Against the Clock 7/13 (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, Casefic)
Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Chapter 7
Back at the motel, Dean wearily sank down at the desk, sure that the adrenaline rush that always accompanied a breakthrough in a case was all that was keeping his aching body going.
The information gleaned from Radcliffe was important. He could feel it. It might even be the key to uncovering the truth.
He gritted his teeth against the various pains radiating through his body and washed two more Tylenol down with a bottle of Gatorade. Then he put the machine on for coffee. Caffeine wasn’t the best idea to combat the raging headache - Sam probably would have insisted on something foul, like chamomile tea - but he needed the stimulant to keep functioning.
He sat back down, wishing like hell that Sam were with him to toss around theories. Since they’d been back on the road together, he’d come to rely on Sam’s input. Their differing styles of working a case meshed perfectly. Sam was patient, logical and methodical, while he was more impulsive, intuitive and instinctive - together, they formed a formidable team.
Apart, Dean felt like half of a whole.
He firmly pushed away the constant, nagging fear for Sam that had been in the back of his mind since he’d discovered his brother missing. He needed to focus, treat this as if it were any case. He didn’t have time to indulge in emotion. Sam didn’t have time.
“Okay,” he said aloud, figuring he could at least pretend Sam was there. “Let’s look at this logically, Mr. Spock. It all started with Karen. Why? Why her?” There was no obvious answer to that one. “So, let’s look at it from another angle. What’s different about Karen than the other victims?” He began ticking the points off on his fingers. “One, Karen was the only woman. Two, she was killed with a bullet to the heart like the others, but it was a through and through, and they found the bullet - no reason to assume anything unusual about her death. The others were different, possibly supernatural.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “So maybe Karen was murdered by a flesh-and-blood killer, like everyone says. But what if her spirit’s still out there, killing others in revenge for her own murder?”
He ran the theory around in his mind for a while. He had not a scrap of proof, but the more he thought about it, the more his instincts told him he was right.
“So,” he said aloud once more, “how is Karen choosing her victims?”
He gathered up the photos of the victims and laid them out side by side on the desk. Same age and sex, but there were no physical similarities. Scott Griffin had short, spiky, dyed-blond hair; Del Mason sported a military crew cut; and Vic Anderson had longish, untidy, dark brown hair. So, if the connection wasn’t physical resemblance, what else did they have in common? That was the key. He was sure that if he could find the common link, he would know why Sam had been taken.
He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand across his forehead. Every thought reverberated around his aching head, and he felt nausea building again. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and leaned forward on the desk, resting his head on his arms.
After a few moments, the nausea lessened, and the thumping retreated to a more manageable level.
Dean stood up, fighting the vertigo that accompanied the movement, and walked unsteadily over to the coffee machine. Despite the heat radiating from his body, a chill ran through him and he poured himself a mug and took a few sips of the strong, hot liquid. He needed to work out his next move. Should he check out the quarry, just in case everyone was wrong and that was the killing site? Because if it wasn’t, he had no idea how the spirit was moving the bodies.
Then a thought occurred to him that was so obvious, he was angry with himself for not thinking of it sooner. If Karen was the killer, all he had to do was salt and burn her bones. He could work out where Sam was later.
The plan made him feel better; it was good to know that there was something concrete he could do. All he needed was to find out where she was buried. He turned to the computer, but the thought of switching it on made him queasy, given how he’d felt the last time he’d used it.
He suddenly remembered Rachel, Art Jackson’s granddaughter. “I’ve been doing some work on the cases, and I’ve compiled a lot of information.” Rachel might have the information he needed to find Sam.
The last thing he wanted was to bring an inquisitive journalist in on the investigation, but the clock was ticking. He rummaged around on the desk and finally found the card she had given Sam. After a slight hesitation, he flipped open his cell.
“Rachel Jackson,” a bright voice answered.
“Rachel, hi,” Dean said, putting a smile in his voice. “This is Danny Sinclair. We met yesterday-”
Her tone hardened. “Oh, yes. Mr. We-work-better-alone. I remember. Have you solved the case yet?”
Dean sighed. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “Not exactly, no. Listen Rachel, there’s some information we need, and I was wondering--”
“If I’d let you have a look at my research?”
“Ah - yeah.”
There was a long silence. Then she said, “You weren’t very interested in it yesterday.”
“Yeah, well that was before…” Dean hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry if I was rude, but I really need your help. I was hoping we could meet and compare notes.”
He didn’t have to fake the desperation in his tone, and after a moment, she said, “All right. But there has to be something in it for me. I want exclusive rights to anything you find. That means you don’t share with any reporters but me.”
“You got it.”
“Good. I can meet you in about thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes sounded like forever. “You can’t make it right now?”
“Don’t push it, hotshot. Three p.m. at the Baker’s Dozen on North Main. Think you can find it?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
“See you then.”
………………………
At five before three Dean pushed open the door of the Baker’s Dozen, a homely bakery and coffee shop on the corner of a downtown side street about a hundred yards from where Rachel worked. Rachel had just walked in. He knew because he’d been sitting in the car outside for the past fifteen minutes.
He spotted her at a corner table and walked over, holding up a slim folder of papers. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
She raised an eyebrow, smiled and waved a bulging folder held together with an elastic band.
Dena grimaced. “You win. How about, you show me yours, and I’ll buy you coffee and pie?”
She looked at him long and hard, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Make that a slice of Betty’s homemade pecan, and you have yourself a deal.”
Dean took a seat across from her, thankful that she seemed to have eased up a little. He beckoned a passing waiter, and ordered two coffees and a slice of pie.
Rachel eyed him speculatively. “You’re not having pie?”
“Not right now.”
She pursed her lips. “I’d have definitely put you down as the pie type.”
He smiled, impressed with her perception. Well, she was a reporter, after all. “What, I’ve got ‘give me pie’ tattooed on my forehead?”
Rachel smiled back. Definitely easing up. “You might as well have.”
“Well, you’re right,” he said. “Just not today.”
Rachel nodded. “You’re sick.”
Dean nodded wearily, not bothering to deny it.
Frankly, if he’d felt like crap before, now he felt like a whole town’s worth of crap had been shoveled together and dumped on him. The headache pulsed fiercely over his right temple, as if someone was trying to drill a hole through his skull. The simple act of breathing spiked pain through his throat. Every movement sent slivers of pain through his back and his skin was burning and sensitive to the touch. It didn’t help that the usually delicious aromas of fresh-cooked bread and pie made him want to throw up, and puking all over Rachel wouldn't be the best way to get on her good side.
“Thought so,” Rachel said. “Grandpa was right. You looked sick yesterday. Now you look like crap.”
“Thanks,” he said wryly. “Anyone ever tell you, you have the best pick-up lines?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Seriously, if you have this virus that’s going round, you should be in bed,” she said and went on quickly, clearly anticipating a comeback. “And that wasn’t an invitation.”
Dean managed a half-smile. “You’re probably right, but I don’t have time to be sick.” He nodded at the folder on the table in front of her. “Now, how about you show me what you’ve put together on the cases?”
“Okay.” She pulled off the elastic band. A stack of photographs sat on top.
Dean picked them up and began to scan them. The first was Karen Miller, the second Karen with her husband Randall. The third was a man in his mid-twenties, tall with wavy, dark hair falling into his eyes. He reminded Dean of Sam. “Who’s this?”
Rachel peered at the photo. “That’s Del Mason.”
“Del Mason?”
“One of the victims.”
“I know who Del Mason is,” he said impatiently. “But he looks different - he had a military cut in the newspaper clipping.”
Rachel nodded. “They used his army photo for that - the editor thought it made the whole story seem more tragic. You know, ‘War veteran brutally murdered’ sounds more dramatic than ‘car mechanic found dead.’” She sounded as if she didn’t approve.
Dean felt a stirring in his gut. This was important. “So… when he was killed, this is how he looked?”
She looked at him quizzically. “Yes. Does it matter?”
“You have no idea.” It changed everything. The man seen with Karen on the day of her murder had long, dark brown hair. Now, two of the three victims matched that description. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Excitement mounting, he pulled out the picture of Scott Griffin, Rachel’s cousin - the odd one out with the spiky, dyed blond hair. “Is this how Scott looked when he died?”
She shook her head. “No. This photo was taken six months before his death. He was going out with a girl who had a thing against blonds - her ex was a blond, or something. Scott was really into her, so he grew his hair out.” She smiled, then a spasm of pain crossed her face. “Scott was a bit of a rebel, but he was starting to straighten himself out. He’d got a full-time job and everything.” She stopped and looked away, biting her lip.
Dean gave her a moment, then asked quietly, “So I’m betting that when he died, he had long, dark brown hair?” It made sense -- if the mystery man was Karen’s killer, her spirit would pick men who looked like him.
Rachel shook her head. “I know where you’re going with this. You think all the victims have a similar appearance. But that doesn’t make sense, because that makes Karen the odd one out.”
“And that’s the whole point,” Dean said.
“I don’t understand.”
Dean was faced with a dilemma. Rachel seemed to be a shrewd woman, and he doubted he’d get much more help from her if she thought he was hiding something. There was no way he could explain his theory without telling her the truth.
Another time he might have walked away and got the information he needed by some other means. But time was running out.
He cleared his throat. “Look, Rachel, I have a theory about this, but if I’m going to tell you, there’s something else I need to tell you first.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re the murderer?”
“Hysterical.” He kept his expression bland, although a smile was tugging at his lips. He liked this girl, but although he’d usually have appreciated the opportunity to exchange banter with a quick-witted, attractive woman, now wasn’t the time.
“Sorry.” She smiled. “You look so serious. Just tell me, whatever it is.”
Dean hesitated. “I need you to promise you’ll keep quiet about what I tell you.”
“Uh uh.” Rachel vigorously shook her head. “This could be my big break. I can’t promise anything that’ll jeopardize the story.”
Dean considered. Once she knew the truth, she’d also know that if she pitched the story to her editor, she’d probably go the same way as Jake Radcliffe. “Okay,” he agreed. “When this is over, if you feel there’s a story you can pitch to your editor, you go ahead, so long as you leave me and my partner out of it. Deal?”
She looked at him closely, as if weighing his sincerity, then nodded. “Deal.”
“Okay. First off, my partner and I, we’re not private investigators,” he paused with a half-shrug. “Well, not in the way you think. We investigate… unusual cases. We kind of specialize in the supernatural.” He watched her closely as she took that in.
“You mean…,” she said slowly, “you’re like Mulder and Scully or something?”
“Something like that. We hunt ghosts, spirits, monsters … things that go bump in the night.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Dean looked at her seriously. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
She let out a long breath. “Okaaaay. So… what are you trying to tell me? You think a ghost killed all these people?”
“A spirit, yeah.”
“That’s… ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but it’s true.” He leaned forward. “Look, Rachel, I’ve told you all this because I need your help. My partner… he’s missing, and I think he’s been taken as the next victim. That means he’s only got a few hours left before...”
“Missing?” Rachel looked startled. “Since when?”
“Last night. He went out while I was sleeping. When I woke up there was no sign of him.”
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “So, when you say he’s your ‘partner’...”
“He’s my brother,” Dean explained impatiently.
“Oh.” She looked a little embarrassed at jumping to the wrong conclusion. “Sorry. Go on.”
“I found the car in a store parking lot, keys in the lock, groceries on the seat. No sign of Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Our names aren’t Wilde and Sinclair. My brother’s Sam. I’m Dean.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“Some of the things we have to do… aren’t exactly legal,” he explained. “And, well, let’s just say your average cop doesn’t stop to ask questions.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you telling me you’re wanted by the police?”
“Not exactly.” He wasn’t about to explain that Dean Winchester was recorded in the FBI’s files as a deceased serial killer. “Look, Sam and I are the good guys - you just have to trust me on that. I don’t have time to explain it all to you now.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay… Dean. I have no idea why, but I believe you. So tell me, what makes you think your brother is the next victim? It could be a coincidence.”
Dean shook his head. He pulled out the photos of the two victims and took one of Sam out of his wallet. It was an older picture, from Sam’s high-school graduation, but it was still clearly Sam. “Notice any similarities?”
“Well, yes - but what about Karen?”
“I think Karen’s spirit is the one killing these people,” Dean said, putting Sam’s photo away. “The dark-haired man seen with her the day before she died? I think he was her murderer, and now she’s trying to get revenge by killing men who look like him.”
Rachel stared at him. “That’s insane. You’re insane.”
“Probably,” Dean agreed. “But do you have anything to lose by listening to me?”
She was silent for a moment, and then shrugged. “I guess not. So you’re saying that Karen... that her spirit… is killing people who look like her killer. But… how could a spirit kidnap your brother?”
“I haven’t worked that bit out yet,” he admitted.
“And they were all killed by a bullet. Can spirits carry guns?”
“I can explain that, too.” He quickly told her about his meeting with Radcliffe’s information.
When he’d finished, she snorted. “I remember him ranting about alien conspiracies at the time, but no one in their right mind would listen to him. Dean, you can’t believe anything he says - he’s a total fruit loop.”
“Maybe,” Dean agreed, “But I think he’s right on this one.”
Rachel looked skeptical.
“Look,” he went on quickly, “there’s something I need to know. Does any of your research say where Karen was buried?”
Rachel frowned. “She wasn’t buried. She was cremated.”
Dean felt the ground sink beneath him. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Wait, let me check.” She flipped though the pile of papers until she came up with a three-page article. “Here, it says in her husband’s interview that he’d honored her wish to be cremated.” She paused and shot him a quizzical look. “Why, is it important?”
“If a body’s burned, it can’t come back as a spirit,” Dean explained.
“So it isn’t her?”
Dean chewed on his lip. “It has to be her. Nothing else makes any sense. I’m missing something.”
He took the article from her and immediately two pictures drew his attention. One was of the happy couple on their wedding day, staring blissfully into each other’s eyes. The other was of Randall, obviously taken after Karen’s death. He looked gaunt and lost, very different from the smiling man in the previous picture. Something caught Dean’s eye, and he looked more closely at the photo. There was something hanging around Randall’s neck. A glimmer of hope returned.
Dean pointed to the picture. “Rachel, does that look like a locket to you?”
She held the paper up and studied the picture, then nodded. “So, do you… Hey, I just remembered something.” She began reading through the article, then stabbed her finger at a paragraph at the end of the second page. “There! Listen to this: ‘I wanted to give Karen a proper burial. Cremation felt so permanent, somehow. But it was her wish, so I honored it. But I kept a lock of her hair. It may sound morbid, but I put it in this locket, and I’ll wear it every day for the rest of my life. It helps me feel that Karen is still close to my heart.’”
“When we interviewed him,” Dean said slowly, “he kept putting his hand to his heart every time her name was mentioned. He must have been wearing the locket under his sweater.”
“So - what does this mean?” Rachel asked.
“It means that Karen’s still the number one suspect. A spirit can be tied to this world if something of them remains - something like a lock of hair. And there’s something else.” He paused as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “I think her husband’s helping her.”
Rachel frowned. “Randall? That’s a real stretch. I interviewed him a couple of times. He seemed like a sweet, gentle man. I can’t imagine him hurting anyone.”
Another memory flashed through Dean’s mind, and he fished around in his jacket pocket. He held up the gold chain. “I found this in the parking lot where Sam was taken. I’m willing to bet it used to live around Randall’s neck.” As he spoke, he pictured the chain breaking as Randall struggled with Sam. In his hurry to get away, Randall must have picked up the precious locket but left behind the now useless chain.
He pushed away the question of how Randall could have subdued his younger, stronger victim, and turned his attention back to Rachel, who was looking at him doubtfully.
“But… why?” she asked. “Why would he do this? Why is he helping her kill innocent people?”
Dean shrugged. “Grief can do strange things, and if he loved her that much…” He paused as another memory stirred. “He said that he could still feel her with him. I thought that was just his grief talking, but what if it wasn’t? What if it really is her spirit he can feel?”
Rachel chewed on her lower lip, then shrugged. “Well, I’m not sure I’m convinced, but it’s the only lead we have, so we might as well go with it. What do you want to do next?”
“Go to his house, check it out.”
“Great,” Rachel said, standing up and gathering papers back into the file. “We’d better get moving then, if time’s running out.”
“Whoa.” Dean rose hurriedly. “What do you mean, ‘we’? I’m going to check it out. You’re not coming.”
She eyeballed him, hands on hips, jaw tilted forward in a pose that reminded him of Sam. “Oh, no you don’t. This could be my big break. You’re not leaving me out.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll be able to write about this? One mention of restless spirits, and you’ll be labeled a nutjob.”
“Maybe. But I still have to try.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, no matter what you say, I’ll just go on my own anyway.”
Dean groaned inwardly. Short of locking her up somewhere, there wasn’t much he could do. It would be safer to keep her with him. At least that way he’d be able to protect her should everything go to hell in a handbasket. “Okay, you can come.” He jabbed a finger at her. “But you do what I say, when I say. Got it?”
She rolled her eyes and saluted smartly. “Yes, Sir. Let’s go."
Chapter 8
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6