Against the Clock 6/13 (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, Casefic)
Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Chapter 6
Sam jerked awake, panicking as he tried and failed to draw in a breath, eyes popping open in alarm to semidarkness. He breathed in again, this time through his nose, and relief flooded him as oxygen entered his system.
As full awareness returned, he realized that his mouth was firmly sealed shut with something - his money was on duct tape. He sat on a heavy wooden chair, ankles and wrists securely tied to its arms and legs with sturdy nylon cord.
Memories returned of a scuffle in the parking lot, the prick of a needle in his neck. He had no idea what had been in that shot, but his head pounded, he felt slightly nauseous and his mouth tasted like he’d chewed on one of Dean’s week-old socks.
Sam blinked grit from his eyes, and looked around. The chair sat in the middle of a large, dimly lit room, the only light leaking thinly from a slit in the thick drapes drawn across the windows. He could make out shadowy shapes of furniture and bare wooden walls and floors.
His boots and jacket were gone, but his watch was still on his wrist. The illuminated figures showed five a.m.
He was angry with himself for turning his back on an almost total stranger. True, there had been no reason to suspect the man; nothing in their previous meeting had sounded a warning note. Still, he knew better.
His abduction had to be related to the case - it was too much of a coincidence otherwise. Had he and Dean inadvertently stumbled over the truth? Had he been taken to stop him from talking? They knew next to nothing at this point, but it was possible someone thought otherwise. If so, maybe Dean was here, similarly tied and gagged. His eyes searched the room, but even in the semidarkness, he could see that he was alone. Maybe Dean hadn’t been abducted. Maybe… No. His mind shied away from the alternative.
There might be another explanation. What if he was the next intended victim? As far as he could tell, a flesh-and-blood human being had taken him, and unless the man turned out to be a shapeshifter or some other monster in disguise, then it looked as if Dad and Dean were wrong - they were dealing with a straightforward serial killer after all. But why? Why him, and why all the others in particular?
Sam’s head ached trying to think about it, so he set the mystery aside and focused instead on the knowledge that if Dean were still free, he’d discover that Sam was missing very soon and wouldn’t rest until he found him. It was comforting. Sure, he was an adult now and could look after himself - had made a point of leaving for college to prove he was his own man - but always in the back of his mind had been the certainty that his big brother would always protect him, always save him, as he had when they were kids.
But Dean was sick and, if the newspaper report was correct, likely to get sicker very quickly. He was in no condition to solve a case for which he had no leads, and although Sam knew Dean would push himself beyond his limits, his brother wasn’t Superman.
Sam bit his lip. This time, he couldn’t rely on Dean saving him. He could sit here, helpless, and wait for the killer to return, or he could find a way out of this mess.
He set his jaw and began to strain against his bonds.
…………………………………
After two hours’ straight research in the local library, Dean conceded defeat.
Taking as his starting point the premise that the murders had been carried out by a supernatural being or monster, he’d hit the library to search its records for information on any strange sightings or similar deaths in the past - anything that might give him a clue what he was dealing with.
He’d been the first through the doors when the small library opened, and within ten minutes, thanks to a motherly woman who’d adopted him as soon as he flashed his most winning smile, was settled at a table in the most dimly lit corner, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and historical accounts dating back to the previous century.
Some of the material was stored on microfiche, which had proved a challenge physically. He’d struggled to concentrate as the small letters swarmed confusingly across the page, eyes burning and head pounding as he tried to make out the words. Several times nausea had welled up, sending him to the bathroom to dry heave until his body trembled with weakness and fatigue.
He’d fought through the discomfort to the end result - nothing. Zilch. Nada. Springwood should win a prize as the most boring and law-abiding town in Colorado. There had been no sightings of strange monsters stalking hikers in the woods and no mysterious, unsolved murders. He found a few suicides and a couple of domestic violence cases, but nothing that would point even vaguely in the direction of a clue to what he was facing.
Frustrated, he headed back to the motel and let himself into his and Sam’s room, swallowing the quick burst of disappointment that it was empty. Some part of him had apparently hoped that Sam might be there.
With a sigh, he sank down on the desk chair and briefly rested his head in his hands. The constant struggle against the ever-present and almost debilitating headache was using up the small amount of energy he had. His forehead felt warm, and he registered that his whole body was hot and feverish.
He shot one longing look at the bed and then tore his eyes away, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind. There was no time to rest. It was already 11:30 a.m. - only ten hours to go before the deadline.
He scanned the desk and noticed Sam’s notebook. He quickly skimmed through the notes Sam had made the night before, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of this before, but there was nothing new. Then, at the bottom, he found a curious note: “Jake Radcliffe, Colorado Enquirer, 08/26/07. Possible cover-up - worth checking out, but probably just a nutjob.”
Dean frowned. He switched on the laptop and looked up the Colorado Enquirer. A quick glance at some of the news stories showed him why Sam’s note sounded skeptical. “Strange craft sighted over San Juan Mountains.” “Kennedy assassination precursor to alien invasion.” A little more digging unearthed the editorial Sam had referred to.
“I have been informed by a reliable source that the FBI covered up important facts in not only the Anderson case, but the three previous connected cases. These facts, uncovered during autopsy, point to an extraterrestrial cause for the murders.”
Dean sat back, considering. Sam was right. Radcliffe was at least a few pancakes short of a stack. Still, it was possible that he’d stumbled onto something important - not alien but supernatural activity.
He had nothing else to go on, so he had nothing to lose.
More research revealed that the newspaper had axed Radcliffe not long after the article was printed. Posing as Radcliffe’s nephew, Dean sweet-talked a secretary at the paper into giving him the ex-editor’s address.
As quickly as his aching muscles would allow he changed into a suit, fumbled a tie into an approximation of a knot and left the motel.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of Number 96 Magnolia Drive, a small house in a modest suburb. The houses around showed signs of age, but most had neat, well-maintained yards. Radcliffe’s stuck out as an eyesore amongst them. It was badly tended, weeds growing rampant through cracks in the paving stones and the faded paint on the gate peeling.
Dean got out of the car, swaying as a wave of dizziness threatened to drop him face first onto the pavement. He held tightly to the doorframe until the feeling passed, then walked up the short path to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. The drapes were open, so he peered through the window of the rooms to the left and right of the door, but there was no sign of life. Frustrated, he was raising his hand to knock a third time when the front door of number 97 opened, and a middle-aged woman in a floral housecoat and slippers looked out.
“You won’t find him in this time of day,” she called.
Dean walked across to the small fence separating the houses. “I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?”
She snorted. “Can’t be certain, but I’d bet good money he’s at Eddie’s Bar.” Her eyes raked Radcliffe’s ill-kept yard disapprovingly. “Might as well take shares in the place; spends more time there than at his own home.”
She gave Dean directions, and ten minutes later, he walked into an unpretentious room, thankfully with subdued lighting. A handful of early lunchers sat on barstools eating chili from large bowls, while a pool game was under way at the far end of the room.
Dean walked up to the bar.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a square face and belligerent jaw.
“I’m looking for Jake Radcliffe.”
The bartender eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your business with Jake?”
“Old friend,” Dean explained pleasantly. “Wanted to look him up, see how he’s been doing since they let him go from the Enquirer.”
Another suspicious look, then the bartender nodded toward a table at the far side of the room where a man sat alone, a bottle of whiskey before him. “He’s over there.”
Dean nodded his thanks and made his way to the table. “Jake Radcliffe?”
The man at the table must have been in his mid-fifties, of medium height and build with wavy, gray-streaked brown hair that flowed to his shoulders and a wide, drooping mustache. He looked more like Wild Bill Hickok than the ex-editor of a newspaper. When he looked up, he revealed a drinker’s red-rimmed, watery eyes.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Danny Sinclair.” Dean fished out his I.D. and flashed it quickly. “I’m a private investigator looking into the June 6 murders.”
Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“You sure? I read your editorial in the Enquirer.”
Radcliffe grunted. “That editorial got me canned.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true, though, does it?”
Radcliffe barked a laugh, considered Dean for a long moment, then gestured to a chair opposite him. “Sit down, son. Drink?”
Dean shook his head and sank gratefully into the seat. “No, thanks. I’d like to hear about that cover-up, though.”
Radcliffe laughed bitterly. “Why? Don’t tell me you actually believe me.”
Dean shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve seen some strange things in my time.”
Radcliffe drained his glass and poured another. He waved it at Dean in a salute. “If everyone had your attitude, son, the world’d be a better place.”
Either that, or everyone would be a nutjob. Trying to ignore the persistent drumming in his head, Dean waited patiently for him to continue.
“I didn’t make that stuff up, you know,” Radcliffe said after a few sips of whiskey. “I had an informant in the coroner’s office.”
“What did they tell you?”
Jake hesitated, then shrugged. “Guess there’s no harm in telling you now. He’s moved on, and I’ve nothing more to lose.” He snorted. “Plus, I’d just deny it, if you told anyone.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The first victim, Karen Miller, she was shot through the heart. Bullet came right out the other side.”
“Yeah, I know that already.”
“Patience, son. The next one, they found a hole where the bullet went in, but no exit wound. The bullet went in, but it never came out.”
“So? What’s so unusual about that?” Dean was trying for patience, but he didn’t have all day for the old drunk to get to the point.
Radcliffe whispered, “They never found the bullet.”
Dean stilled. “They never… What do you mean?”
“What I said. They took the body apart, but there was no sign of the bullet. And it was the same with the next two.”
Dean frowned. “Neither of the others had exit wounds either?”
“Nope.” Radcliffe sat back and folded his arms. “They took those bodies apart too. Nothing. If there was a bullet, it disappeared into thin air.”
Dean studied him, wondering if he was being had, but Radcliffe seemed sincere. “So, what did they think happened?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Radcliffe said. “They don’t know. That’s why there’s a cover-up. They don’t know, and what they don’t know, they don’t admit.”
Dean folded his arms and studied Radcliffe speculatively. “So, what do you think?”
Radcliffe licked his lips and glanced around before whispering, “Aliens.”
“Aliens,” Dean repeated, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
“What else? My best guess is the bullets were made of some extraterrestrial metal that melted in the body. It’s the only explanation, ain’t it?”
Not quite, but Dean wasn’t about to share his own thoughts on the subject.
“Well, thanks for your honesty, Mr. Radcliffe,” he said.
Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I believe there was a cover-up,” Dean said honestly. “I’m just not sure about your explanation - you have to admit, aliens are a bit of a stretch.”
“Maybe,” Radcliffe conceded. “But I’ve seen things. Have a drink, I’ll tell you some stuff that’ll make your hair curl.”
Dean stood up. “Thanks, but I can’t stay. Some other time. Thanks for the help.”
He took his leave and headed to the car.
Chapter7
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
by Swanseajill
Chapter 6
Sam jerked awake, panicking as he tried and failed to draw in a breath, eyes popping open in alarm to semidarkness. He breathed in again, this time through his nose, and relief flooded him as oxygen entered his system.
As full awareness returned, he realized that his mouth was firmly sealed shut with something - his money was on duct tape. He sat on a heavy wooden chair, ankles and wrists securely tied to its arms and legs with sturdy nylon cord.
Memories returned of a scuffle in the parking lot, the prick of a needle in his neck. He had no idea what had been in that shot, but his head pounded, he felt slightly nauseous and his mouth tasted like he’d chewed on one of Dean’s week-old socks.
Sam blinked grit from his eyes, and looked around. The chair sat in the middle of a large, dimly lit room, the only light leaking thinly from a slit in the thick drapes drawn across the windows. He could make out shadowy shapes of furniture and bare wooden walls and floors.
His boots and jacket were gone, but his watch was still on his wrist. The illuminated figures showed five a.m.
He was angry with himself for turning his back on an almost total stranger. True, there had been no reason to suspect the man; nothing in their previous meeting had sounded a warning note. Still, he knew better.
His abduction had to be related to the case - it was too much of a coincidence otherwise. Had he and Dean inadvertently stumbled over the truth? Had he been taken to stop him from talking? They knew next to nothing at this point, but it was possible someone thought otherwise. If so, maybe Dean was here, similarly tied and gagged. His eyes searched the room, but even in the semidarkness, he could see that he was alone. Maybe Dean hadn’t been abducted. Maybe… No. His mind shied away from the alternative.
There might be another explanation. What if he was the next intended victim? As far as he could tell, a flesh-and-blood human being had taken him, and unless the man turned out to be a shapeshifter or some other monster in disguise, then it looked as if Dad and Dean were wrong - they were dealing with a straightforward serial killer after all. But why? Why him, and why all the others in particular?
Sam’s head ached trying to think about it, so he set the mystery aside and focused instead on the knowledge that if Dean were still free, he’d discover that Sam was missing very soon and wouldn’t rest until he found him. It was comforting. Sure, he was an adult now and could look after himself - had made a point of leaving for college to prove he was his own man - but always in the back of his mind had been the certainty that his big brother would always protect him, always save him, as he had when they were kids.
But Dean was sick and, if the newspaper report was correct, likely to get sicker very quickly. He was in no condition to solve a case for which he had no leads, and although Sam knew Dean would push himself beyond his limits, his brother wasn’t Superman.
Sam bit his lip. This time, he couldn’t rely on Dean saving him. He could sit here, helpless, and wait for the killer to return, or he could find a way out of this mess.
He set his jaw and began to strain against his bonds.
…………………………………
After two hours’ straight research in the local library, Dean conceded defeat.
Taking as his starting point the premise that the murders had been carried out by a supernatural being or monster, he’d hit the library to search its records for information on any strange sightings or similar deaths in the past - anything that might give him a clue what he was dealing with.
He’d been the first through the doors when the small library opened, and within ten minutes, thanks to a motherly woman who’d adopted him as soon as he flashed his most winning smile, was settled at a table in the most dimly lit corner, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and historical accounts dating back to the previous century.
Some of the material was stored on microfiche, which had proved a challenge physically. He’d struggled to concentrate as the small letters swarmed confusingly across the page, eyes burning and head pounding as he tried to make out the words. Several times nausea had welled up, sending him to the bathroom to dry heave until his body trembled with weakness and fatigue.
He’d fought through the discomfort to the end result - nothing. Zilch. Nada. Springwood should win a prize as the most boring and law-abiding town in Colorado. There had been no sightings of strange monsters stalking hikers in the woods and no mysterious, unsolved murders. He found a few suicides and a couple of domestic violence cases, but nothing that would point even vaguely in the direction of a clue to what he was facing.
Frustrated, he headed back to the motel and let himself into his and Sam’s room, swallowing the quick burst of disappointment that it was empty. Some part of him had apparently hoped that Sam might be there.
With a sigh, he sank down on the desk chair and briefly rested his head in his hands. The constant struggle against the ever-present and almost debilitating headache was using up the small amount of energy he had. His forehead felt warm, and he registered that his whole body was hot and feverish.
He shot one longing look at the bed and then tore his eyes away, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind. There was no time to rest. It was already 11:30 a.m. - only ten hours to go before the deadline.
He scanned the desk and noticed Sam’s notebook. He quickly skimmed through the notes Sam had made the night before, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of this before, but there was nothing new. Then, at the bottom, he found a curious note: “Jake Radcliffe, Colorado Enquirer, 08/26/07. Possible cover-up - worth checking out, but probably just a nutjob.”
Dean frowned. He switched on the laptop and looked up the Colorado Enquirer. A quick glance at some of the news stories showed him why Sam’s note sounded skeptical. “Strange craft sighted over San Juan Mountains.” “Kennedy assassination precursor to alien invasion.” A little more digging unearthed the editorial Sam had referred to.
“I have been informed by a reliable source that the FBI covered up important facts in not only the Anderson case, but the three previous connected cases. These facts, uncovered during autopsy, point to an extraterrestrial cause for the murders.”
Dean sat back, considering. Sam was right. Radcliffe was at least a few pancakes short of a stack. Still, it was possible that he’d stumbled onto something important - not alien but supernatural activity.
He had nothing else to go on, so he had nothing to lose.
More research revealed that the newspaper had axed Radcliffe not long after the article was printed. Posing as Radcliffe’s nephew, Dean sweet-talked a secretary at the paper into giving him the ex-editor’s address.
As quickly as his aching muscles would allow he changed into a suit, fumbled a tie into an approximation of a knot and left the motel.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of Number 96 Magnolia Drive, a small house in a modest suburb. The houses around showed signs of age, but most had neat, well-maintained yards. Radcliffe’s stuck out as an eyesore amongst them. It was badly tended, weeds growing rampant through cracks in the paving stones and the faded paint on the gate peeling.
Dean got out of the car, swaying as a wave of dizziness threatened to drop him face first onto the pavement. He held tightly to the doorframe until the feeling passed, then walked up the short path to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. The drapes were open, so he peered through the window of the rooms to the left and right of the door, but there was no sign of life. Frustrated, he was raising his hand to knock a third time when the front door of number 97 opened, and a middle-aged woman in a floral housecoat and slippers looked out.
“You won’t find him in this time of day,” she called.
Dean walked across to the small fence separating the houses. “I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?”
She snorted. “Can’t be certain, but I’d bet good money he’s at Eddie’s Bar.” Her eyes raked Radcliffe’s ill-kept yard disapprovingly. “Might as well take shares in the place; spends more time there than at his own home.”
She gave Dean directions, and ten minutes later, he walked into an unpretentious room, thankfully with subdued lighting. A handful of early lunchers sat on barstools eating chili from large bowls, while a pool game was under way at the far end of the room.
Dean walked up to the bar.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a square face and belligerent jaw.
“I’m looking for Jake Radcliffe.”
The bartender eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your business with Jake?”
“Old friend,” Dean explained pleasantly. “Wanted to look him up, see how he’s been doing since they let him go from the Enquirer.”
Another suspicious look, then the bartender nodded toward a table at the far side of the room where a man sat alone, a bottle of whiskey before him. “He’s over there.”
Dean nodded his thanks and made his way to the table. “Jake Radcliffe?”
The man at the table must have been in his mid-fifties, of medium height and build with wavy, gray-streaked brown hair that flowed to his shoulders and a wide, drooping mustache. He looked more like Wild Bill Hickok than the ex-editor of a newspaper. When he looked up, he revealed a drinker’s red-rimmed, watery eyes.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Danny Sinclair.” Dean fished out his I.D. and flashed it quickly. “I’m a private investigator looking into the June 6 murders.”
Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“You sure? I read your editorial in the Enquirer.”
Radcliffe grunted. “That editorial got me canned.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true, though, does it?”
Radcliffe barked a laugh, considered Dean for a long moment, then gestured to a chair opposite him. “Sit down, son. Drink?”
Dean shook his head and sank gratefully into the seat. “No, thanks. I’d like to hear about that cover-up, though.”
Radcliffe laughed bitterly. “Why? Don’t tell me you actually believe me.”
Dean shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve seen some strange things in my time.”
Radcliffe drained his glass and poured another. He waved it at Dean in a salute. “If everyone had your attitude, son, the world’d be a better place.”
Either that, or everyone would be a nutjob. Trying to ignore the persistent drumming in his head, Dean waited patiently for him to continue.
“I didn’t make that stuff up, you know,” Radcliffe said after a few sips of whiskey. “I had an informant in the coroner’s office.”
“What did they tell you?”
Jake hesitated, then shrugged. “Guess there’s no harm in telling you now. He’s moved on, and I’ve nothing more to lose.” He snorted. “Plus, I’d just deny it, if you told anyone.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The first victim, Karen Miller, she was shot through the heart. Bullet came right out the other side.”
“Yeah, I know that already.”
“Patience, son. The next one, they found a hole where the bullet went in, but no exit wound. The bullet went in, but it never came out.”
“So? What’s so unusual about that?” Dean was trying for patience, but he didn’t have all day for the old drunk to get to the point.
Radcliffe whispered, “They never found the bullet.”
Dean stilled. “They never… What do you mean?”
“What I said. They took the body apart, but there was no sign of the bullet. And it was the same with the next two.”
Dean frowned. “Neither of the others had exit wounds either?”
“Nope.” Radcliffe sat back and folded his arms. “They took those bodies apart too. Nothing. If there was a bullet, it disappeared into thin air.”
Dean studied him, wondering if he was being had, but Radcliffe seemed sincere. “So, what did they think happened?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Radcliffe said. “They don’t know. That’s why there’s a cover-up. They don’t know, and what they don’t know, they don’t admit.”
Dean folded his arms and studied Radcliffe speculatively. “So, what do you think?”
Radcliffe licked his lips and glanced around before whispering, “Aliens.”
“Aliens,” Dean repeated, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
“What else? My best guess is the bullets were made of some extraterrestrial metal that melted in the body. It’s the only explanation, ain’t it?”
Not quite, but Dean wasn’t about to share his own thoughts on the subject.
“Well, thanks for your honesty, Mr. Radcliffe,” he said.
Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I believe there was a cover-up,” Dean said honestly. “I’m just not sure about your explanation - you have to admit, aliens are a bit of a stretch.”
“Maybe,” Radcliffe conceded. “But I’ve seen things. Have a drink, I’ll tell you some stuff that’ll make your hair curl.”
Dean stood up. “Thanks, but I can’t stay. Some other time. Thanks for the help.”
He took his leave and headed to the car.
Chapter7
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5