locked.
Dean took out his badge and rapped it sharply on the glass. From inside, the sheriff’s deputy—a paunchy man with a cartoonishly thick black moustache—looked up at them then down at their badges. He came over and unlocked the door.
“Sheriff here?” Dean asked, as they slipped inside.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to interrupt her right now.”
“It’s important,” Dean said. Across the office he could already see Daniels at her desk, phone clamped to one ear, almost yelling into the receiver.
“I don’t give a damn what they’re telling you,” she was saying, “I want them cleared off that battlefield now . Those men are contaminating my crime scene.”
“ Your crime scene?” Dean strode up to the desk and stared at her until she was forced to look up and acknowledge him. Then she just turned away, trying to find somewhere else to fix her attention.
Dean moved with her, holding eye contact. She glared back at him, and finally ended the conversation, hanging up the phone.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Where’s the noose?”
“The what ?”
“Phil Oiler was wearing a rope around his neck when he died last night, and now it’s gone. You were the only one around before the EMTs showed up. You’ve been withholding information this whole time. So where’s the noose ?”
The sheriff’s face went very white, except for a red patch on either cheek. Her lips tightened, and Dean could see a small blood vessel throbbing high up on one side of her forehead.
“Get out of my office,” she gritted.
“Not yet.” Dean didn’t move.
The vein in her head pulsed harder.
“I’ve got two hundred Civil War re-enactors refusing to pack up and let me do my job out there. I don’t need you two clowns making things worse.”
“We’re not leaving until we get some answers,” Dean said.
“Oh, I’m getting answers. In fact...” Her lips turned slightly, forming into a thin and totally humorless smile, “I’ve got the Atlanta field office of the FBI calling me back right now. That is where you two said that you were from, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, “but—”
The phone on Daniels’ desk started ringing again.
“Here we are.” She picked it up. “Hello? Yes sir. This is Mission’s Ridge Sheriff Jacqueline Daniels calling. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got two men here claiming to be Federal Agents, and I just wanted to verify their identification.”
“Wait,” Sam said. “Let me talk to them.”
“Not a chance.” Daniels shook her head and turned her back to them. “Yes, sir. Agents Townes and Van Zandt. That’s right, V-A-N Z-A-N-D-T. Thanks. I’ll wait.”
Sam glanced at Dean, and saw that his brother was staring straight at the sheriff.
Except he wasn’t.
He was actually staring at a nylon tote bag that rested in the corner of the office. It was the same one Daniels had carried away from the crime scene. Dean was staring straight at it, as if he could somehow see inside through sheer force of will, or levitate it into the air.
Daniels smiled, and spoke into the phone again.
“Yes, sir. I appreciate that. Thank you for your time.” She shook her head. “Jerry?” she shouted.
The paunchy deputy who had let them in came around the corner.
“What’s up, Sheriff?”
“Please escort these two men to the holding cell. The charge is posing as a law-enforcement official.” She smiled again, this time directly at Dean. “We’ll have plenty of time to figure out who they are later. Meanwhile they can rot in the drunk tank.” She glanced out of the window. “And haul their piece of crap car to the impound lot. I don’t want it cluttering up my street.”
“Whoa!” Dean snapped, a sudden rush of anger rising in his face. “Watch your damn mouth, lady. You can’t just—”
Jerry pivoted on them with unexpected intensity. His paunchy, thickly moustached face didn’t look soft or easygoing anymore. A new type of hardness had spread
Dean took out his badge and rapped it sharply on the glass. From inside, the sheriff’s deputy—a paunchy man with a cartoonishly thick black moustache—looked up at them then down at their badges. He came over and unlocked the door.
“Sheriff here?” Dean asked, as they slipped inside.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to interrupt her right now.”
“It’s important,” Dean said. Across the office he could already see Daniels at her desk, phone clamped to one ear, almost yelling into the receiver.
“I don’t give a damn what they’re telling you,” she was saying, “I want them cleared off that battlefield now . Those men are contaminating my crime scene.”
“ Your crime scene?” Dean strode up to the desk and stared at her until she was forced to look up and acknowledge him. Then she just turned away, trying to find somewhere else to fix her attention.
Dean moved with her, holding eye contact. She glared back at him, and finally ended the conversation, hanging up the phone.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Where’s the noose?”
“The what ?”
“Phil Oiler was wearing a rope around his neck when he died last night, and now it’s gone. You were the only one around before the EMTs showed up. You’ve been withholding information this whole time. So where’s the noose ?”
The sheriff’s face went very white, except for a red patch on either cheek. Her lips tightened, and Dean could see a small blood vessel throbbing high up on one side of her forehead.
“Get out of my office,” she gritted.
“Not yet.” Dean didn’t move.
The vein in her head pulsed harder.
“I’ve got two hundred Civil War re-enactors refusing to pack up and let me do my job out there. I don’t need you two clowns making things worse.”
“We’re not leaving until we get some answers,” Dean said.
“Oh, I’m getting answers. In fact...” Her lips turned slightly, forming into a thin and totally humorless smile, “I’ve got the Atlanta field office of the FBI calling me back right now. That is where you two said that you were from, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, “but—”
The phone on Daniels’ desk started ringing again.
“Here we are.” She picked it up. “Hello? Yes sir. This is Mission’s Ridge Sheriff Jacqueline Daniels calling. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got two men here claiming to be Federal Agents, and I just wanted to verify their identification.”
“Wait,” Sam said. “Let me talk to them.”
“Not a chance.” Daniels shook her head and turned her back to them. “Yes, sir. Agents Townes and Van Zandt. That’s right, V-A-N Z-A-N-D-T. Thanks. I’ll wait.”
Sam glanced at Dean, and saw that his brother was staring straight at the sheriff.
Except he wasn’t.
He was actually staring at a nylon tote bag that rested in the corner of the office. It was the same one Daniels had carried away from the crime scene. Dean was staring straight at it, as if he could somehow see inside through sheer force of will, or levitate it into the air.
Daniels smiled, and spoke into the phone again.
“Yes, sir. I appreciate that. Thank you for your time.” She shook her head. “Jerry?” she shouted.
The paunchy deputy who had let them in came around the corner.
“What’s up, Sheriff?”
“Please escort these two men to the holding cell. The charge is posing as a law-enforcement official.” She smiled again, this time directly at Dean. “We’ll have plenty of time to figure out who they are later. Meanwhile they can rot in the drunk tank.” She glanced out of the window. “And haul their piece of crap car to the impound lot. I don’t want it cluttering up my street.”
“Whoa!” Dean snapped, a sudden rush of anger rising in his face. “Watch your damn mouth, lady. You can’t just—”
Jerry pivoted on them with unexpected intensity. His paunchy, thickly moustached face didn’t look soft or easygoing anymore. A new type of hardness had spread
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