Perspective Shift 4/7
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Chapter 3
Damn civilians, Dean thought as the CD changer whirred and thunked and took its sweet time figuring out that there was a CD in it. This guy in the back seat-okay, Dean was willing to believe his name really was John, that his girl really was named Jessica, and that Finch existed, but that was it. He wasn’t a shifter or anything else silver could kill, and he wasn’t reacting to the dollop of holy water Sam had poured into his pop, so it was safe to assume John was human. But there was no way John could have been hunting in New York City for two years without running into something more than a poltergeist or crossing paths with other hunters, especially the New York branch of the Campbells. He should have heard of Leviathans, anyway, even if he’d never hunted one himself, and he should have heard enough about Sam and Dean through the hunting grapevine to know they didn’t kill humans. Whatever his story was-Delta Force, probably, and something more besides-John was no hunter.
This whole case was rubbing Dean the wrong way, not that it took much to do that even on a good day since he’d come back from Purgatory. The weather, the drive, the call, having to leave the Impala behind, Fahey being an idiot and getting himself killed… it stank. Having a twitchy ex-Special Forces guy along for the ride was just the icing on the cake.
And oh, look, Sam was shooting Dean the Will you please stop trying to get us shot?! face. Joy.
Dean rolled his eyes. I am not trying to get us shot.
Sam’s mouth pinched further. Don’t antagonize him!
Dean glanced out his window and back at the road. Okay, so maybe admitting that they knew about Finch hadn’t been the best move. If humans were out to get Finch, Dean could understand why John would be protective of him, especially if Finch had stopped John from killing himself over losing his Jessica. It was still stupid to assume that the Winchesters would want to kill Finch just because they knew he existed. Plus, even if they did have a reason to kill Finch, Sam was right-for all they knew, Finch was in Alaska or Guam or Japan. Or a bunker near Lebanon, Kansas.
(Dean missed his baby. He missed his memory-foam mattress. He wanted to go home.)
As the music finally started to play, Dean glanced in the rearview mirror. John’s eyes glared back over his hot dog. Dean rolled his eyes again and helped himself to a taquito. Sam took the hint and did likewise.
It was another tense half-hour before they finally reached the exit for Owen Island and ten more minutes to get to the bridge to the island itself. Most of the traffic on the road was headed the opposite direction. At the bridge, however, the sheriff’s department had set up a roadblock.
“Sorry, gents,” said the officer who approached Dean’s window, his badge obscured by his rain gear. “Island’s under evacuation orders.”
“Federal agents,” Dean countered as all three men in the car flashed their credentials. “Agent Daltrey, Agent Bonham, FBI; Jennings, US Marshal. We’re after a wanted fugitive.”
The officer huffed and smirked. “Wanted for what?”
“Serial murder and impersonating a federal officer.”
The officer’s smirk fell. “What, that… that Fahey guy?”
“Have you seen him?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, came through about an hour ago. Said he was looking for a fugitive, guy named Rollins.”
“You had no reason not to believe him,” John chimed in. “Do you know if he’s left the island?”
The officer shook his head. “No, he hasn’t, at least not by car. I’d have seen him.”
Only if he hasn’t shifted and is still in the same car, Dean thought, but what he said was, “If he does, hold him for us until we get back. But be aware that he’s armed and dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, saluted, and motioned the others to let them pass.
“We don’t know that he’s armed,” John observed mildly as Dean rolled up his window and drove forward.
“We don’t know that he’s not,” Dean countered.
“Stands to reason that he would be,” Sam added. “If he stole Fahey’s badge, he probably also stole his gun.”
“And killed him without firing a shot or leaving obvious bloodstains at the scene.”
John tilted his head and shrugged one eyebrow. “Fair enough.”
Crossing the long bridge in gale-force winds made Dean regret leaving the Impala behind all the more, but they white-knuckled it across and arrived at the rental house just as the storm let up somewhat. It was a two-story house on the edge of a cliff, its front façade painted red with white trim, but it was impossible in the gloom of the weather to tell whether the sides were painted dark grey or just weathered like the wooden fence around the small yard. Evidently no one had been there since summer, given that the window-unit air conditioners were still in place. No lights were on inside, and Fahey’s car wasn’t visible from the street.
They had just pulled up and parked when John’s phone suddenly rang.
“Answer it,” Dean ordered as both brothers turned in their seats.
John eyed them warily, clearly debating how far to trust them. “I don’t take orders from you,” he growled.
“Hey, hey,” Sam interrupted before Dean could snap back. “If it’s Finch, it could be important.”
John glared at Dean again, reached into his pocket to pick up the call, then tapped his right ear. “Yeah, Finch.”
Oh, so that was how it was gonna be, huh? How the hell did John expect them to work with him if he wouldn’t share information?
Sam shot Dean a warning look-Let it go, dude.
Dean hated this case.
“They’re evacuating the island,” John told Finch, “but we’ve made it to the beach house. There’s no sign of Declan yet, but we’re still outside. He could have parked in the back. … Where are you? … Why go back there?” There was a longer pause while Finch apparently explained himself. “All right. In the meantime, we’ll go in and clear the house. Declan passed the roadblock on the bridge about an hour ahead of us, so it’s possible he’s still here.”
“Oh, why do you give the orders?” Dean snarked.
“Dean,” Sam hissed.
“Because I’m the marshal,” John stated and got out of the car.
Sam rounded on Dean. “Will you just stop?”
Dean huffed.
“You’re not going to convince him that we’re not the enemy if you keep acting like he’s the enemy.”
Dean sighed. “All right, fine. I’m still not taking orders from ’im.”
Sam rolled his eyes and got out, leaving Dean to follow suit.
“I’ll take the front,” said John, not even looking at Dean. “You two take the back.” And he strode off up the sidewalk without even waiting for them to acknowledge him.
Sam shot Dean another warning look, and the brothers went in opposite directions around the house, Dean grumbling internally all the while. They met at Fahey’s car, which was indeed parked in the back. A quick look inside showed an olive-drab ballistic vest lying on the back seat.
“Can’t let him have that,” Sam murmured and opened the back door.
Dean hummed in agreement. “Go put it in our car. I’ll wait here.”
Sam nodded, hefted the vest out of the car, and jogged back to the SUV. He rejoined Dean in less than a minute, and they made their way inside-just in time to see John flatten himself against one wall of the central hallway, weapon drawn. He looked at them, then at the doorway in front of him. Dean couldn’t see through that doorway, but there was another closer to the brothers on the same wall, so he leaned through just far enough to see a connecting door-and Declan, also with gun in hand, inching toward the same doorway John was approaching. Declan’s focus was on John, so before that could change, Dean straightened, looked at John again, and mouthed Declan.
John nodded and motioned for them to get against the same wall. They did so. And then they waited for several tense seconds until Declan swung through the doorway, aiming at John, who aimed back.
“FBI!” Dean barked before Declan could. “Freeze!”
“Drop your weapon!” Sam ordered.
When Declan didn’t do so right away, John said, “You heard the man. Drop the gun.”
Declan uncocked his gun and let John take it, then raised his hands in surrender. “Listen, guys, this is a mistake. I’m Special Agent Alan Fahey. My badge is in my pocket,” he added, pointing to the left pocket of his coat.
Dean glanced at Sam, who shook his head before asking, “Why the hell didn’t you meet us at the Grand, Fahey?”
“Who has time for steaks on a serial murder investigation?” Declan shot back. “I told you, the trail was hot on Rollins. I couldn’t wait for you.”
Dean hadn’t even known what kind of restaurant the Grand might be, so that was doubly telling: ‘Fahey’ not only didn’t know where Sam had actually said to meet, he was local enough to recognize the name of the steakhouse. Between that and Sam’s hint that he didn’t recognize this guy’s voice, they had Declan dead to rights.
John’s lips pursed slightly as he reached into Declan’s pocket and pulled out an FBI badge. “Fahey, huh?” He flipped open the badge holder. “Tell me something… do you always leave your credentials in your other pants?” He turned the badge holder around to reveal that the ID card, which would have had the real Fahey’s picture on it, was missing.
Declan shook his head nervously. “No, listen, I don’t know who you think I-AHHHH!” he screamed as Dean slashed his silver knife across the palm of Declan’s right hand. The wound sizzled and smoked.
John’s eyes went wide as he looked from Declan’s hand to Dean and back.
“The question’s not so much who you are,” Dean growled, pressing the barrel of his 1911 against Declan’s back, aimed squarely at his heart. “We know what you are. And we’re here to see that you never take another human life again.” He cocked the hammer.
And someone knocked at the front door.
Sam stepped forward to put his Taurus against the base of Declan’s skull, then nodded to John, who nodded back and went to answer.
“Oh! Excuse us, Marshal!” a chirpy female voice said when the door opened.
“Can I help you?” John asked.
“See, we were trying to evacuate,” replied an equally chirpy male voice, “but our car stalled out in the floodwaters, so we were wondering if you could give us a ride….”
With inhuman strength, Declan drove his elbows into the Winchesters’ stomachs, shoved his way past them, and bolted out the back door. They recovered enough to fire several shots apiece after him, and a couple seemed to hit him in non-vital areas, but he was still out of sight by the time they reached the back door. Dean swore.
“At least we know he’s wounded,” Sam said as John and the civilians ran up behind them. “Even if he changes his appearance, he won’t be able to hide that.”
“Oh my gosh!” gasped the girl, and when Dean turned to look at her, she seemed near tears. “I’m so sorry! Were you arresting somebody?”
“Trying to,” Dean replied and flashed his badge at the same time Sam did.
The guy looked equally crestfallen. “We had no idea, Agents, honestly. We just need a ride to the police station.”
“First things first,” said John and went over to Fahey’s car. “Our fugitive’s on foot. Let’s make sure he stays that way.” He popped the hood, and Dean quickly located and removed the starter.
“If you guys need to stay here…” the male civilian began. “I mean, in case he comes back….”
Sam shook his head. “All this house has to offer him is a place to get out of the rain and patch himself up. If he can pick a lock, he has no reason to come back here. What he needs more is a way off the island, and he could take hostages or even kill to get it. So our first priority is to get you two to safety.”
The civilians nodded and let Sam usher them back through the house, and John and Dean closed up Fahey’s car, but John watched Sam with a thoughtful expression.
“What’d you hear from Finch?” Dean asked quietly.
John looked at him, then sighed. “Not much. Think he found something, but the call broke up before he could tell me what.”
“Must be Thursday,” Dean grumbled and stomped off after Sam and the civilians, leaving John to close up the house.
Once everyone was in the hunters’ car, Dean drove to the local police station, where they received an icy welcome from the lone female deputy on duty. She was, if possible, even grouchier than Dean and made no bones about her displeasure over having Feds mucking up her evacuation. She also informed them acidly that the power, phones, and emergency radio were all out, which meant they had no way to communicate with the mainland. There was another stranded civilian there, too, some real estate developer checking up on a construction project. They had just gotten his story when two locals, a bar owner and a teenaged blonde, came in to report both that the bridge was underwater and that they’d seen a man on the docks prepping a boat.
“It’s too soon to be Declan, isn’t it?” Sam asked as the three ersatz lawmen headed back out into the worsening gale.
“Probably,” John agreed, “but we need to check it out anyway. If it isn’t Declan, we need to get whoever it is to the station-strength in numbers.”
It was, in fact, a fisherman who claimed he was trying to salvage his catch of lobsters, but Dean didn’t see any movement in the traps that were piled on the dock. Before he could investigate further, however, there was a noise further down the dock that turned out to be a drifter supposedly looking for work. His story was fishy, too, but neither of his hands were injured. The fisherman’s might have been-he wore fingerless gloves that could have concealed a bandage-but he didn’t move like he’d been shot. Sam frisked them both, and they were clean, but it was raining too hard to search the drifter’s military-style duffle then and there.
John had just ordered both men into the car when the buzzing roar of a small airplane passed overhead in the direction of the flooded town square. Dean swore under his breath; the last thing they needed was another stranded civilian, especially one Declan could use to escape the island and evade pursuit. But then he looked at John, who was watching the plane with a particular flavor of sour expression that meant Dammit, what are you doing here?! I told you to stay home! And that could mean only one thing.
They were about to meet Finch.
It was just John’s luck that Deputy Schmidt got to Finch before he could. By the time he and the Winchesters got their two not-exactly-prisoners back to the station, Schmidt had arrested Finch, alias Harold Gull, for “endangering the lives of my citizens” (most of whom weren’t even on the island anymore) by landing his De Havilland Beaver on the town square, the only safe stretch of water for miles. He was sitting huddled on the floor with his back pressed against the wall of the front desk when they arrived, and she was haranguing him without regard to the obvious pain he was in. She’d also confiscated the meteorological equipment he’d brought as part of his cover as a storm chaser, though on what pretext, she didn’t say. John politely pulled rank and got her to agree to charge Finch with reckless endangerment some other time. And as the two of them helped Finch to his feet, John just barely managed to refrain from biting her head off for ignoring Finch’s handicaps. She couldn’t know what had caused them-for that matter, Finch still hadn’t told John how he’d been so badly injured that he’d needed spinal fusion surgery in his neck and lower back and still walked with a prominent limp-but she couldn’t have missed the limp or the stiffness of his bearing.
John knew he would have been less irritated if the Winchesters hadn’t been there, if they hadn’t been right about Declan, and if Declan weren’t on the loose. The idea of Finch being a storm chaser was pretty amusing, given their usual line of work. As it was, though, John knew from experience that Finch had to be panicked about something to face this much danger to warn him in person, and the only person allowed to treat Finch roughly under such circumstances was John himself-and then only when his cover demanded it.
Just as Schmidt took the handcuffs off, however, Dean said, “Excuse us, Mr. … Gull? Could we speak to you for a moment in private?”
Finch exchanged a worried look with John before replying, “Yes, of course.”
“Marshal?” Sam prompted, holding his coat in such a way that only a trained eye would notice that he was hugging something against his chest. It was too flat for a rifle or shotgun, but John couldn’t tell what it was.
John tightened his grip on Finch’s elbow slightly. “This way, please, Mr. Gull,” he said and escorted Finch down the hall, following Dean to what looked like a conference room with a large metal table in it.
Dean held the door open until John, Finch, and Sam were all inside, then checked their six, closed the door, and-held a closed pocketknife out to Finch. “Keep this on you at all times, Mr. Finch.”
Finch looked from the knife to John to Dean. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“For protection,” Dean insisted and pressed the knife into Finch’s right hand. “Sam?”
As Dean went back to watch the door, Sam opened his coat to reveal a ballistic vest, which he likewise presented to Finch. “This was Fahey’s,” he said, “but you need it more than anyone right now.”
“Why?” Finch asked sharply.
John sighed. “We lost Declan. He’s wounded and on foot, so he won’t get far on his own.”
“And your plane’s the only way off the island before daybreak,” Dean added.
Sam nodded. “We have no idea whether he has any pilot training of his own, so we have to assume he’ll try to force you to fly him out of here and then kill you to cover his tracks. We also have to assume that he saw you arrive and believes you’re not able-bodied enough to resist him, even though he’ll have to hold whatever weapon he can get in his non-dominant hand. Everyone in this building is in danger, but you are his most likely target.”
There was a moment of silence while John and Finch both reevaluated the Winchesters. Maybe it was more than coincidence that Dean’s catch-phrase description of ‘hunting’ had put saving people before hunting things. Maybe the Machine had been right to call them in after all.
“Oh,” Finch finally said and slid the knife into his pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. Uh, John, could you….”
“Maybe you ought to keep this vest, Finch,” John teased, helping Finch out of his windbreaker. “Getting shot at is my job, but if you’re going to keep getting yourself into these situations, sooner or later somebody’s liable to start shooting at you.”
“I’ll take it under advisement, thank you,” Finch returned drily and unbuttoned his shirt. He had a marked preference for bespoke three-piece Italian suits and had provided John not only with his own trademark suits but also with high-end ballistic vests that looked like no more than white cotton undershirts. Standard-issue police body armor wasn’t exactly Finch’s style-but then again, given ‘Harold Gull’s’ more casual clothing, it would fit the persona if anyone actually noticed.
“So I’m guessin’ you went back to the apartment after we left,” said Dean, still watching the door.
“Yes, I did,” Finch admitted and struggled out of his shirt. “I had the displeasure of seeing all that was left of Jack Rollins, molars and all.”
Both Winchesters looked at Finch with identical expressions of disgust.
“He kept the teeth?!” Sam echoed and handed the vest to John.
“Oh, that is sick,” Dean agreed.
“Not to mention pointless. I mean, yeah, before DNA testing, removing the teeth would make the corpse harder to identify, but a well-built pyre would get rid of the evidence way better.”
“And get rid of the ghost at the same time.”
“Well, usually,” Sam qualified, which seemed to be mostly for John and Finch’s benefit. “We’ve had a few ghosts who held on even after the salt-’n’-burn because they’d managed to tie themselves to something other than their physical remains.”
Dean conceded the point with a tilt of his head. “Still, keepin’ the teeth, you’re just askin’ to be haunted.”
“Yeah, no, totally.”
“Then again, nobody said serial killers were sane.”
“Nobody said we were sane, either, Dean. In fact, I remember you arguing the opposite once.”
Dean rolled his eyes, as if that were a very old argument held under embarrassing circumstances, and went back to watching the door. John and Finch exchanged a look that conveyed a mutual resolve not to ask and went back to fitting the ballistic vest onto Finch’s torso. John suspected he’d be as disturbed by that exchange as Finch looked if he hadn’t seen evidence that the Winchesters weren’t completely insane-but at least it explained their history of grave desecrations.
“So where were the teeth?” Sam asked Finch.
“In the furnace in the basement,” Finch answered. “Our contact with NYPD said it looked like Declan had tried to destroy them, but the flame hadn’t been hot enough to burn the enamel.” He looked at John and added, “There were also three boxes of empty picture frames in the basement.”
John nodded. “Same MO. He’d even taken Fahey’s ID card out of the badge holder.”
“Which means he currently has no identity,” Dean noted. “He might still have ID with his photo and Jack Rollins’ name, but he knows we have that identity and Fahey’s tagged, and he knows we know what he looks like.”
“He’s broken his pattern,” Finch murmured. “He’s out of his element. He’s as trapped as we are.”
“And that means he’s desperate,” Sam agreed. “He’ll have to take someone else’s appearance as well as their identity to get off the island undetected-unless he can kill all three of us.”
“I’d prefer that didn’t happen,” said John and tightened the last strap on Finch’s vest.
“So would we,” said Dean.
“Watching the perimeter will be the easy part,” Sam observed, handing Finch his shirt. “We can patch the security camera feeds into one of our laptops easily enough. But Mr. Finch, I assume you had some sort of plan for using your storm-chasing equipment to help with the case. What did you have in mind?”
“One device that’s frequently used in storm chasing is the Instantel seismograph,” said Finch, which caused Sam’s eyebrows to jump and Dean’s back to straighten. “If we attach its leads to a metal table like this one….”
“Instant polygraph!” the Winchesters chorused.
“We do know where and how Declan is wounded,” Sam noted.
“Yes, but we ought to interrogate everyone anyway for the sake of our cover,” John said. “Especially those two we picked up on the dock.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah, they’re lyin’ about something. Just can’t tell what.”
Finch looked slightly relieved. “Well! If we’re all agreed, let’s get on with it.”
Sam nodded once. “I’ll get the camera feeds.”
“And I’ll wire the seismograph,” Dean said, looking at Finch pointedly. “Don’t need you hurtin’ your back any worse, especially with that thing on.” And before John or Finch could object, the Winchesters left the room, closing the door behind them.
Finch stared after them as John helped him back into his windbreaker. “That is… not the way I’d envisaged this conversation going, Mr. Reese.”
“Me neither,” John admitted. “Is that good or bad?”
“I’m not sure.” Finch twisted awkwardly to look up at him. “Det. Carter was able to confirm almost all of what they told you. When I left, she was collecting the teeth and planned to review the security camera footage from Rollins’ shop in Chicago and speak to someone at Stanford about Musset and Declan. She also confirmed that neither the Winchesters nor their car had been seen in New York City within the last ten years. She was able to place them in Allentown, Pennsylvania, last week around the time of a shootout involving members of the Thule Society, but then they left the state headed west and didn’t return until yesterday. Makes me wonder why they came back at all.”
John grimaced. “The Machine called them two days ago.”
Finch’s eyes widened. “What?!”
“Apparently it gave them the numbers and then said, ‘Wrong number’ and hung up. The fact that I showed up looking for Rollins at the same time they did tipped them off that the message was supposed to come to us.”
“That’s… that shouldn’t be possible. It’s programmed to give the irrelevant numbers only to us.”
John glanced at the door and lowered his voice further. “That’s not all. From what they’ve said, it booked them a hotel room, rented them a car, and sent them FBI credentials and payment.”
Finch blinked owlishly.
“What the hell’s going on, Finch?”
“I don’t know. I can only assume it has something to do with the virus uploaded by Kara Stanton. But if the Machine is capable of making those kinds of decisions and transactions of its own accord… I’m rather worried about what else it’s doing that we’re not aware of.”
John sighed. “Well, I’m starting to think it was right to call them in. That knife Dean gave you, it’s made of silver. He sliced Declan’s hand open with it. Now, you know as well as I do what kind of wound that should make.”
Finch shuddered involuntarily. He’d suffered such a wound himself just months ago, when he’d been kidnapped by a hacker named Root who’d wanted him to help her find the Machine. Root had used a razor blade, and the cut hadn’t gone very deep, but the memory was still fresh enough to be hurtful. John knew that and wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t needed the parallel.
“Declan screamed like he’d been burned with acid-and the wound did react like an acid burn, caused by acid strong enough to have etched or even dissolved the blade. I saw it, smelled it, and heard it. I have never seen a knife cause that kind of reaction before, Finch, not even when Kara coated it in wasabi first.”
Finch looked green. “I really didn’t need to know what Agent Stanton considered effective interrogation techniques.”
“Sorry,” John said and meant it. “My point is, I’m not so sure they’re wrong about Declan being a shapeshifter.”
Finch shook his head. “Do you really believe in such things as monsters and ghosts?!”
“No, but… most people would never believe in a real AI that can track terrorists and help stop premeditated murders, either.”
Finch turned away with a huff. “We know the Machine exists because I made it. Don’t ask me to extrapolate the existence of the supernatural from that one data point.”
Just then, the Winchesters returned with Finch’s equipment, which was perfect timing from John’s perspective. He knew he’d never convince Finch with an argument he wasn’t sure he fully believed himself.
Next
Chapter 3
Damn civilians, Dean thought as the CD changer whirred and thunked and took its sweet time figuring out that there was a CD in it. This guy in the back seat-okay, Dean was willing to believe his name really was John, that his girl really was named Jessica, and that Finch existed, but that was it. He wasn’t a shifter or anything else silver could kill, and he wasn’t reacting to the dollop of holy water Sam had poured into his pop, so it was safe to assume John was human. But there was no way John could have been hunting in New York City for two years without running into something more than a poltergeist or crossing paths with other hunters, especially the New York branch of the Campbells. He should have heard of Leviathans, anyway, even if he’d never hunted one himself, and he should have heard enough about Sam and Dean through the hunting grapevine to know they didn’t kill humans. Whatever his story was-Delta Force, probably, and something more besides-John was no hunter.
This whole case was rubbing Dean the wrong way, not that it took much to do that even on a good day since he’d come back from Purgatory. The weather, the drive, the call, having to leave the Impala behind, Fahey being an idiot and getting himself killed… it stank. Having a twitchy ex-Special Forces guy along for the ride was just the icing on the cake.
And oh, look, Sam was shooting Dean the Will you please stop trying to get us shot?! face. Joy.
Dean rolled his eyes. I am not trying to get us shot.
Sam’s mouth pinched further. Don’t antagonize him!
Dean glanced out his window and back at the road. Okay, so maybe admitting that they knew about Finch hadn’t been the best move. If humans were out to get Finch, Dean could understand why John would be protective of him, especially if Finch had stopped John from killing himself over losing his Jessica. It was still stupid to assume that the Winchesters would want to kill Finch just because they knew he existed. Plus, even if they did have a reason to kill Finch, Sam was right-for all they knew, Finch was in Alaska or Guam or Japan. Or a bunker near Lebanon, Kansas.
(Dean missed his baby. He missed his memory-foam mattress. He wanted to go home.)
As the music finally started to play, Dean glanced in the rearview mirror. John’s eyes glared back over his hot dog. Dean rolled his eyes again and helped himself to a taquito. Sam took the hint and did likewise.
It was another tense half-hour before they finally reached the exit for Owen Island and ten more minutes to get to the bridge to the island itself. Most of the traffic on the road was headed the opposite direction. At the bridge, however, the sheriff’s department had set up a roadblock.
“Sorry, gents,” said the officer who approached Dean’s window, his badge obscured by his rain gear. “Island’s under evacuation orders.”
“Federal agents,” Dean countered as all three men in the car flashed their credentials. “Agent Daltrey, Agent Bonham, FBI; Jennings, US Marshal. We’re after a wanted fugitive.”
The officer huffed and smirked. “Wanted for what?”
“Serial murder and impersonating a federal officer.”
The officer’s smirk fell. “What, that… that Fahey guy?”
“Have you seen him?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, came through about an hour ago. Said he was looking for a fugitive, guy named Rollins.”
“You had no reason not to believe him,” John chimed in. “Do you know if he’s left the island?”
The officer shook his head. “No, he hasn’t, at least not by car. I’d have seen him.”
Only if he hasn’t shifted and is still in the same car, Dean thought, but what he said was, “If he does, hold him for us until we get back. But be aware that he’s armed and dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, saluted, and motioned the others to let them pass.
“We don’t know that he’s armed,” John observed mildly as Dean rolled up his window and drove forward.
“We don’t know that he’s not,” Dean countered.
“Stands to reason that he would be,” Sam added. “If he stole Fahey’s badge, he probably also stole his gun.”
“And killed him without firing a shot or leaving obvious bloodstains at the scene.”
John tilted his head and shrugged one eyebrow. “Fair enough.”
Crossing the long bridge in gale-force winds made Dean regret leaving the Impala behind all the more, but they white-knuckled it across and arrived at the rental house just as the storm let up somewhat. It was a two-story house on the edge of a cliff, its front façade painted red with white trim, but it was impossible in the gloom of the weather to tell whether the sides were painted dark grey or just weathered like the wooden fence around the small yard. Evidently no one had been there since summer, given that the window-unit air conditioners were still in place. No lights were on inside, and Fahey’s car wasn’t visible from the street.
They had just pulled up and parked when John’s phone suddenly rang.
“Answer it,” Dean ordered as both brothers turned in their seats.
John eyed them warily, clearly debating how far to trust them. “I don’t take orders from you,” he growled.
“Hey, hey,” Sam interrupted before Dean could snap back. “If it’s Finch, it could be important.”
John glared at Dean again, reached into his pocket to pick up the call, then tapped his right ear. “Yeah, Finch.”
Oh, so that was how it was gonna be, huh? How the hell did John expect them to work with him if he wouldn’t share information?
Sam shot Dean a warning look-Let it go, dude.
Dean hated this case.
“They’re evacuating the island,” John told Finch, “but we’ve made it to the beach house. There’s no sign of Declan yet, but we’re still outside. He could have parked in the back. … Where are you? … Why go back there?” There was a longer pause while Finch apparently explained himself. “All right. In the meantime, we’ll go in and clear the house. Declan passed the roadblock on the bridge about an hour ahead of us, so it’s possible he’s still here.”
“Oh, why do you give the orders?” Dean snarked.
“Dean,” Sam hissed.
“Because I’m the marshal,” John stated and got out of the car.
Sam rounded on Dean. “Will you just stop?”
Dean huffed.
“You’re not going to convince him that we’re not the enemy if you keep acting like he’s the enemy.”
Dean sighed. “All right, fine. I’m still not taking orders from ’im.”
Sam rolled his eyes and got out, leaving Dean to follow suit.
“I’ll take the front,” said John, not even looking at Dean. “You two take the back.” And he strode off up the sidewalk without even waiting for them to acknowledge him.
Sam shot Dean another warning look, and the brothers went in opposite directions around the house, Dean grumbling internally all the while. They met at Fahey’s car, which was indeed parked in the back. A quick look inside showed an olive-drab ballistic vest lying on the back seat.
“Can’t let him have that,” Sam murmured and opened the back door.
Dean hummed in agreement. “Go put it in our car. I’ll wait here.”
Sam nodded, hefted the vest out of the car, and jogged back to the SUV. He rejoined Dean in less than a minute, and they made their way inside-just in time to see John flatten himself against one wall of the central hallway, weapon drawn. He looked at them, then at the doorway in front of him. Dean couldn’t see through that doorway, but there was another closer to the brothers on the same wall, so he leaned through just far enough to see a connecting door-and Declan, also with gun in hand, inching toward the same doorway John was approaching. Declan’s focus was on John, so before that could change, Dean straightened, looked at John again, and mouthed Declan.
John nodded and motioned for them to get against the same wall. They did so. And then they waited for several tense seconds until Declan swung through the doorway, aiming at John, who aimed back.
“FBI!” Dean barked before Declan could. “Freeze!”
“Drop your weapon!” Sam ordered.
When Declan didn’t do so right away, John said, “You heard the man. Drop the gun.”
Declan uncocked his gun and let John take it, then raised his hands in surrender. “Listen, guys, this is a mistake. I’m Special Agent Alan Fahey. My badge is in my pocket,” he added, pointing to the left pocket of his coat.
Dean glanced at Sam, who shook his head before asking, “Why the hell didn’t you meet us at the Grand, Fahey?”
“Who has time for steaks on a serial murder investigation?” Declan shot back. “I told you, the trail was hot on Rollins. I couldn’t wait for you.”
Dean hadn’t even known what kind of restaurant the Grand might be, so that was doubly telling: ‘Fahey’ not only didn’t know where Sam had actually said to meet, he was local enough to recognize the name of the steakhouse. Between that and Sam’s hint that he didn’t recognize this guy’s voice, they had Declan dead to rights.
John’s lips pursed slightly as he reached into Declan’s pocket and pulled out an FBI badge. “Fahey, huh?” He flipped open the badge holder. “Tell me something… do you always leave your credentials in your other pants?” He turned the badge holder around to reveal that the ID card, which would have had the real Fahey’s picture on it, was missing.
Declan shook his head nervously. “No, listen, I don’t know who you think I-AHHHH!” he screamed as Dean slashed his silver knife across the palm of Declan’s right hand. The wound sizzled and smoked.
John’s eyes went wide as he looked from Declan’s hand to Dean and back.
“The question’s not so much who you are,” Dean growled, pressing the barrel of his 1911 against Declan’s back, aimed squarely at his heart. “We know what you are. And we’re here to see that you never take another human life again.” He cocked the hammer.
And someone knocked at the front door.
Sam stepped forward to put his Taurus against the base of Declan’s skull, then nodded to John, who nodded back and went to answer.
“Oh! Excuse us, Marshal!” a chirpy female voice said when the door opened.
“Can I help you?” John asked.
“See, we were trying to evacuate,” replied an equally chirpy male voice, “but our car stalled out in the floodwaters, so we were wondering if you could give us a ride….”
With inhuman strength, Declan drove his elbows into the Winchesters’ stomachs, shoved his way past them, and bolted out the back door. They recovered enough to fire several shots apiece after him, and a couple seemed to hit him in non-vital areas, but he was still out of sight by the time they reached the back door. Dean swore.
“At least we know he’s wounded,” Sam said as John and the civilians ran up behind them. “Even if he changes his appearance, he won’t be able to hide that.”
“Oh my gosh!” gasped the girl, and when Dean turned to look at her, she seemed near tears. “I’m so sorry! Were you arresting somebody?”
“Trying to,” Dean replied and flashed his badge at the same time Sam did.
The guy looked equally crestfallen. “We had no idea, Agents, honestly. We just need a ride to the police station.”
“First things first,” said John and went over to Fahey’s car. “Our fugitive’s on foot. Let’s make sure he stays that way.” He popped the hood, and Dean quickly located and removed the starter.
“If you guys need to stay here…” the male civilian began. “I mean, in case he comes back….”
Sam shook his head. “All this house has to offer him is a place to get out of the rain and patch himself up. If he can pick a lock, he has no reason to come back here. What he needs more is a way off the island, and he could take hostages or even kill to get it. So our first priority is to get you two to safety.”
The civilians nodded and let Sam usher them back through the house, and John and Dean closed up Fahey’s car, but John watched Sam with a thoughtful expression.
“What’d you hear from Finch?” Dean asked quietly.
John looked at him, then sighed. “Not much. Think he found something, but the call broke up before he could tell me what.”
“Must be Thursday,” Dean grumbled and stomped off after Sam and the civilians, leaving John to close up the house.
Once everyone was in the hunters’ car, Dean drove to the local police station, where they received an icy welcome from the lone female deputy on duty. She was, if possible, even grouchier than Dean and made no bones about her displeasure over having Feds mucking up her evacuation. She also informed them acidly that the power, phones, and emergency radio were all out, which meant they had no way to communicate with the mainland. There was another stranded civilian there, too, some real estate developer checking up on a construction project. They had just gotten his story when two locals, a bar owner and a teenaged blonde, came in to report both that the bridge was underwater and that they’d seen a man on the docks prepping a boat.
“It’s too soon to be Declan, isn’t it?” Sam asked as the three ersatz lawmen headed back out into the worsening gale.
“Probably,” John agreed, “but we need to check it out anyway. If it isn’t Declan, we need to get whoever it is to the station-strength in numbers.”
It was, in fact, a fisherman who claimed he was trying to salvage his catch of lobsters, but Dean didn’t see any movement in the traps that were piled on the dock. Before he could investigate further, however, there was a noise further down the dock that turned out to be a drifter supposedly looking for work. His story was fishy, too, but neither of his hands were injured. The fisherman’s might have been-he wore fingerless gloves that could have concealed a bandage-but he didn’t move like he’d been shot. Sam frisked them both, and they were clean, but it was raining too hard to search the drifter’s military-style duffle then and there.
John had just ordered both men into the car when the buzzing roar of a small airplane passed overhead in the direction of the flooded town square. Dean swore under his breath; the last thing they needed was another stranded civilian, especially one Declan could use to escape the island and evade pursuit. But then he looked at John, who was watching the plane with a particular flavor of sour expression that meant Dammit, what are you doing here?! I told you to stay home! And that could mean only one thing.
They were about to meet Finch.
It was just John’s luck that Deputy Schmidt got to Finch before he could. By the time he and the Winchesters got their two not-exactly-prisoners back to the station, Schmidt had arrested Finch, alias Harold Gull, for “endangering the lives of my citizens” (most of whom weren’t even on the island anymore) by landing his De Havilland Beaver on the town square, the only safe stretch of water for miles. He was sitting huddled on the floor with his back pressed against the wall of the front desk when they arrived, and she was haranguing him without regard to the obvious pain he was in. She’d also confiscated the meteorological equipment he’d brought as part of his cover as a storm chaser, though on what pretext, she didn’t say. John politely pulled rank and got her to agree to charge Finch with reckless endangerment some other time. And as the two of them helped Finch to his feet, John just barely managed to refrain from biting her head off for ignoring Finch’s handicaps. She couldn’t know what had caused them-for that matter, Finch still hadn’t told John how he’d been so badly injured that he’d needed spinal fusion surgery in his neck and lower back and still walked with a prominent limp-but she couldn’t have missed the limp or the stiffness of his bearing.
John knew he would have been less irritated if the Winchesters hadn’t been there, if they hadn’t been right about Declan, and if Declan weren’t on the loose. The idea of Finch being a storm chaser was pretty amusing, given their usual line of work. As it was, though, John knew from experience that Finch had to be panicked about something to face this much danger to warn him in person, and the only person allowed to treat Finch roughly under such circumstances was John himself-and then only when his cover demanded it.
Just as Schmidt took the handcuffs off, however, Dean said, “Excuse us, Mr. … Gull? Could we speak to you for a moment in private?”
Finch exchanged a worried look with John before replying, “Yes, of course.”
“Marshal?” Sam prompted, holding his coat in such a way that only a trained eye would notice that he was hugging something against his chest. It was too flat for a rifle or shotgun, but John couldn’t tell what it was.
John tightened his grip on Finch’s elbow slightly. “This way, please, Mr. Gull,” he said and escorted Finch down the hall, following Dean to what looked like a conference room with a large metal table in it.
Dean held the door open until John, Finch, and Sam were all inside, then checked their six, closed the door, and-held a closed pocketknife out to Finch. “Keep this on you at all times, Mr. Finch.”
Finch looked from the knife to John to Dean. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“For protection,” Dean insisted and pressed the knife into Finch’s right hand. “Sam?”
As Dean went back to watch the door, Sam opened his coat to reveal a ballistic vest, which he likewise presented to Finch. “This was Fahey’s,” he said, “but you need it more than anyone right now.”
“Why?” Finch asked sharply.
John sighed. “We lost Declan. He’s wounded and on foot, so he won’t get far on his own.”
“And your plane’s the only way off the island before daybreak,” Dean added.
Sam nodded. “We have no idea whether he has any pilot training of his own, so we have to assume he’ll try to force you to fly him out of here and then kill you to cover his tracks. We also have to assume that he saw you arrive and believes you’re not able-bodied enough to resist him, even though he’ll have to hold whatever weapon he can get in his non-dominant hand. Everyone in this building is in danger, but you are his most likely target.”
There was a moment of silence while John and Finch both reevaluated the Winchesters. Maybe it was more than coincidence that Dean’s catch-phrase description of ‘hunting’ had put saving people before hunting things. Maybe the Machine had been right to call them in after all.
“Oh,” Finch finally said and slid the knife into his pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. Uh, John, could you….”
“Maybe you ought to keep this vest, Finch,” John teased, helping Finch out of his windbreaker. “Getting shot at is my job, but if you’re going to keep getting yourself into these situations, sooner or later somebody’s liable to start shooting at you.”
“I’ll take it under advisement, thank you,” Finch returned drily and unbuttoned his shirt. He had a marked preference for bespoke three-piece Italian suits and had provided John not only with his own trademark suits but also with high-end ballistic vests that looked like no more than white cotton undershirts. Standard-issue police body armor wasn’t exactly Finch’s style-but then again, given ‘Harold Gull’s’ more casual clothing, it would fit the persona if anyone actually noticed.
“So I’m guessin’ you went back to the apartment after we left,” said Dean, still watching the door.
“Yes, I did,” Finch admitted and struggled out of his shirt. “I had the displeasure of seeing all that was left of Jack Rollins, molars and all.”
Both Winchesters looked at Finch with identical expressions of disgust.
“He kept the teeth?!” Sam echoed and handed the vest to John.
“Oh, that is sick,” Dean agreed.
“Not to mention pointless. I mean, yeah, before DNA testing, removing the teeth would make the corpse harder to identify, but a well-built pyre would get rid of the evidence way better.”
“And get rid of the ghost at the same time.”
“Well, usually,” Sam qualified, which seemed to be mostly for John and Finch’s benefit. “We’ve had a few ghosts who held on even after the salt-’n’-burn because they’d managed to tie themselves to something other than their physical remains.”
Dean conceded the point with a tilt of his head. “Still, keepin’ the teeth, you’re just askin’ to be haunted.”
“Yeah, no, totally.”
“Then again, nobody said serial killers were sane.”
“Nobody said we were sane, either, Dean. In fact, I remember you arguing the opposite once.”
Dean rolled his eyes, as if that were a very old argument held under embarrassing circumstances, and went back to watching the door. John and Finch exchanged a look that conveyed a mutual resolve not to ask and went back to fitting the ballistic vest onto Finch’s torso. John suspected he’d be as disturbed by that exchange as Finch looked if he hadn’t seen evidence that the Winchesters weren’t completely insane-but at least it explained their history of grave desecrations.
“So where were the teeth?” Sam asked Finch.
“In the furnace in the basement,” Finch answered. “Our contact with NYPD said it looked like Declan had tried to destroy them, but the flame hadn’t been hot enough to burn the enamel.” He looked at John and added, “There were also three boxes of empty picture frames in the basement.”
John nodded. “Same MO. He’d even taken Fahey’s ID card out of the badge holder.”
“Which means he currently has no identity,” Dean noted. “He might still have ID with his photo and Jack Rollins’ name, but he knows we have that identity and Fahey’s tagged, and he knows we know what he looks like.”
“He’s broken his pattern,” Finch murmured. “He’s out of his element. He’s as trapped as we are.”
“And that means he’s desperate,” Sam agreed. “He’ll have to take someone else’s appearance as well as their identity to get off the island undetected-unless he can kill all three of us.”
“I’d prefer that didn’t happen,” said John and tightened the last strap on Finch’s vest.
“So would we,” said Dean.
“Watching the perimeter will be the easy part,” Sam observed, handing Finch his shirt. “We can patch the security camera feeds into one of our laptops easily enough. But Mr. Finch, I assume you had some sort of plan for using your storm-chasing equipment to help with the case. What did you have in mind?”
“One device that’s frequently used in storm chasing is the Instantel seismograph,” said Finch, which caused Sam’s eyebrows to jump and Dean’s back to straighten. “If we attach its leads to a metal table like this one….”
“Instant polygraph!” the Winchesters chorused.
“We do know where and how Declan is wounded,” Sam noted.
“Yes, but we ought to interrogate everyone anyway for the sake of our cover,” John said. “Especially those two we picked up on the dock.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah, they’re lyin’ about something. Just can’t tell what.”
Finch looked slightly relieved. “Well! If we’re all agreed, let’s get on with it.”
Sam nodded once. “I’ll get the camera feeds.”
“And I’ll wire the seismograph,” Dean said, looking at Finch pointedly. “Don’t need you hurtin’ your back any worse, especially with that thing on.” And before John or Finch could object, the Winchesters left the room, closing the door behind them.
Finch stared after them as John helped him back into his windbreaker. “That is… not the way I’d envisaged this conversation going, Mr. Reese.”
“Me neither,” John admitted. “Is that good or bad?”
“I’m not sure.” Finch twisted awkwardly to look up at him. “Det. Carter was able to confirm almost all of what they told you. When I left, she was collecting the teeth and planned to review the security camera footage from Rollins’ shop in Chicago and speak to someone at Stanford about Musset and Declan. She also confirmed that neither the Winchesters nor their car had been seen in New York City within the last ten years. She was able to place them in Allentown, Pennsylvania, last week around the time of a shootout involving members of the Thule Society, but then they left the state headed west and didn’t return until yesterday. Makes me wonder why they came back at all.”
John grimaced. “The Machine called them two days ago.”
Finch’s eyes widened. “What?!”
“Apparently it gave them the numbers and then said, ‘Wrong number’ and hung up. The fact that I showed up looking for Rollins at the same time they did tipped them off that the message was supposed to come to us.”
“That’s… that shouldn’t be possible. It’s programmed to give the irrelevant numbers only to us.”
John glanced at the door and lowered his voice further. “That’s not all. From what they’ve said, it booked them a hotel room, rented them a car, and sent them FBI credentials and payment.”
Finch blinked owlishly.
“What the hell’s going on, Finch?”
“I don’t know. I can only assume it has something to do with the virus uploaded by Kara Stanton. But if the Machine is capable of making those kinds of decisions and transactions of its own accord… I’m rather worried about what else it’s doing that we’re not aware of.”
John sighed. “Well, I’m starting to think it was right to call them in. That knife Dean gave you, it’s made of silver. He sliced Declan’s hand open with it. Now, you know as well as I do what kind of wound that should make.”
Finch shuddered involuntarily. He’d suffered such a wound himself just months ago, when he’d been kidnapped by a hacker named Root who’d wanted him to help her find the Machine. Root had used a razor blade, and the cut hadn’t gone very deep, but the memory was still fresh enough to be hurtful. John knew that and wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t needed the parallel.
“Declan screamed like he’d been burned with acid-and the wound did react like an acid burn, caused by acid strong enough to have etched or even dissolved the blade. I saw it, smelled it, and heard it. I have never seen a knife cause that kind of reaction before, Finch, not even when Kara coated it in wasabi first.”
Finch looked green. “I really didn’t need to know what Agent Stanton considered effective interrogation techniques.”
“Sorry,” John said and meant it. “My point is, I’m not so sure they’re wrong about Declan being a shapeshifter.”
Finch shook his head. “Do you really believe in such things as monsters and ghosts?!”
“No, but… most people would never believe in a real AI that can track terrorists and help stop premeditated murders, either.”
Finch turned away with a huff. “We know the Machine exists because I made it. Don’t ask me to extrapolate the existence of the supernatural from that one data point.”
Just then, the Winchesters returned with Finch’s equipment, which was perfect timing from John’s perspective. He knew he’d never convince Finch with an argument he wasn’t sure he fully believed himself.
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