Witch's Canyon (32 page)

The fierce defense by the animal spirits was the best thing that had happened in hours, because it gave Dean hope that they were on the right track after all.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. He extended a hand to Baird, who grasped it with his own rough, workingman’s hand, and drew the old man to his feet. “Let’s burn us a witch.”

Baird chuckled again, the amusement still strong 302 SUPERNATURAL

in him. “Best invitation I’ve had all week,” he said.

“Hell, all month, it come to that.” Juliet Monroe shivered uncontrollably. She had never imagined anything so terrifying. She’d watched horror movies all her life, and read scary books, and she was present when a fatal automobile accident had strewn body parts all over a street corner and left behind a bloody streak that stayed for weeks.

None of those things, however, had affected her like the sight of two men she knew standing up and stepping away from their own dead bodies.

She tried to take slow, deep breaths, to calm the hammering of her heart and the quaking of her hands. Every time she did, the image of Howard Patrick walking toward her house came back to her, and her breathing became swift and shallow and every muscle in her body seemed to go into hyperactive mode. Sweat ran down her sides and collected at her hairline.

Although she was perspiring—maybe because of it—she felt cold, and decided to turn up the heat, if that was possible with no electricity. That meant going downstairs again, and downstairs was closer to where the not-Howard and not-Stu were, and she thought that if she saw them through the windows she would start screaming and never be able to stop.

But the longer she thought about it—and this was over the space of seconds, not minutes—the colder the house felt. Maybe something had happened to Witch’s

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the heat. Either way, she had to go to the thermostat at the base of the stairs.

Because she had drawn all the curtains, the house was dark. She flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing happened. She tried it a couple more times, down and up and down and up. Nothing. The power hadn’t magically restored itself.

She hurried down the stairs, trying to both look and not look at the living room window, where the curtains didn’t quite come together in the middle at the same time. That was hard to accomplish, so she found herself looking and glancing away, glancing and turning her head, until she reached the wall with the thermostat.

It was an old-fashioned kind where you pushed a tiny lever in the direction you wanted. She pushed it toward warmer and waited to hear the heat cycle on.

Nothing happened.

Well, she was in here for the long haul with whatever was in the house. There was a fi replace in the living room, with a few logs stacked on the hearth, but most were outside in the woodpile, where she couldn’t get to them. She had space heaters, which would do no good at all without electricity. She did have candles and matches, flashlights and blankets, even a battery-operated radio. No household in snow country should be without those things, even though the snow here rarely got deep enough to strand anyone for long. In the barn there was even a gasoline-powered generator. But she wasn’t about to go out to the barn with that wolf out there.

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And now, it seemed, its once-human allies.

She was downstairs now, but didn’t intend to stay there for long. She would live upstairs, where she could keep a better eye on the wolf, Stu, and Howard, and they would have less of a view of her. She gathered the things she thought she would want—the kitchen matches, a heavy-duty flashlight, and the portable radio. The radio didn’t have any batteries in it, but she had a bunch tossed into a coffee can on another pantry shelf. She fished some out and installed them on the kitchen counter.

Juliet was on her way back to the stairs when she heard a rattling at the front door.

She froze. From here, she could see the door. Anyone outside could take five steps to their right, look through the gap in the curtains and see her.

The doorknob turned, to the extent that it could with the knob latch locked. She had fastened the dead bolt, too. When she’d taken those measures, she felt like she was at least doing something, however small, that would help protect her.

Now, though, knowing that the wolf had fi gured out how to turn off her phone and electricity, knowing that it wasn’t a natural canine at all but some sort of monster with magical powers to raise the dead, it seemed unlikely that two simple mechanical devices could do much to keep it at bay.

The door rattled in its jamb, harder than before.

She could see it moving this time. Some small part of her had hoped that Stu and Howard—the ones that weren’t dead, not the ones still lying where the Witch’s

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wolf had left them—were just figments of some kind, without material form. But a canine couldn’t try to turn a doorknob and then use it to shake a door.

That could only mean the wolf’s allies had human shapes and human attributes. Solidity, maybe intelligence. So far she had heard no voices, but that might be next.

Before that could happen, she ran back upstairs.

Any sense of security she achieved by doing so would be fleeting. The doors up there had knob locks, but that was all, and they were flimsy interior doors.

At this moment, however, even a little security—

false security, if that’s what it was—seemed better than none at all.

She dashed back into her bedroom and closed the door, locking it behind her.

When that was done, she leaned her back against the door, her hands still full of the things she had brought upstairs. The flashlight remained on, even though plenty of light washed in through the open curtains. She liked the feeling of the hard wood against her back, though she knew it wasn’t thick or strong—the wolf’s claws could probably shred it, and a good swift kick would break it down. It was a barrier, though, and it offered the slightest little bit of emotional comfort. Juliet was surprised to discover that her tremors had passed. Once things had started happening, once she was acting instead of just reacting, she’d gained more control over herself.

She had just allowed herself a faint smile when she heard the living room window shatter.

THIRT Y-SIX

Unable to see what people were reacting to, Sam raced to the stairs and started down, unzipping his duffel bag as he went. When he was about a third of the way down, he could finally get a glimpse of it, through the crowd—most of which was running in his direction, expressions mixed between terror and outright panic. One of the sheriff’s deputies was screaming instructions at the top of his lungs, but Sam couldn’t make out his words over the frightened shrieks of the shoppers.

They ran from an Indian man wearing an open shirt, cavalry pants, and a red headband. The right side of his face was mostly missing—Sam guessed he’d been shot in the back of the head, and the exit wound had taken out his upper jaw and cheekbone.

In his hands he held a rifle, which he pointed into the crowd.

None of the other sheriff’s officers were in sight.

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With people flooding up the stairs and Sam trying to push through them, he couldn’t get a shot at the Indian. From this vantage point, he could only see one clear shot—from ground level, almost right beside where he was now. But by the time he could salmon his way down the stairs against the fl ow, the Indian would be able to get several shots off.

Which left him with just one choice. It would hurt, but Dad had drilled them over and over again on how to fall and come up shooting. He reached into the bag and brought out the sawed-off, then tossed the bag over the side. It hit with a heavy clank. He followed it over.

He fell straight down, landing on his feet, but pitched forward, rolling, head and weapon tucked safely, then came up into a steady crouch and aimed by instinct. When he squeezed the trigger, the rock salt shell blasted toward the Indian (his own fi nger tightening on the rifle’s trigger, its barrel aimed into the throng on the staircase). The window of a dress shop beside the Indian exploded, spraying glass inside and dropping big shards onto the mall’s walkway. But the rock salt did the trick, and the Indian blinked away before he could make his shot.

Snatching up the bag, Sam ducked beneath the slanting bottom of the staircase, which was partially blocked by decorated Christmas trees in large wooden planters. He shoved the shotgun back into it and zipped the bag again. Surely people would have seen him, but he hoped the sight of the dead Indian would make more of an impression.

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The sound of feedback from the P.A. system fi lled his ears, then Jim Beckett’s voice boomed from the speakers.

“Attention, everyone!” the sheriff called. “There’s been an incident near the east entrance to the mall, but it’s been dealt with. There is no risk to any of you except panic. Please, stop where you are, take a deep breath, and then look around you to see if any of your neighbors have fallen down or been hurt.” From underneath the staircase, Sam couldn’t watch the crowd’s reaction. From the sound of it, though, Beckett’s announcement might have made things worse, at least in the short term. It sounded like some people obeyed and stopped in their tracks, causing those who were still in motion to run into them.

“Halt!” Beckett ordered, yelling into the microphone. “Everyone just stand still, please!” This time the response sounded more orderly.

Other sheriff’s officers picked up the cry and spread it through the crowd, and suddenly the place was almost still.

“There’s a little girl up here who’s been hurt, Sheriff!” someone shouted from upstairs.

“My mother got knocked down!” someone downstairs called. “Her cheek is bleeding!”

“We have paramedics right outside,” Beckett announced. “They’re coming in now. Show them anyone who’s hurt. The important thing is to keep your cool, don’t panic and run around, because that’s how people get injured. I’ll repeat, the situation has been Witch’s

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dealt with, and there doesn’t seem to be any more immediate danger.”

“Doesn’t seem to be? That’s not very encouraging,” someone called.

Sam scooted out from beneath the stairs and worked his way into a clutch of people standing around watching the dais. Beckett was consulting with Mayor Milner and Carla Krug again. Probably, Sam guessed, debating the wisdom of evacuating the mall versus keeping everyone confined where at least the enemy could be watched for.

Enemy was the right word, because this had become a war, with casualties at critically high levels.

Like all wars, the longer it went on, the more people would be hurt or killed.

I really hope Dean is at that witch’s cabin
, he thought,
because I could use some good news here.

A man in a ball cap and denim jacket grabbed his shoulder. “You the one shot that guy?” he asked. “I seen you shoot him.”

Sam tried to give a grunt instead of an answer, smiling all the while.

“What the hell was that? Some kind of Indian, it looked like.”

Paiute, I’d guess
, Sam thought. But he really didn’t want to get snared in a conversation about it, so he shrugged and started to walk away.

“Hey, this here’s the guy shot that Indian!” the man shouted, pointing at Sam. “You got your gun in that bag, cowboy?”

Within seconds a mob had gathered around Sam, 310 SUPERNATURAL

people calling out questions at him like he was a celebrity on a street corner. He was trapped, hemmed in on every side.

Sheriff Beckett saved him.

“Sam, you want to step over here?” he said into the microphone.

Sam looked over the heads of the crowd—not hard to do at his height—and saw Beckett gesturing him to the dais. “Excuse me,” he said to the people immediately around him. “Sheriff needs me.” The crowd parted for him, and he walked through a tunnel, some people quietly complimenting him on his act while others continued to ask questions all the way. Finally, he climbed the steps to the dais.

“People,” Sheriff Beckett said, “I know you all have a lot of questions about this, and I’m sorry such a great day in Cedar Wells got spoiled by this. Just keep shopping and having a good time, and we’ll answer your questions as quick as we can.” When Sam neared him, he clicked the microphone off and set it back in its stand. The mayor and Carla joined them. “That was quick work, son,” Beckett said. “Thank you.”

Sam shrugged again. “Didn’t look like anyone else had a shot at it.”

“My people didn’t. If you hadn’t done what you did, I don’t know what. It would have been a lot worse.”

“I’m not sure private citizens should be walking around my mall with firearms,” Carla said.

“I’ll second that,” Milner said. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”

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“Unless you’ve got guards and metal detectors at every entrance,” Beckett pointed out, “you’re going to have people coming in with fi rearms from time to time. In this instance, Sam might have saved several lives.”