Right here and now, as an old friend used to say, we are in the fluid present, where clear sightedness never guarantees perfect vision. Here: we begin our tour of Little Tall Island, starting where all good stories start, down at the docks. A half dozen fishing boats bob aft to stern on the glassy water. Fishing vessels lined in a neat rows, battened down for the night. The Now: late on a Friday evening in mid October, as a chilling wind whips in off the water, bringing with it a bitter reminder that winter is never far away.
The 2010 US census placed the population of Little Tall Island (just off the coast of Maine) at a whopping 563 souls. In the summer, that number surges well past two thousand; between tourists and seasonal cottages the island bustles with life. But inevitably when the weather turns cold and the temperature drops, the faint hearted head for the mainland, leaving the locals to their own devices.
We begin our journey moving from the docks up Main Street, passing by The Salt Dog. Inside this fine establishment one of the two part-time deputy sheriffs, Palmer Anderson, is seven beers into a twelve beer night. He'll regret it later when he's trying desperately to sober up for the investigation, but we'll come to that part of the story in good time. We continue up the road passing empty storefronts until we come to the Sheriff's office. It's not much to look at with its yellowing letters peeling from the window pane. Inside, Beatrice Clark - dispatcher, secretary and grandmother of two - has just poured her second cup of coffee. It's rare that she's working this late, but after tossing and turning while sleep skirted her grasp she decided she might as well get some work done. The sheriff wants the records digitized; everything's about computers nowadays. Bea's never been a fan of technology, she prefers a pen and paper, but she's not one to complain. This task is job security, so she begins scanning and tagging documents as the dispatch phones rings.
We leave Beatrice to her call and move on, past Merrill's Grocery and Tack, then the one room office of the Little Tall Gazette and beyond of the end of Main Street where the building begins to fade away as quickly as the lights of the town. The roads split off like veins as we head south up the sharp incline of Sidewinder Road, gliding along the twisting coast into the black of night. The waves crash into jagged rock as the elevation begins to climb.
We find ourselves at a quaint cottage home near the top of cliffs and this is where we come to the beginning of our tale.
Near the water, in the dark.
October 7
Sam uncorks a bottle of wine as you hold up your glass for him to fill it. You'll never know what he had to go through to get it and never find out if he has anything to say about it. He wanted advice, so he asked Kathleen Smith who works the bar down at Cooper's Lobster Pound: his first mistake. Kathy smiled slyly as if she knew exactly what he was up to and gave him a recommendation along with a wink, lucky girl.
He asked Laurel at the market if she could have it shipped from the mainland; she grinned with a pen between her teeth and scribbled on her weekly purchase order as she inquired: sure thing Sheriff, this for something special?
After the first sip you nod in approval, and he's relieved he went to the trouble of cooking and wine pairings. Truth be told, he's just happy you're in his house, listening to his terrible stories and by some small miracle, enjoying yourself.
"So I was working the overnight shift, patrolling up Anderson Rock." Everyone on the island knows Anderson Rock. It's a pet name for the mountain on the north side of Little Tall Island. Hardly anyone goes up there except for summer tourists and teenagers looking for spot to party. Typically the only thing one finds up there are empty beer cans and used condoms. Sam takes a sip of his drink, greasing his gears, hoping a little libation will help with his storytelling abilities.
It's your second date. The first went well, just dinner at your place. He asked you out and you immediately offered to cook, a little undtrational but safer that way. This is a small town and the last thing you wanted was to have dinner at one of the two restaurants where half the island can smirk over the spectacle of the Sam Winchester and Y/N struggling to make small talk over a plate of undercooked flank steak.
"Nothing good happens up there past dark," you chuckle, forking a bite of halibut.
"You got that right," he confirms. "I pull over a car with a Vermont plate and expired tags. I know right from the jump that this is mainlander. I call it in to Bea and have her run the plate. Sure as shit this rusted out old sedan comes back as a stolen vehicle."
"Oh," you're genuinely invested at this point; not much happens here save for drunks and poachers. "This," you point your knife toward the half eaten fish. "this is amazing."
"Thank you," he nods, raising his glass toward you. "I Googled the recipe."
"I didn't mean to interrupt, but please continue."
"I'm thinking stolen car, who knows, this guy could have a gun on him so I better play it safe. I radio to Palmer for back up, I know he can't be far away because we were having coffee ten minutes ago. He responds, 'copy, show me enroute...ohh fuck' then dead silence. My heart stopped you know? I'm trying to figure out what could have possibly happened. 'Was there a car accident? Maybe this guy in the sedan has a buddy who's been waiting to ambush us.' Bea's calling him too, 'Palmer are you code four? Palmer are you there?'"
"Code four?" you ask in a whisper, as if the softness of your voice will somehow negate the interruption.
"Sorry, it means no further assistance needed. My heart is thumping out of my chest when he doesn't respond, so I know it's gotta be something bad. After about a minute of dead air he's back on the line all out of breath, his voice is shaking and he says 'Affirm...I am code four...I thought I hit an animal….but I didn't. Show me en route.' "
"Oh, God," you hold your wine glass with two hands. "What happened?"
Sam holds up his finger, laughing to himself. He sets down his fork and knife, resting both forearms on the arms of his chair and leaning forward. "He shows up about five minutes later and assists me with the car stop. Turns out the guy driving is the owner. He reported it stolen during a family dispute but never took the time to update his local department when his brother brought it back. Palmer's distracted the whole time, looking over his shoulder. He's sweating and pale, the guy looks like he's seen a ghost. Once we clear the stop he takes me back down to where it happened and explains...you know the Allen brothers that live halfway up the mountain?"
"Ahuh, Grant and Steven, I'm familiar. They egged old Mrs. Holder's house last Halloween. It took me two days and a power washer to get it clean."
"Well, trust me when I tell you they are resourceful boys. I guess it gets pretty boring up there on the mountain, so to kill the time they construct these oversized cardboard cutouts of real-looking cats, dogs, coyotes and put them in the roads after dark. They prop them up with sticks and tie them to ropes. Then, they hide behind the trees and wait. When Palmer drove up they pulled the rope and made it look like it was walking across the road as he ran it over. He shows me this mangled piece of cardboard in the dirt of what I'm guessing was coyote and the only part of it that's not torn up is the genitalia which had to be twenty-four inches. I swear to you, Y/N, you had to see it to believe it. There was a two foot cardboard animal penis sticking straight up in the middle of the road. I couldn't stop laughing and Palmer so was mad, in fact I'm not sure he'll ever forgiven me."
Your giggle turns into a full belly laugh as you imagine Palmer's stoic face, red and indignant. From a lifetime of passing interaction even you know he has next to no sense of humor, "What…" you pause trying to stifle your amusement, "What did you do to them? The Allen boys I mean."
"They're just kids, I called Laura, and told her what her sons were up to. From the sound of her voice I'm pretty sure her punishment was worse than anything I could dole out." Sam's toothy grin makes your cheeks warm.
"A fitting outcome," you sigh, leaning back in your seat. Sam picks up the bottle of chardonnay and tips it your direction, silently asking if you want a third glass. "Why not? You're going to drive me home, right?"
"Of course. I'll even let you sit in the front seat of the cruiser," he teases. "We can figure out how to get your car in the morning."
You've known him almost all you're life. If you really think back you can remember your mother warning you about the Winchesters, the whole family is a disaster waiting to happen.
Things were different back then, a different town in a different time. It's not that much has changed, except for that Sam chose to deviate from his father's footsteps, opting for law enforcement. Your mother doesn't have the same aversion to Sam now these days, he's the only good thing to come out of that family.
Yes, she would approve, but you're not going to tell her only two dates in. It's a miracle that someone hasn't already found out and offered it up the gossip mongers. People talk in towns like this, mostly because there's not much else to do.
It's cold, but neither of you mind. You're on the balcony cloaked in a flannel blanket, just settling next to him on the porch swing with a fourth glass of wine when the call comes in. Sam lifts his arm, wrapping it around your shoulders as you lean into his side. It's the first time you've have been this close and it makes you giddy. This kind of rush of excitement has been a long time coming.
"You're a good cook, you're funny, and I took a look at your book collection so I know you like to read… I feel like there has to be something wrong with you." Grinning you lift your head turn toward him.
"Well, I am a Winchester," a shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, for a moment he looks almost bashful. "and I'm kind of a nerd."
"Good thing I like both," your voice sounds more come hither than you intended, but it doesn't seem to phase him as he leans forward, a hand moving to the side of your face. With his thumb at your jaw he pulls you closer, just a breath away from your first kiss.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. His cell phone rattles on the side table, interrupting the fragile moment.
"Sorry," he mumbles, closing in eyes in a moment of hesitation before moving away to answer. "Hello...no it's fine, what's going on…"
You try not to eavesdrop and wander to the railing, staring out into the dark. If you close your eyes you can hear the waves rolling, the distant ebb and flow as water meets shore. His house is small, but it's right on the coast nestled amongst the cliffs on the south end of the island. Not many people live on this side, which is part of the reason he chose it.
It's more than he could ever afford on a police salary, but Sam bought the place from Ernest Smith right before he moved to Bangor to be closer to his family in his twilight years. Ernest had always had a soft spot for Sam. He liked that Sam always called him sir and brought him donuts from town in the winter when the roads were bad. So when he was ready to sell the place and transition to an old folks home he asked Sam if he wanted the place. I'll give you a great deal.
There's a strong breeze blowing in and soon winter will come with it. As you tighten the blanket around your shoulders, you feel Sam behind you. You're not sure how bold he'll be until you feel his arms wrapping around you, his chest pressing into your back. You could get used to this feeling and you find yourself wondering why it's taken this long to get to this point.
"I really hope what I'm about to say doesn't ruin my chances at third date." His voice is careful and warm at the shell of your ear.
"I don't like the sound of this," you groan, turning in his arms until he's looking down at you. His hands drop to your waist while you place a palm on his chest.
"I'm really sorry, but I have to go. Bea called, someone needs to go check on Margie Schulman. Sully's on a call out at Bingham's Point and it's Palmer's night off, so it falls to me. It's on the way to your place, so I thought you can ride along and I'll take you home after."
"Heavy is the crown," you goad and he smirks. "It's okay. What kind of person would I be if I begrudge you helping an elderly woman?"
"It's just a quick welfare check, ten minutes tops. Maybe we would have a nightcap at your place?"
"Who said I was going to invite you in?" Scrunching your nose, you poke him in the chest.
"You're brutal," he places a hand over his heart, before dropping a kiss to your hair line.
Sam drives up the winding coastal road as his headlights pierce through the thick curtain of night. You glance at the shotgun clamped between the front seats of the police cruiser, then to Sam who's driving with two hands on the wheel. He's dressed in street clothes, the casual jeans and flannel from his night with you, but wearing his standard issue jacket, the patch on his shoulder reading: Little Tall Island Sheriff's Department.
He lifts his hips, adjusting the holster holding a handgun to his hip. You've seen him in uniform a thousand times, but this feels different. Somehow it feels more official now.
"I hope Margie's alright," you pick at the cuff if your jacket, staring out into the starless sky.
"You take care of her?" Sam inquires.
"Yeah, Mondays and Thursday, just for a couple hours. She's sweet, yet everytime I go over there she gives me another jar of rhubarb preserves that I'm pretty sure have been in her basement since the fifties. I'm scared to eat them."
"Maybe she'll hook me up, too," he grins. "I'm sure she's fine."
"Someone must be worried about her if you're going there at midnight."
Sam sighs, he's been through this a thousand times. "Davey Thompson is her paper boy. Davey said that when he went by her place this morning that she hadn't picked up yesterday's paper. So when he got home from school, he told Amy about it. She waited for Greg to get home to mention it. So about an hour ago Greg walked over there and said her TV was on loud enough to wake the dead, but she wouldn't answer the door."
"Which is how you get the call to check on her," you finish.
"You got it." He turns down East Carriage Road and houses start to pepper the roadside, more and more as you get closer to town.
"She keeps a spare key under the garden gnome by her side door, in case you need to get in."
Margie Schulman lives on a residential street in a monstrous turn-of-the-century home that looms tall between others of the same era. Her children tried to talk her into moving into The Cap House Home for the Aging, where you've worked for years. Her husband died fifteen prior, but she's refused to leave behind the home she shared with him for a lifetime. Everything on Little Tall is big, old and bursting with memories. Her street is dimly lit, sparse street lights barely illuminating the sidewalk. Sam pulls his car up in front of her house, shutting off his headlights but leaving the engine running.
"Let me guess, stay here, you'll be back?" you preempt.
"I'll be quick," he grabs a walkie from it's holster near the car radio and bounds out of the vehicle and up the steps to the Schulman residence.
You watch while he knocks at the door, then shines a flashlight through her bay window. He looks back to you, shrugging and walking around the side of the house where he slinks out of view. You pluck your cell phone from your pocket, thumbing through messages. You're a little drunk and starting to feel the pull of sleep.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
"Fuck!" you holler, jerking against the seat belt, only to see Michael Huskin's beady eyes staring through you window. "Goddamn it, Mike!"
He knocks on the window again, tapping his college ring on the glass. You roll down your window and a barrage of questions begin, "Everything okay over here? What's going on?" he asks, eyeing the interior of the car.
"I'm fine, just waiting."
"Greg Thompson said he came around earlier to check on Margie, but she didn't answer. So he called down to the station and Bea said she'd send someone out to check on her. That was almost two hours ago."
"Sounds like you already know what's going on." You restrain yourself.
"I'm the mayor. I make it my business to know what's going on."
"I know you are, Mike. I voted for you," you offer him a tight smile, since he's a man that enjoys being reminded of his stature in life. "Look, Sam's in there right now. She's in good hands."
"Well, now she is but it took him long enough to get out there. What if we had a real emergency?" Mike nods affirmatively. His arm is resting on your open window and it doesn't seem like he's planning on moving any time soon. "So ah, why are you here?"
"Oh, um, I had car trouble. The sheriff was on his way home and stopped."
"You're lucky. Carol, you know Carol who works down at grocery? She ran out of gas up over the east side and had to sleep in her car. The phones don't work over there."
"I know, what are the chances right?" You squirm in your seat. You don't enjoy lying, but if Mike has even a inkling of anything between you and Sam, the whole town will know by morning.
Sam can see the TV lit up through Margie's stale lace curtains, but little else. He knocks on her front door again, louder this time with his perfected 'cop knock'. When she doesn't answer he glances back, giving you a look and trots around the the side of the house.
He doesn't mind this part of the job, but the timing could have been better. An hour ago, he had visions of post dinner whiskey and a faint (but not unthinkable) possibility of seeing your breasts. Instead he's stumbling over shrubs while the crotch of his jeans pinches his balls.
He finds the key right where you said it would be and slides it into the rusted out lock. Stepping inside her kitchen he doesn't need to turn on the light to know Margie is dead. The putrid smell of decay hits him like a wall. He scrunches his nose, gagging as he mutters a flat "Fuck, where are you, old girl?"
The lights flicker and the television squawking in in the living room abruptly shuts off. In sudden silence Sam reaches for his gun, unsnapping the holster and resting his hand on the butt. "Hello? Little Tall Sheriff's Department. Is there anyone in the house?"
He inches toward the hallway that leads from the kitchen to the sitting room. Just as he reaches the doorway the decrepit Zenith tube radio on the counter crackles to life. Startled, Sam pulls his gun while Platters croon heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time.
A chill runs up his spine, as music of another era combines with the stomach turning stench hanging thick in the air. He needs to clear the house, but he can't do it alone.
He flips on the overhead lights and there are Margie's slipper clad feet peeking out from behind the counter. Her blue veined legs are bare, extending from under the pale pink robe that's spilled out around her like a cotton blend halo. She's face down on cold tile. There's a pool of dried, dark blood on the floor but from his vantage point he can't see the point of origin.
"What the hell is going on?" Sam takes a deep breath, pushing back the childhood memories of trick-or-treating here when he was a kid; he's pretty sure his brother toilet papered her house at some point. Kneeling down, he's careful of where he places his hands to try and look under her body. He reaches into his jacket pulling out a kleenex, which will have to do in lieu of gloves. He lifts the edge of her robe with a delicate touch and sure as shit there's the hilt of a kitchen knife sticking out from under her stomach.
Her eyes are open, as is her mouth, twisted in a permanent expression of pain. Judging from the permeating smell she's been here been laid out for more than a couple days. Sitting back on his haunches Sam shakes his head and radio's into the station.
"Bea, you still there?"
After a moment of silence her voice comes back over the static. "Go ahead, kiddo."
"Put a call into Sully, tell him to head over to the Schulman place. See if you can find Palmer. If he's not blackout drunk get him over here too." He's purposely ambiguous, doesn't use the codes. Half the town has police scanners and he wants to attempt to control the situation.
"What's going on Sam?" she asks, her textbook smoker's voice rasping over speaker.
"Just get 'em here as fast as you can."
"Ten four."
He stands, wiping his hands on his thighs. This is a nightmare.
Sam leaves the light on and latches the door behind him. He wonders how Dean will take the news; his brother harbors surprising sentimentality when it comes to people that remember their father. They've both got more than a few memories of Margie, but this isn't the time or place for it. He's gotten good at it over the years, detaching himself enough times to know when to flip the switch.
Rounding the corner of the house he sees Mayor Huskin leaning on the side of his cruise. The night just keeps getting better.
"Mike," Sam calls with a wave of his hand, jogging toward the car.
"Sam," Mike stands up. You shoot Sam a tell-tale look, widening your eyes with a look of relief. "Everything alright with Margie?"
"We ah, we got a situation." Sam nods, bounding toward the driver's side door as Mike walks around to intercept him.
"What kinda situation?"
"I don't quite know yet," Sam pulls open the door and slips into the front seat.
"Now, just a minute. I have a right to know what's going on."
"You'll be the first to know, as soon as I do," Sam pulls the door shut and turns to you. "Roll up your window."
"He is tenacious," you laugh as Mike continues his rant outside Sam's window.
"Yes he is," Sam sighs and turns to you. Christ, you're beautiful. There's still pink in your cheeks left over from the wine as you smile at him. He wishes what he's about to tell you wasn't going to wipe the happiness away. "I gotta stay here. Margie...I found her on the floor. She's gone."
"Oh," you sit back in your seat. Working at the home, you've witnessed more than a few deaths over the years, an unfortunate peril of the job. "That's terrible."
"Once Sully gets here I'll have him run you home." Sam restrains the urge to reach over and take your hand because Mike is now knocking on his window. Mrs. Clarity's porch lights turns on as she steps onto her stoop, followed by her husband. There's about to be an audience. "I am really sorry. I did not plan on the night ending like this."
"You don't have anything to be sorry for," you offer a strained smile. "I'll let you make it up to me another night."
