Chapter 3:
Taken
The aroma of buffalo sauce wafted from the serving window. Amber's tummy rumbled. It had been five hours since her break on her ten-hour shift, she looked forward to going home.
She gathered the plates and headed towards her table of rowdy patrons. Four young men, no doubt fresh from the dance club a couple of blocks over. Bar hoppers typically stumbled in around 1am on a Sunday morning.
She handed out the plates of burgers, hot wings and chili fries. The inebriated comrades were so engrossed with their humorous conversation that they paid her no mind. Not a thank you or a smile, not even a wink. She knew they weren't going to tip well. It was better than being eye fucked and spoken to in numerous demeaning ways, but at least that usually resulted in a large tip.
Her customers left at a quarter to two; right on time for another group of partiers to lumber in. She was happy to be handing them off to her relieving shift.
"Great, this looks like a fun bunch," Mitch said as he tied his serving apron around his waist.
"Just smile and shake that cute little tushy, those ladies will love you," Amber punched him lovingly in the shoulder.
"Ah, no, that only works for you."
"Not tonight it didn't."
She leaned around the corner of the kitchen, "Hey, Maurice," she hailed the night lead chef.
"Hey shorty. You need something?"
"Can you whip me up a batch of buffalo wings? Please."
"Sure thing, baby girl. You want those battered or naked?" he winked.
"Battered, please."
"You got it."
She gathered her things from her cubby in the breakroom, mentally planning her evening. While most of the world would be sleeping all snug in their beds, she would be eating her dinner, drinking a few beers and catching up on her DVRed shows.
She swung by the kitchen and picked her to-go box of wings; her name scrawled across the top in sharpie.
"Thanks, Maurice!"
"You're welcome, baby girl. You enjoy your next two days off."
"Oh, I plan to."
"You take care ah you."
"I will. Have a good night!" she waved prancing out the door.
The drive home was peaceful, barley a soul on the road. She turned off the radio to listen to the hum of the wheels. Her headlights illuminating the white and yellow lines against the asphalt.
She pulled into her designated parking spot in the apartment building garage. Climbing out of her car, she noticed Allen's black Subaru Outback. It hadn't been there since his incident with Claudia. Those FBI guys wanted her to call them if she found out any new information. This was indeed new info.
She sat back down in the driver's seat and searched around in her purse for the business card Agent Ripley had given her the day before. Her phone woke to her touch, bringing the time to her attention: 2:17am. With a heavy sigh she dropped her phone into the console between the bucket seats, thinking it was probably best to wait until normal morning hours to call. Stuffing the card in her back pocket, she grabbed her dinner and looped her purse strap around her shoulder as she stepped out of her car. The chirp of her remote lock echoed around the garage. She ambled toward the building, then up the switchback staircase that lead to her third-floor apartment.
Each landing had three apartments nestled on them. Amber's was the apartment in the middle, facing the staircase. Allen's was the first on the right as you came up the stairs and the other was across the hall from Allen at the beginning of the next flight up. As she neared the top of the landing, she heard muffled voices coming from Allen's apartment. She slowed her stride, hovering for a few moments just outside his door. Shrugging, unable to determine if it was actual people or just the television, she shuffled along unlocking her own door.
She kicked her shoes off by the door and rounded the corner toward the kitchen, dropping her purse on the small round dinette table. Setting her food on the counter, Amber pulled a cold beer from the fridge, plucked the bottle opener magnet off the front of the fridge and pried open the bottle; take a generous swig. A spray of liquid burst out of the bottle as she lowered it from her lips, dribbling some onto her shirt. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tried to wipe the droplets off her shirt, but all it did was rub it in.
"Fuck it," she said to herself.
She tucked a roll of paper towels under her arm, gathered up her box of wings and her beer and meandered to the living room. Placing everything on the coffee table, Amber picked up the remote, ready to choose a show from her DVR list. But before she could press the power button, she heard a deep yell and a heavy thud come from Allen's apartment. Slowly stepping towards the adjoining wall and leaning close to listen. Something heavy was being dragged across the floor.
Deciding this probably shouldn't wait until normal morning hours, she took another guzzle from her beer and pulled the business card out of her back pocket.
"Shit," she said, realizing she left her phone in the car.
Fishing her keys from her purse and stepping into the landing hallway; her socked feet made no sound as she tip-toed back down the stairs to the garage. Trotting toward her car she pressed the button on the key-fob, causing another ear-piercing chirp.
Sitting in the front seat, she studied the business card. Dean's name was listed first. Considering his assertive demeanor, Amber figured he might not respond well to being woken up at two-thirty in the morning. She dialed Sam's number instead.
It rang four times before his voicemail kicked in.
"Hello, you have reached Special Agent Samuel Ripely," his smooth voice played through her phone, "I'm unable to receive your call at this time, please leave me your name, number and a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible." A beep followed.
Hoping she wasn't jumping to conclusions and bothering this man at an unreasonable hour, she began her unrehearsed spiel.
"Hi, Agent Ripley. This is Amber Hollister, roofie girl." She shook her head, wow, that was dumb, she thought to herself. "Uh, we talked the other night about Allen Chalke. I came home tonight from a late shift at The 24/7 Diner and Allen is home. It sounded like there was someone with him, another man for sure. Then, there was a loud crash and a yell from inside his apartment." She paused, pondering how to conclude her message, "So, that's it. Just wanted to report that information to you. Goodnight." She hit the end button. Goodnight? Wow, your brilliance is amazing, Amber.
Her phone still clutched in her hand, she hauled herself back up the U-turn stairs, ready to finally dig into her wings that were getting cold on her coffee table. Taking care not to make her presence known, she crept up the last few steps.
"Everlong" blared suddenly around the corridor. Sam was calling her back. In a panic, she tapped the answer button. Her heart pounding, she held the phone to her ear.
"Hello? Amber?" Sam said.
Trying to remain quiet, she continued to tip-toe the few remaining steps to her door just as Allen opened his. Their eyes locked for a few brief seconds before he lunged at her. She opened her mouth to scream, but she was silenced behind the cloth he held tight against her face. It smelled sweet, like rot or decay. Her vision tunneled and her limbs became heavy, heels dragging along the floor and over the threshold of Allen's doorway, where her phone slipped from her fingers and the world went dark.
Sam woke to the rattling of his phone on the dresser. Groggy and confused in the darkness, he slowly took in his surroundings. All the traveling and hotels they stayed in; it was hard to remember where he was sometimes. His phone still buzzed its alert as he clicked on the beside lamp. Dean, asleep in the next bed over, didn't even stir.
Dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, Sam swung his long legs over the side of the bed. His phone went silent as he picked it up off the dresser where he left it next to his wallet and phony badge. He didn't recognize the number, but saw a voicemail was left and played it back.
"Hi, Agent Ripley. This is Amber Hollister, roofie girl…" With the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, he continued listening while he stepped into a pair of jeans.
Dean started to rouse and grumbled, "Sammy? Everything okay?"
Sam sat his phone down, noticing the jeans he was trying to put on were too short and difficult to button. With an annoyed sigh, he pulled them off.
"Yeah, except that these are yours." He tossed the jeans at Dean where they landed across his lap, just missing his face. "Keep your shit on your side of the room." He requested for the millionth time.
"Where's the fire?" Dean asked as he began dressing.
"It's Amber, she called a few minutes ago, left a message. Allen Chalke is back home and by the sound of it, he might be up to something," he replied, tugging his t-shirt over his head. "I'm calling her back now."
He hit the call back button on the voicemail screen and heard someone pick up the line, but there was only breathing. "Hello? Amber?" He heard a gasp, followed by an inhuman growl. There were obvious sounds of a struggle and a clattering noise, then nothing. Sam ended the call and glanced over at Dean.
"What is it?" Dean asked through a wide yawn, rubbing his eye.
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure Amber is in trouble. We need to go. Now."
The engine of the Impala roared as Dean sped down the road, blowing through a red light.
"Dean, take it easy. We can't afford to be stopped by the cops right now, or ever for that matter." Sam chided.
"Hey, there is literally no one on the road right now and you said Amber was in trouble. You don't think that's a reason to hurry?"
"Well, yes, just…be careful, is all I'm saying."
"I'm always careful, Sammy."
They reached the apartment building in record time, squealing to a stop in a parking space along the road across the street. Dean loaded a round in the chamber of his pistol. Sam went around to the truck where he loaded up the sawed-off and stuffed extra shells in his pockets. He grabbed two bottles of holy water, tossing one to Dean. With a quick look around, they raced for the building.
They climbed up the stairs with well-trained vigilance, firearms at the ready. Their heavy boots produced a metallic echo through the stairwell. Dean pointed at the floor, bringing a trail of blood splatters to his brother's attention. On the second-floor landing, the door to the first apartment was ajar with the curious face of an elderly woman peering out at them.
Dean held up a hand, "It's alright, FBI," he informed her as he pulled his badge from his pocket. "Close and lock your door. We've got it covered."
She did as she was told and the brother's continued their trek to Allen's apartment. The splatters of blood increasing as they went. It was safe to assume no one had called the police. Maybe Amber and the old woman just below Allen's apartment were the only ones to notice the disturbance.
Once they reached the landing, they stood outside Allen's door. Sam knocked while Dean stood as his cover.
"Allen Chalke, FBI. Open up or we're coming in." Sam said with an authoritative tone.
There was no answer. Sam tried the door. Locked. The brother's exchanged nods and Sam reared back to kick in the door. His first kick cracked the frame. Second kick splintered the wood enough to allow the light to shine through. The third sent pieces of splintered wood flying as the door swung open, bouncing off the wall on the other side, nearly bringing it back to a close. Sam stopped it with his outstretched hand while Dean stepped in, gun held out at eye level. Sam, clutching the shotgun, followed him.
Dean turned down the hall toward the bedrooms, while Sam investigated the living room. There was an overturned broken side table and lamp with a few small puddles of blood. A trail of splatters leading towards the door.
"There's no one here," Dean said coming back to the living room. "Let's check Amber's apartment."
Back in the corridor, a middle-aged man from across the hall stood dressed in a robe just outside his door.
"FBI. Just, go back inside your home, there's nothing to see here," Dean said with increasing irritation. Sam flashed a badge and the man stepped back inside, locking his door.
"He could have witnessed something," Sam suggested.
"He didn't witness shit, he's just a nosey neighbor," Dean grumbled as he tried the door knob.
Amber's door was open. He looked back at Sam, holding a finger to his lips, as if Sam needed reminding to keep quiet.
They crept in, keeping their guard up. Dean took the same route down the hallway, calling Amber's name as he went. Sam took note of her purse on the dinette table and the uneaten food and half drank bottle of beer on the coffee table. Dean came back and stopped next to him.
"Wings and beer. My kind of girl," Dean said. Sam gave him the usual disapproving look.
"I'm calling her cell," Sam said as he pulled up her number. "If she still has it on her, I should be able to trace it."
As the phone rang on his end, they both heard a phone singing the Foo Fighters coming from Allen's apartment. Going back to search, the call went to voicemail. Sam disconnected the call and tried again. The singing louder now, Sam finally found it on the floor sticking out from under the coat closet door by the entrance.
"Shit, there goes my tracking idea," Sam said, dropping Ambers phone into his jacket pocket.
"Let's look around. There's gotta be something around here that might clue us in on where he took her." Dean suggested.
"Or them," Sam added.
"What?"
"Amber said she thought someone was with Allen. There might be another victim."
"Or another demon."
They split up and began rummaging through various drawers and cabinets. Sam came up with nothing. Dean finally came back with some papers in his hand.
"I found these back in the spare bedroom where he keeps his computer and papers and crap."
"What is it?" Sam queried.
"It looks like a lease to a garage. Dude owns a motorcycle repair shop."
"You think he would take them there?"
"I don't know, but it's the only lead we really have, unless you have some other idea?"
Sam shook his head.
"Okay then, let's check it out. If no one's there, we're back to square one." Dean asserted.