Nevermore (22 page)

Dean went straight for the window, pausing to turn around for only a second. “Stay with that jackass!” he said to Sam, pointing at Mackey, who was stumbling into the room, brushing dust off his polyester suit. Dean also caught sight of several pieces of ripped-up hardwood and bits of wormwood.

He turned and climbed through the window.

How the hell did we miss this?
If he was remembering the Poe story right, the victim was killed and cut into pieces and buried under the fl oorboards. It was “The Tell-Tale Heart,” one of the good ones—if nothing else, it was
short
. Did their bad guy commit murder quietly?

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225

That was a question for later. Right now he had a scumbag to catch. The dark figure was already on the 199th Street sidewalk. Dean squeezed himself into the tiny opening that took him to the metal ladder that went down to the street.

His feet hit the pavement and Dean bent his knees with the impact. Turning, he saw that his prey had run up to the next

street—Decatur

Avenue—and turned left. Dean gave chase, thrilled to have some action after sitting on his ass for so long. As he ran up the hill to the next street, he started going over the different ways he was going to kick this guy’s ass, especially since he’d managed to commit
another
murder right under their noses.

As soon as he got to the corner of 199th and Decatur, however, headlights shone right in his face. Holding up one arm to protect his eyes, Dean raised his pistol with the other, but the car attached to the headlights was moving toward him down Decatur.

Dean couldn’t see anybody on the street as the car zoomed past, and between the headlights and the darkness—it was a new moon, and there weren’t that many streetlights around here—he couldn’t

make out anything distinctive about the car, beyond the fact that it was a dark sedan.

“Dammit!” he screamed, not caring who noticed him right now.

226 SUPERNATURAL

Dean went back to the building and climbed back up the fire escape. Going in the front door would risk another confrontation with Omar, and he didn’t trust himself not to just shoot the bastard in the mood he was in.

Of course, Artie Mackey was another story.

Climbing back in through the window, Dean said before Sam could ask: “I lost him.”

“Blast,” Mackey said.

Sam looked at Mackey. “I didn’t think anybody said that outside of comic books.” Mackey shrugged. “I have two children, so I endeavor to use proper language. It’s a pity you weren’t able to apprehend our killer.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, not putting his pistol away,

“well, if you hadn’t barreled in like a rank
amateur,
Artie, we might’ve caught the bastard.” Again, Mackey looked like he’d been slapped, which was the least of what Dean wanted to do to him. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“Beg all you want, you ain’t gettin’ it. We’d’ve
had
the mother if we weren’t so busy tripping over you—

or if we coulda snuck in quiet-like. Now someone’s dead.” Dean held up his pistol and pointed it at Mackey. “Any reason why I shouldn’t make you
just
as dead, Artie?”

A sheen of sweat beaded on Mackey’s high forehead. “Look, it’s hardly my fault—”

“Dean.” That was Sam’s insistent voice.

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227

“What?”

“We couldn’t have saved anyone.”

“The hell’s
that
supposed to—”

“These remains—they’ve been here for
days
.” Mackey looked over at Sam. “What?” Dean lowered his pistol and put it back in his jeans. The metal of the barrel felt cold on the small of his back.

He peered down under the floorboards that had been ripped up. A rotten meat smell came crashing down on him, and he had to turn away, but not before he saw a lot of individual body parts, all cut to pieces and rotting.

“You’re right,” Mackey said, “that poor unfortunate was killed several days ago.” He shook his head. “But that makes no sense. The wormwood’s fresh, and tonight’s the new moon.” Sam looked like a lightbulb went off over his head. “It makes perfect sense.”

“How?” Dean asked. “The guy in the brick wall was killed on the full moon, and the kids got beat up by the monkey on the last quarter, right?” Sam shook his head and started gesturing emphatically. “Yeah, but the critical moments in those two stories were the deaths. In ‘Rue Morgue,’ the climax is revealing that the orangutan did it. In

‘Amontillado,’ it’s bricking Fortunato up. But in

‘Tell-Tale Heart’—”

“Of course!” Mackey exclaimed. “It isn’t the old 228 SUPERNATURAL

man’s murder that provides the story’s climax, but rather when the murderer rips up the fl oorboards to reveal the sliced-up corpse!” Nodding at Mackey, Sam then looked at Dean.

“That’s what he was re-creating.”

“Whoever
he
is.” Dean glared at Mackey.

“Thanks to you, we’ll never—”

Holding up both gloved hands, Mackey said,

“All right, that’s quite enough. I don’t even know who you two
are,
and—”

“I’m Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Dean.” Dean shot his brother an annoyed glance. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to start sharing anything with this nimrod.

But then Mackey’s jaw fell open. “Oh, good heavens—you two are the Winchester brothers? I must say, it’s an honor to meet you! I’ve heard so much about the pair of you—and, of course, I’ve met your father. Strange man, he is.” The brothers exchanged another glance. Somehow, this latest revelation wasn’t much of a surprise.

“I must say, everything I’ve heard about you two is good—and tonight would seem to bear that out, especially given how easily you got the drop on me.” Mackey clapped his hands, which made a slapping sound as latex hit latex. “Well, I wish you’d said something sooner. I’d have gladly de-Nevermore

229

faulted to a pair of veteran hunters such as yourselves. I’m afraid I’m more of a researcher than a field man, but when I saw these Poe-related murders happening, I had to act. It’s rather my spe-cialty, after all. Besides, it’s not as if the police believed me.”

Dean pointedly ignored the I-told-you-so look Sam was giving him.

“And you say that this spell is a fake, eh?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “Samuels was running a scam. Only really stupid and gullible people believed it,” he added pointedly.

Sam took out his Treo.

“Who you calling?” Dean asked.

“McBain. No sense in her sitting around anymore.”

“You know Detective McBain?” Mackey asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, “she’s checking at Fordham Road and—”

“What, at St. Nicholas of Tolentine?” Mackey laughed, which sounded to Dean like a squirrel dying. Or maybe Manfred Afi ri’s singing voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The sigil at that intersection is the last one. If the sigil isn’t traced in the proper order, the resurrection won’t work.”

“It won’t work no matter what,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

“None of our documentation said that,” Sam said, 230 SUPERNATURAL

then talked into the phone. “Detective McBain? Sam Winchester. I’ve got good news and bad news.” While Sam filled McBain in, Dean looked again at the ripped-up floorboards. Then he went over to the window, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Gimme a hand here, Artie.”

“What is it you’re—oh, I see, you’re eliminating fingerprint traces. You know, for someone who called
me
an amateur, I’m rather surprised you don’t take so simple a precaution as gloves.” Dean focused on wiping the entire windowsill and ignoring Mackey’s barb. The fact was, he
hated
rubber gloves, and they seriously messed with his ability to use the gun. Wiping the sill probably got rid of the bad guy’s prints, too, but he would have to live with that. As he wiped, he asked, “Hey, Artie, you said you have kids?”

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t do much in the fi eld. Can’t leave the kids fatherless, now, can I?”

Somehow, Dean forced himself not to react.

When Mackey had mentioned Dad, it was in the present tense, so he didn’t know about Dad’s death.

Not that he was about to go all chick-fl ick sharing with Mackey now. In fact, he still considered shooting the twerp in the head to be a viable option.

Sam put away his Treo. “McBain said to meet her where she is.”

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“To do what?” Dean asked.

“Work out our next move.”

Dean snarled. “Oh, come on, Sammy, it’s bad enough we got
Masterpiece Theatre
here, but now we gotta have the Cop Who Came to Din-ner?”

All that got him was the patented Sam Winchester Glare of Outraged Confusion, and Dean just waved him off and said, “Fine, what-the-hell-ever.” But he didn’t like how crowded this was getting. Every time they added someone to the mix, it went badly: Jo in Philadelphia; Gordon the Vampire Slayer in Montana; hell, even when they hooked up with Dad it went south.

But Sammy had to be Mr. Share and Care Alike, so he just let it go.

They went downstairs, Mackey closing the door to 2B behind him, since he had the stupid gloves, and then they drove—Sam and Dean in the Impala, Mackey in a beat-up old Civic—to Fordham Road and MLK Boulevard. Sam found a spot to park on Fordham, and McBain was waiting for them at the gate to the park, which was closed and locked at this late hour. Unlike the nice suit she wore the other night, this time she was dressed in a snug-fitting John Jay College of Criminal Justice sweatshirt and blue jeans, a wool topcoat over it covering her shoulder holster.

232 SUPERNATURAL

Fordham was a major thoroughfare, and the intersection was a wide one, with plenty of cars about even this late at night. One corner was dominated by a huge gray, two-towered church prominently proclaiming that it was celebrating its hundredth birthday this year.

Without preamble McBain said, “
Please
tell me you guys wiped the place down.”

“We didn’t touch or bleed on anything,” Sam said, holding up his hands defensively.

“Except the windowsill,” Dean said, “and I wiped that down.”

“Er,” Mackey said, “I wore gloves.” McBain noticed Mackey for the fi rst time.

“Arthur, what the
hell
’re you doin’ here?”

“You know this guy?” Dean asked.

“He’s the one who tipped me off to this nonsense in the first place.” She glared down at him.

“He
also
said he wasn’t gonna get involved.” Mackey scuffed a toe on the sidewalk. “Yes, well, I could hardly just sit around, could I?”

“Yeah, actually, you coulda.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the way Mackey tried to make himself smaller. But the smile fell in short order, since they

were basically screwed.

“Look, we got nothin’ now. It’s another eight freak in’ days until the first quarter, and we don’t have jack.”

“Well, since you guys didn’t contaminate the Nevermore

233

crime scene
too
much, I’ll call it in. Maybe the lab’ll get somethin’.” McBain sighed. “Wouldn’t count on it, though. Lab’s backed up to next year. Only crime scene that’s got any kinda priority is the two kids,

’cause the university’s leanin’ on us, but there ain’t nothin’ more useless than an outdoor scene on a windy night. But Reyes and whoever you two just found, that’ll take weeks to process.” Smirking, Dean said, “So what it boils down to is—we don’t have jack.”

“Yeah, brushy-top, we got jack, happy?”

“Not really. Only thing we know for sure is that the last part’s happenin’ next Tuesday somewhere at this intersection,” he pointed to the road behind him, “and no idea who. Hell, until tonight, this guy,” now he pointed at Mackey, “was who I had my money on.”

“Thanks
so
much,” Mackey muttered.

McBain shook her head. “Nah, I coulda told you he was a bum lead. I’ve known this guy for years.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve known you for two and a half seconds,” Dean said, “and I’m still not convinced that he wasn’t working with our guy.”

“I tried to
aid
you!” Mackey’s voice went all squeaky.

Sam, finally, spoke up. “And mostly you got in our way. I’m sorry, Mr. Mackey, but you fi t the profile. You’re obsessed with Poe, you—” 234 SUPERNATURAL

“I am not
obsessed
. Yes, I’ve studied Poe quite a bit, that doesn’t make me homicidal. Or will you go after every academic who’s studied Poe’s life in far greater depth than I can in a simple website?” He shook his head. “In fact, one of them has been sending me e-mails, telling me that it’s all a coincidence.”

That got Dean’s attention. “Who has?”

“Someone at Fordham, actually—a nineteenth-century literature scholar over there. Ironic, since it was in one of his papers that I first found out about Percival Samuels, though that only discussed him as one of many spiritualists.” Dean looked at Sam. “Sounds like someone we should talk to.”

McBain looked at them. “What, you’re just gonna waltz onto the campus and talk to this guy?” Mackey said quietly, “Er, his name is Dr. Ross Vincent.”

“Fine.” Dean shrugged. “We’ll go in, say we’re with the ‘Journal of Poe Studies’ or something.” Rolling her eyes, McBain said, “You guys really suck at this, don’t you?”

“What’s the problem?” Sam asked.

“He’s an academic, dumbass, he’s gonna know everyone from the journals.”

Dean said, “Then we’ll go as cops.” At that, McBain burst out laughing. “You two.

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As
cops
. Right. Tell me, brushy-top—how have

you two managed not to be dead, exactly?” Bristling, Dean said, “We’ve been doing just
fi ne,
thanks. And I wish—” Sam cut him off, which was probably a good idea, since McBain was also armed, and her gun was in a nice easy- to-access shoulder holster instead of tucked in her pants, so she could probably draw faster than he could. “We usually don’t stick around long enough for people to check our credentials.” Sam smiled. “Or, by the time they do, things have gotten bad enough that they’re more concerned with getting our help than who we are.”