It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! Chapter 4 Anatomy Lessons
Rio Rancho, New Mexico
Frank Cutler sat in his favorite oxblood chair in his study and stared broodingly into the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of the cut-crystal tumbler in his shaky hand. Throwing the glass to his lips, he downed the remaining Scotch in one swallow. It wasn't his first, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be his last. He'd even given up putting ice in the glass long ago.
Paige is dead. My beautiful, wild, sexy Paige is dead—murdered!
He shook his head, as if to deny what he knew to be horribly true. His lover had been brutally killed in her car outside the motel where they routinely conducted their little tryst. Now, mixed in with his overwhelming grief over Paige was a tiny frisson of fear. Two people he knew had been brutally murdered in the last two weeks. It was unnerving to say the least. The courthouse—hell, the whole legal community here in Rio Rancho—was in an uproar. His phone at work hadn't stopped ringing since they'd all gotten the word.
Reaching out, he snatched the bottle of Crown Royal off his desk, and poured himself another generous dose of blessed relief. Before taking his first sip though, Frank stood and lurched his way out of the room and down the hall to the small, elegantly appointed, bathroom. While relieving his bladder of this round of liquid comfort, he stared at the flocked, golden wallpaper and crystal that made up the majority of the room's décor and thought of his wife, Molly. Mousy Molly, whose old family money paid for not only this décor and this room, but in fact, the entire luxury apartment in which they lived. He made good money—very good money—but not quite enough to fund this kind of lifestyle.
I loved her once, I think. Long ago... Before that damned maternal instinct clock started ticking and then exploded. Back before I met Paige.
Frank's eyes welled with tears as he again thought of his lover. Her funeral was tomorrow, and he somehow had to work up the courage to attend—had to work up the wherewithal to pretend they were mere colleagues and nothing more. The grief-stricken attorney zipped up and haphazardly washed his hands, eager to get back to his Crown Royal.
He had just settled back into his chair and picked up his glass when he heard the front door open. There was a small scraping sound and a soft bump. The jingle of keys dropping into the blue and silver hued Cloisonné bowl, sitting in the middle of the cherry accent table by the door, followed.
"Frank, honey, I'm home!"
Cringing at the sound of her melodic, yet too soft, voice, Cutler chose to sip at his whiskey rather than answer.
His silence proved ineffectual as Molly found him no more than a minute later. He watched with hooded eyes as his wife, clad in pearly pink, glided into the room, her slim hips swaying from side-to-side. Frank surprisingly felt a long-forgotten, inexplicable jolt of lust for his wife.
She bent and kissed his stubble-roughened cheek. Her dark pageboy brushed lightly along with the kiss.
"I'm so happy! There was a big box waiting at the door. I think it's the new item I bought for the nursery! I can't wait to see how it looks."
When her husband didn't answer, Molly continued, "Frank?"
"What?"
"Honey, you're drinking . . . again."
"So?"
"So? I don't understand. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me, Frank. I know something is wrong. You've been drinking for four days straight!"
"Has nothing to do with you," he mumbled.
"Then what? I know you've been upset because of those terrible murders. Everyone has. It's all anyone can talk about. But I have never seen you like this before."
Frank poured himself another glass of Scotch. He knew he was treading dangerous ground, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
"You weren't this upset when you got the news of Ted Jennings' death." She watched as her husband shrugged his broad shoulders.
"You've only been like this since we heard about that judge—Paige somebody or other."
When Frank's eyes welled with tears, something suddenly clicked in both her head and her heart and she gasped.
"Oh my God. You . . . you were h-h-having an affair with her, weren't you?"
He closed his eyes and swallowed.
Molly's hand flew to her mouth. "No, no, no. You said . . . you said it would never happen again. You promised!"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry! You're sorry?" Molly's voice trembled as her rage grew, "You bastard! Having an affair when we've been trying so hard to have a baby! How . . . how could you?!"
For the first time since she'd entered the room, Frank looked directly at his wife.
"There is no more 'trying to have a baby', Molly! Damn it, there hasn't been for a long time. We tried. And tried. And tried some more. You heard what the doctors said. It is never, ever, gonna happen. Give it up already."
A resounding crack filled the room as her open palm connected smartly with his cheek, reddening it instantly.
He didn't let that stop him however. "No matter how much you decorate that nursery, no matter how much you stuff in there, you'll have to accept the fact that there is never going to be a baby. Molly, you can't get pregnant."
Molly said nothing more; the scalding tears running down her cheeks telling their own story. She spun on her heel and marched from the room.
Frank slumped back in his chair, swirling the remaining scotch in his glass. Lost in thought, he had no idea how much time had passed when he again sensed Molly's presence in the room. Frank looked up to see her standing in the doorway, suitcase in hand.
"I'm going to stay with my parents for a few days. I want you to pack your stuff and get out. I mean it—really mean it—this time. Don't . . . do not be here when I get back." She turned and walked away.
Frank barely flinched when he heard the slamming of the front door. Instead, he concentrated on the fact that he'd need a new bottle of Crown Royal soon.
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Dorkat Motel
Lampasas, Texas
The pillow missile smacked Dean full on in the face before falling soundlessly to the floor. A split second later, the pillow from his bed followed the first. He opened his eyes to see his very agitated younger brother closing in on him.
"You. Are. Not. Funny." Sam stood toe-to-toe with Dean, doing his level best to look intimidating. "Just wait—one of these days when you least expect it, I'm gonna get you back."
Dean had forgotten how Sam could loom over him when he was angry. "Now just hold on there, Fragile Flossie, I was just trying—"
"You were what—wait a minute—did you just call me Fragile Flossie?" Sam's mouth involuntarily twitched with the beginnings of a chuckle. "Dude, where the hell do you come up with these things?"
Dean chuckled and shrugged at the same time. "I dunno. I'm gifted."
Sam snorted. "Gifted? C'mon—Fragile Flossie? You make me sound like a cow or something." The tension in the room dissolved in a blink as the younger Winchester began to laugh. It was apparently contagious because in seconds Dean, too, joined in the merriment.
After a few raucous minutes, Sam finally managed to bring himself under control, practically gasping for air after laughing so hard. He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "I . . . I'm still going to get you back, you know," he said with a smile still firmly in place, "and just think, I have TWO phobias to work with—aviophobia and muriphobia."
"Huh?" Dean gave his brother a carefully blank stare.
"Fear of flying and fear of rats."
"Dude, I do not do phobias. THOSE are NOT phobias!"
"Oh, they're not, huh?"
"No. I just have a healthy . . . aversion . . . to those things."
"Uh huh—whatever you say, bro. Whatever you say." Sam sank down onto the chair recently vacated by his older brother, his eyes catching sight of the computer screen. He looked over at Dean. "How the hell did I end up scared of clowns anyway? Do you have any idea?"
"Nope, not a clue."
The young hunter thought he saw something—the tiniest spark of knowledge—flare in his brother's green eyes, yet it was extinguished too quickly to be sure if it was anything more than his imagination.
"So, Sammy—"
"It's Sam."
Dean heaved a long-suffering sigh. "So, Sam, what's on the agenda for the rest of the night? It's too early to hit the bar…" Dean snapped his fingers. "I know! We could check to see if there's a circus in town. Or a carnival… You know, start your therapy right now."
With a growl, Sam started to rise from the chair.
"All right. All right!" Dean, smirking, held up his hands in surrender, "I'll stop! It's just that you make it so damn easy!" Tapping his foot, he muttered, "So what are we doing tonight?"
"I dunno. I plan on checking some things out on the internet." Sam looked his brother up and down, before wrinkling his nose. "But maybe you could take another shower 'cause, dude, I think you still reek."
"Hate to break it to you, geek boy, but that's YOU."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Why don't you, like, take a walk or something?"
"A walk?"
"Yeah, a walk. You know, that's where you put one foot in front of the other and propel yourself across an expanse of space."
"Smart ass."
"Pain in the ass."
The elder hunter rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose I should just bite the bullet and clean those damn guns that are in the trunk."
"Want some help?"
"Nah, I'll do it. Just keep looking for our next hunt. Just make sure that it's not one that involves a freakin' spirit that gets its kicks throwing actual fistfuls of shit at us."
Sam nodded and picked up his laptop off the table, padding softly over to his bed. He was making himself comfortable as Dean snatched up the Impala's keys and stepped out of the motel room.
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Rio Rancho, NM Cutler ApartmentFrank came awake with a start. The combination of grief and liquor had sent him into a fitful doze right there slouched low in his chair. He straightened and winced at the pull of a stiff neck. Glancing at his Rolex, he noted that it had only been just over an hour since Molly had stormed out.
Realizing his bladder was again painfully full, Cutler stood, pausing to allow his wobbly legs to steady slightly. The short trip out of the study and down the short hall took everything he had in him.
He finished his business and was at the sink washing his hands, staring at his haggard expression in the mirror, when he heard the first noise—a soft scuffing sound. Frank turned off the faucet and cocked his head, waiting for the noise to be repeated. When everything remained silent and still, he grabbed a nearby Egyptian cotton towel to dry his hands and shook his head figuring his recent binge drinking was causing his mind to play tricks on him.
Cutler left the bathroom and turned toward the kitchen, thinking to grab a quick bite to eat before opening a new bottle of Crown Royal. It was then that he heard the scuffing noises again. Here in the hallway, the noise was clearer; it sounded like the pitter-patter of feet—little feet—a child's feet, which was ludicrous. Molly was the one to have delusions like that, not him. Yet, Frank heard them clearly. In fact, they seemed to be coming from the room Molly had designated, and decorated as a nursery, despite her barrenness.
Frank slowly made his way toward that room. He paused with his hand on the door, reluctant to open it. Taking a deep breath, Frank twisted the knob and roughly shoved the door open, flipping the light switch on the wall right inside the door. The attorney poked his head into the room and looked around, shuddering. Frank hated this room and had done so since Molly had begun its transformation from guest room to nursery. Despite his many objections, his wife had decorated the nursery with an abundance of clowns. He despised—and feared—clowns with a passion and had since he was a child. They were absolutely everywhere in this room—cavorting on the white wooden crib, somersaulting on the cheery yellow walls, swinging wildly from the ceiling. Their garishly made up faces were painted with huge, happy grins that looked more like twisted evil leers. His gaze uneasily roamed the creepy room, finding nothing out of place. Though if there was, he'd be the last person to know, because he avoided this room like the plague, and not just because of the clowns.
Deciding he was hearing things—probably due to the amount of alcohol in his system—Frank shook his head and pulled the door closed with a thud. Turning and swaying slightly, he made his way down the hall and into the living room. He wasn't prepared when the toes of his left foot connected with the heavy wooden end table blocking the previously clear path.
"Ouch, God dammit!" Frank instinctively reached for his injured toes while hopping on his right foot. Dizzy from drink and off-balance, he crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut when something hard and fast collided with his leg, taking it out from under him. His breath left his lungs when he impacted with the floor, his head bouncing hard off the polished hardwood.
What the hell? Multi-colored dots were swirling in his vision.
A low cackle sounded off to his left. "Frankie, Frankie, Frankie." The hissing mumble barely registered before something landed on his chest further constricting his breath.
"You know—in some circles you're known as the 'silver-tongued bastard'. How unfortunate for you that they were right!"
With no lights on in the living room and the blinds closed over the wide balcony door, Frank couldn't clearly see his attacker. He felt hands pulling at his cheeks then prying at his lips to pull them apart. The attorney fought, tossing his head from side to side and clenching his teeth until a well-placed fist to the eye caused him to gasp. The second he did, a hand darted into his mouth and closed tightly around his tongue.
"Now—well now—" growled his attacker, "I'll call you the 'no-tongued bastard'." With an evilly gleeful chortle, his attacker sliced cleanly through his victim's tongue, severing it. He listened as the Frank's scream was immediately and abruptly reduced to grunts and gurgles.
"And I heard you're wife earlier. Poor, pitiful Molly! Stuck with the likes of you."
Through his haze of agony, Frank felt the weight leave his chest. He almost breathed a sigh of relief until he felt his pants and boxers being cut away. He tried to move, tried to roll away, but his movements were uncoordinated, slow, and sloppy. The weight previously on his chest now settled on his legs.
"Yes, indeed, stuck with the likes of you. I saw you with that pretty little judge, you know. Tsk, tsk. The things you two did with each other. You really are quite the bastard. I think… I think I'll take this Just. Because. I. Can." With that, the killer hacked straight through Frank's privates with the bloodstained, glittering blade, chortling as crimson fluid again gushed. The attacker tossed the severed penis down on the floor where it came to rest beside the attorney's tongue.
As Frank lay lightheaded and hemorrhaging on the floor, he dimly heard the sound of shattering glass. He felt himself being dragged across the floor as he twitched ineffectually trying to get away. When he felt strong winds buffeting against his body and glass shards piercing his skin, he sluggishly realized he was now on the balcony of their high-rise apartment. His attacker tugged and pulled and pushed, inching Frank inexorably forward until he was propped against the twisted iron spindles. Terror coiled like a snake in his gut as he felt unnaturally strong hands finally heave him up and over the decorative iron railing. He hovered there a moment before becoming airborne and plummeting toward the ground—his mouth forming inaudible screams.
"Bye, bye birdie," crowed his killer.
(SN) (SN) (SN)
Parking Lot – Dorkat MotelDean sauntered slowly to the trunk of the Impala, feeling his black t-shirt quickly absorbing the heat of the sun's rays. He'd just snugged the key into the lock when he heard a female voice loudly whisper somewhere behind him.
"Dorothy, look, those beautiful boys must have finished their laundry. He's dressed."
"Seems so, Mildred. Too bad! I think I liked it better when all their clothes were dirty. Clothes hide too much of that gorgeousness."
Dorothy's giggle proved the women were wise to the Winchesters' earlier deception. The hunter felt his face flush a little, and he turned slowly to find both elderly women approaching him.
"Hello again, young man," they chorused in unison.
"Uh, hello." A rare bout of politeness kept Dean's feet anchored to the blacktop when all he wanted to do was escape.
The pair stopped directly in front of him.
Dorothy smiled at him. "Mildred and I were talking while we ate, and I . . . we . . . have a question if you don't mind?"
Dean shifted from foot-to-foot. "O-o-okay. I . . . I don't mind, I guess."
"How do you stay so—so—dang it, Mildred, what's that word?"
"Buff," responded Mildred.
"Yes, that's it! We'd like to know—how do you stay so buff?"
Momentarily speechless, Dean just blinked at the two elderly, muumuu-clad women in front of him. "Uh, well, um . . . I dunno. Jogging. And, um, my brother and I practice kick—uh—kickboxing and stuff. We . . . we train a lot for our . . . jobs."
Dorothy cocked her head to the side, her floppy hat tilting dangerously. "Well, you certainly do a good job of it."
"Uh . . . thanks."
Mildred piped up and said, "I'd like to know if I can touch it."
"It? What it?" To his dismay, Dean's voice actually cracked a little as it had the first time he'd run into these two ladies.
"You know, this—what's the proper term?" Mildred touched her chubby upper arm.
"Oh. You mean, bicep."
"YES! Exactly. Your bicep! May I touch it?"
Completely rattled, the older Winchester answered, "Uhh, sure." He jumped a little when he felt Mildred's cool fingers glide lightly over the bulging bicep of his right arm, just below the sleeve of his black t-shirt.
"Why, my goodness, it's so . . . so hard!"
Dean's face reddened even more with embarrassment and his gaze darted, a little desperately, toward the motel room door.
Mildred nodded in satisfaction, and not a little appreciation. "Now then—Dorothy wants to know if she can touch your . . . oh, darn it . . . your . . . whatever this is!" She pointed to her upper chest.
"Pecs," this time there was a definite squeak in Dean's voice.
"Yes, that's it. Pecs. I think Dorothy said she would like to touch your pecs. Right, Dorothy?"
The elderly woman had the grace to look slightly, but only slightly, abashed. "Well, if the young man wouldn't mind?"
Unwilling to hear his own pathetic, squeaky voice again, Dean resorted to just giving the woman a quick nod.
Dorothy's hand immediately shot out and she laid it flat on his upper right chest. She moved her fingers up and down a couple of inches, almost petting him.
"Oh my! Impressive! Quite impressive! And so warm... I bet the other young man's abs are equally so, hmm?" After a few seconds, her hand dropped away somewhat reluctantly.
"Well, Mildred, I guess we should let this young man get back to what he was doing. Don't want to take up all his time with our silliness."
Both women winked—winked!—at him. "Thank you, young man," continued Dorothy, "I do believe you just made our day—maybe even our year."
Mildred nodded like an over-excited bird. "Yes. Yes, indeed."
Dean's mouth worked a few times before he managed to spit out, "Um, you're . . . uh . . . welcome."
The young hunter watched as the two elderly women waved and turned away, hurrying toward their own room. As quickly as possible, he threw the Impala's trunk open, grabbed the bag containing the dirty weapons, and slammed the trunk closed with a silent apology to his baby for the rough treatment. Once the guns were in his possession, he practically ran for the motel room.
Dean burst through the door as if a werewolf was nipping at his heels, causing Sam to jump and look up in surprise. Dean stood spread eagle against the slammed door, a hunted expression on his face.
"Dean? What the hell? Is something wrong?"
"You . . . you wouldn't believe me if I told you, Sam. Seriously. All I'm gonna say is I'm not leaving this motel room the rest of the night. And if you're considering it—you might want to think twice."
"Why? Dean, tell me what's wrong!"
"M-Mildred and Dorothy."
Sam raised an eyebrow and gave his brother a half-smile. "What—did you develop gerantogynephobia in the few minutes you were out there? 'Cause you know, a third phobia would just give me more options for payback."
"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Dean muttered while gathering the supplies he needed to clean the guns they'd used earlier in the day, "Just go back to finding us a hunt, ginormo."
It was a little more than an hour later that Dean was finishing up the cleaning of the guns. The brothers had worked in companionable silence, each lost in their individual tasks.
With a final, almost loving pat, Dean laid the Remington down on the bed. "So anything yet, geek boy?"
Sam looked up from his computer screen with a slight frown creasing the bridge of his nose. He wiped it away with a tired hand. "Ahhh, not much. There's a disappearance up in Shamrock. A couple of odd, unsolved murders in Rio Rancho, New Mexico. Several animal attacks in Littlefield, Oklahoma. Oh, and some strange, eerie lights in Sulphur, Louisiana. But I can't tell if any of it is our kind of thing."
Dean grunted. "Well, pick one of 'em. 'Cause I don't care where we go, but we're leaving in the morning."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
The night passed uneventfully, allowing the brothers to get a decent night's sleep. Bright and early the next morning, the Winchesters found themselves at the diner eager for breakfast before heading out on the road. After the clown incident yesterday, Sam glanced around nervously before sliding into the booth. When their waitress, Carlena, approached, he turned over his cup as well as Dean's and nodded, pointing to both cups when she asked if he wanted coffee. His brother sank into his bench seat just as she was filling his cup with the dark, heady brew.
"Ahh, hot coffee. Ambrosia to the gods," Dean smiled widely at the waitress who appeared to be in her mid-thirties.
"What can I get for you guys this morning?" Carlena asked, pulling out her lined order pad.
After a quick perusal of the menu, Sam ordered blueberry pancakes, sausage, and a tall glass of orange juice while Dean typically went more elaborate and ordered Belgian waffles, two eggs over easy, toast, bacon, and sausage.
While waiting for their breakfast to arrive, Sam sipped at his cream-and-sugar graced coffee and browsed the internet once more, still trying to decide in which direction they should go this morning.
"So, little brother, any idea where we're heading yet? Or do I just make a command decision and drive in whatever random direction I feel like?"
"I dunno, Dean. I guess any one of the . . . Wait a minute! You know one of those possibilities I mentioned last night—the couple of unsolved murders in Rio Rancho, New Mexico?"
"Yeah?"
"It might be our kind of thing after all."
"Why's that?"
Sam swung the laptop toward his brother so he could see the screen. "There's been a third killing."
"So."
"So, it says here that a source close to the investigation says that the only clue the police have are two sets of bloody footprints. Child-size footprints! But there's no way a lone child committed these three brutal murders."
Dean shrugged. "Still not sure that's enough to go on."
"Yeah, but at least it's worth checking out, right? It's not like we have anything else lined up."
The waitress returned then with their food and placed the laden plates down in front of them. She topped off their coffee with a smile and hurried away to take care of other tables.
The elder Winchester grabbed the maple syrup and poured a generous amount over his Belgian waffles. He picked up his fork and shoveled a huge bite of the buttery sweet goodness into his mouth. "Well, I guess we're off to Rio Rancho, New Mexico, then." Dean jutted his chin at Sam's plate. "Eat up, Sammy boy."
SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN