attention back to Mason. He wondered what the man would look like with a purple face. Like an eggplant with hair and eyes, he decided. He couldn’t wait to find out.

He withdrew a container of cleansing wipes from the makeup kit and began removing the white from Mason’s face.

“Have you guys ever done it?”

Sam’s cheeks burned, and he had to swallow before he could talk. “Excuse me?”

Trish rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she did so. “Gone hunting, I mean. Has your dad ever taken you?”

Sam was about to say no, but Dean kicked him in the leg. The three of them had been sitting at the kitchen table for the last hour playing euchre, although Sam had watched Trish more than the cards. During those rare moments when Sam wasn’t looking at Trish, he’d been checking on his brother to see if he was watching her, too. Of course he was. Trish was smart, funny, beautiful, with an air of sadness about her that Sam found irresistible. He was sure Dean felt the same way. How could he not? Most of the time Sam didn’t mind being the younger brother, but every once in a while, he caught Trish looking at Dean in a way she didn’t look at him, and he wished he was the oldest.

“Sure we have,” Dean said. “Lots of times.”

Sam gave his brother a look, but he didn’t say anything. Partly because he didn’t want to make Dean mad, but mostly because he didn’t want to look like a whiney little kid in front of Trish. He didn’t like lying to her, but—he rationalized—he wasn’t really.
Dean
was. Keeping your mouth shut wasn’t the same as lying, was it? But if that was the case, then why did he feel so lousy about it?

“That’s so cool!” Trish glanced over her shoulder at the basement door behind them. Even though it was closed, and had been the entire time they’d been playing, the nervous way she looked at it made Sam think she half expected her father to be standing there listening. Walter’s “workshop,” as he called it, was set up in the basement, and he’d been working down there for the last couple hours, forging whatever documents his hunter clientele needed.

She turned back to them. “Dad hates it whenever I ask anything about hunting.” She lowered her voice, even though there was no way her dad could have heard her from down in the basement. “My uncle was a hunter. He got killed by a werewolf.”

“Werewolves are bad-ass,” Dean said, almost admiringly. Then he looked at Trish, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“What else is new?” Sam said with a smirk.

He hoped to score a couple points with Trish by getting a dig in, but when Dean kicked him in the leg again—much harder this time—he let out an
ow!
of pain, and he figured that cost him whatever coolness points he might have gained.

Trish lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “It was the same werewolf that killed my mom.”

“Damn,” Dean said. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me, too,” Sam hurried to say, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was apologizing for. It just felt like the right thing to do.

Trish kept laying down cards as she spoke, and although Sam felt funny continuing to play the game considering the topic of conversation, he kept on, as did Dean.

“One summer my family was on a camping trip. I was only nine. My uncle Ryan—my mom’s brother—came along. He’d just gotten divorced from my aunt and was depressed. My parents thought the camping trip might help him get away, clear his head a little, you know?”

Sam didn’t know, not exactly, but he nodded anyway, as did Dean, who probably
did
really know—or at least had a better idea of what Trish was talking about.

“We went on a night hike. Dad hoped we’d see some bats, maybe spot some owls. Mom and Uncle Ryan came along, but before long he said he wasn’t feeling good and was going to head back to camp and turn in. He left, and after a couple minutes, Mom decided to go back, too. She didn’t say anything, but I figure she was worried that he planned to crawl into his tent and drink himself blind. Dad wanted all of us to go back, but Mom told him that it would be a shame for me to miss out on getting to experience the woods at night. Truth was, she probably wanted to keep me away from camp in case Ryan got upset with her for checking up on him and started yelling or something. Dad wasn’t worried about Mom finding her way back to camp on her own in the dark. They were both experienced campers and hikers, and they could handle themselves in the wild just fine. Besides, there was a full moon that night, so there was plenty of light to see by.”

She glanced at the basement door once again, as if reassuring herself that her father wasn’t going to open it any moment and walk through. After the better part of a minute passed, she resumed her story, continuing to play euchre as she spoke.

“I don’t know how much longer Dad and I kept hiking. Half an hour, maybe. Whatever it was, it was long enough. When we got back to camp, we found...” She trailed off and looked at the cards remaining in her hand, frowning as if she didn’t remember what they were for. “You know how in horror movies people can always hear the monster attack someone in the woods, no matter how far away they are? We didn’t hear anything at all. No growls or snarls. No screams. Only crickets chirping and night birds singing, as if everything was normal. Dad figures Uncle Ryan tried to fight off the werewolf and protect Mom, but even though he had a rifle with him, he never got off a shot. The damned thing was too fast. Not that it would’ve mattered, since he didn’t have silver bullets. When the werewolf finished with him, it went after Mom. She tried to run, but she didn’t get far from camp before it caught up to her and took her down. She ran in the opposite direction from where Dad and I were. She was trying to lead the werewolf away from us.”