Disclaimer, Summary, Rating: See Chapter 1.
THE SCENT OF YOU
Chapter 10
After lunch they went back to their room where Sam retrieved the laptop and all their research papers plus the guns and knives they had on them instead of stored with everything else in the Impala's trunk from the room's small safe. It was a precaution they took daily, not just because of the monetary/saleable value of the laptop and such as the Infra-red Thermal Scanner to opportunistic thieves/druggies looking for something to sell for their next fix, but mostly just in case any cleaning staff did have an over-developed sense of curiosity and peeked into their holdalls. Coming face to face with a large ceremonial dagger etched with runes or a badass Glock-17 and a bunch of paper sheets crammed with occult information about mayhem and violent death tended to get people over-excited.
Booting up the laptop at the table again, Sam went to his email account and as he hoped, found a new email from somebody called with an attachment. "Who's Suki?"
Looking over his shoulder, Dean shook his head, "No idea."
Sam opened the email, unsurprised that a stranger should be responding. One of Dad's closest friends was Amoa M'Natu, a man whom he had never actually met 'in the flesh' though they 'saw' each other every other week or so by virtue of modern technology, because Amoa was a priest-hunter in Senegal. Sam still remembered their Dad's almost childlike awe of the 'webcam' setup. Theirs was a widely-scattered but intensely close-knit world; the psychobabblers would probably term it 'not just a closed society, but a locked and bolted one'.
Few of them had material wealth, and everyone just held everything in common, which was freely offered to another as needed. The toaster-killers like John Winchester could thus rely on the technophiles of their society to help out, even if the person was a stranger to them. As Pastor Jim had once lamented, if the 'normal' world practised such generous co-operation and kindness to strangers, there probably would hardly be a need for their kind to exist to protect it.
Hi Deen & Sam
You're dad asked me to send you this attachments He says:
I have looked at what you sent me. Your research is excellent; well done both of you. Right now I'm as baffled as Sam, though. I have attached some research I came across in the past, but to be honest I don't know how relevant or useful it will be. The victims seem to be entirely random other than the pattern you have already found, viz., that they are all connected to UNT Amarillo. The only other pattern I have been able to determine is that all the victims were connected, albeit in some cases tangentially, with the Earth, as in the literal rock all six billion of us are standing on. I will mull it over and if I think of anything else I'll get back to you as soon as I can but I'll be incommunicado for a couple of days; Jefferson called last night because there's something nasty kicking off in Minnesota. Be careful. Dad.
I am hoping my attachments come thru OK. You're problem not my area of specialness but if I can help be glad to. Stay safe Winchesters. Suki.
Before he opened the attachments, Sam sent a brief, simple thank-you response. The grammar and syntax of the opening and closing paragraphs indicated English was not 'Suki's' native language, whereas the main message had clearly been written – or more likely carefully dictated since John Winchester was as lethal to keyboards as he was to toasters – by their Dad.
Since they couldn't pin and pace, Dean pulled the other chair around the table with what printed-out/handwritten information they had while Sam used the laptop.
"What'd he mean, 'connected to the Earth'?" Sam mumbled.
"Let's go through the victims again. Do a chart or a graph or something," Dean instructed with a nod at the laptop. Shuffling the sheet of papers, he read out the first victim's details while Sam quickly made a grid and typed, "Victim One, female, the Caribbean-American. Divorced, two children aged 24 and 23, both of whom live in Boston. Forty-three years old, a lab tech at UNT Amarillo, catatonic for…15 hours, committed suicide by drinking a chemical cocktail of poison."
"What Department of the college?" asked Sam.
"Um…Geology & Earth Sciences." Dean recited.
"Right; next one?"
"Victim Number Two, male, 57 years old, one of the two Hispanics…three grown up children, three grandchildren, widowed five years ago." Dean carefully did not use either of the victims' names, as there was always a sense of guilt in failing to save a life, even if you knew you would prevent further deaths – after all, that fact was cold comfort to the bereaved. It was easier to keep it impersonal. "One of the two who overdosed; downed enough pills and booze to wipe out the 101st Airborne and was found in his armchair. He was…Senior Lecturer in Sophomore Biochemistry."
They worked their way through the details of all eleven victims, with Sam inputting each person's information into the chart as Dean read out the particulars.
"What have we got?" Dean shifted to ease his butt, which had gone numb from sitting.
"No victims from English Language or Literature, Mathematics, Education & Teaching, Computer Sciences, Modern or Ancient Languages, Philosophy, Classical Studies, Home Economics, Sports, the Arts Department – or the Religious Education Department, not surprisingly," Sam reeled off. "Let me print it…"
Their small, portable and mercifully non-temperamental printer clattered and churned out a letter-sized sheet. UNT Amarillo was comprised of various in-house Departments, externally-affiliated Schools and 'partnership' run Academies. The eleven victims had comprised three faculty, two undergraduate students, one postgraduate student, three researchers and two technician staff. One victim had been from Geology & Earth Sciences, one from Biochemistry, one from Archaeology & Anthropology, two from Zoology & Natural Sciences, two from Environmental & Conservation Studies, and two from Arboriculture & Horticulture.
Sam sucked his lower lip as they perused the list. "Well…everything in the universe is made up from the basic elements. Me, you and this table are all made of the same chemical and mineral compounds, just arranged in different ways…and if you make that crack about my head also being made of wood, I'll smack you."
"You and what Army, baby bro'?" Dean retorted with a smirk but refocused on the serious discussion at hand. "So, we are all 'star-stuff'. Don't see how that helps us…I mean, how is Archaeology 'connected to the Earth', other than that Archaeology is a fancy term for grave-robbing?"
"I don't know…and archaeologists would say they're just trying to learn from the past."
"Well they don't seem to get a clue," Dean snorted, "I mean, how many Indiana Jones movies do Ford, Spielberg & Lucas need to make to get the point across? When you find something that ancient peoples buried under a ton of stone and booby-trapped to the hilt doesn't it kinda hint that they knew what they were doing and that therefore digging the friggin' thing up is really dumb?"
"Why do I get the feeling I'm listening to the voice of experience?"
"Florida," admitted Dean. "I'm out in the Everglades, trying to deal with this seriously badass mutant alligator monster, when I had to bail out the Nutty Professor and a bunch of hippie-throwback dig students who ignored all the warning sigils and emblems to unleash the chomp thing. Damn thing had more teeth on show than an Osmond family reunion."
"How'd you kill it?" asked Sam with concern, noting the singular personal pronoun of 'I' rather than 'we' or 'me and Dad'; undoubtedly another solo gig of Dean's.
"I didn't. Mutant reptile was hot on my trail and I couldn't fight both of 'em. Come sundown it would've have been a slaughterhouse, so I did my drill sergeant routine and sent the Prof and his people back to Lake Okeechobee with their tails between their legs at high speed. I knew if I could keep the chomp thing at bay until Reptile Boy showed up they would more'n likely slice 'n' dice each other and I could just mop up." Dean related with the casual air of one relating a minor irritant.
You mean you hoped like hell that they would take each other out but had no idea whether they'd team up against you instead, Sam mentally translated the flippant anecdote…You were alone and terrified in the dark knowing there was a good chance you could be dead or wishing you were about five minutes after sunset…Damn it Dean, haven't you heard the one about being a live dog instead of a dead lion?
"I think we need to go back to UNT Amarillo and check it out more thoroughly," Sam said aloud, keeping his thoughts off his face.
Dean checked his wristwatch, "It's two-thirty…that's doable."
Not needing to think about what they required for such a sneak 'n' peek, they were on the road to Amarillo less than five minutes later; traffic was reasonably light and Dean pulled into the campus grounds, deliberately choosing the most inconspicuous parking bay he could find. Since the first victim had been a lab tech in the Earth Sciences Department, they made their way there; with Sam keeping watch, Dean quickly picked the lock on a deserted science lab and got them in. Going into the little staff office, Sam found what he was looking for – a little wall plan showing the staff's workstations…and the staff laboratory was right next door. The staff office acted as a connecting room between the two labs and it was the work of a moment to go into the next lab.
There were workbenches full of Bunsen burners and flasks, some seriously state-of-the-art computer equipment and floor to ceiling drawers neatly labelled with what they contained and the staff member currently working on them.
Taking the EMF detector out of his pocket, Dean turned it on – and promptly dropped it as it 'shrieked' and all the little bulbs blew out. Hastily scrabbling for it he turned it back off again and they stood tensely, but there was no commotion. Going to a vertical row of drawers that had 'Yolande Godfrey' handwritten on them, Sam carefully pulled each one open, ready for anything. There were a variety of mineral samples, mostly fossilised Trilobites and the like, but nothing to get…
Instinctively both men jumped back from the drawer; nothing happened and so with mutual deep breaths and nervous glances, they peered in. The object was the size and roughly the shape of a football. It was a dull, non-reflective black and there were almost faint patterns on it, similar to a fossil, but not. There were also faint marks where samples must have been taken for analysis. It looked utterly unimportant and innocuous, yet just looking at it made Sam's stomach lurch.
Next to the Glock-17 tucked in the back of his waistband, Dean carried a medium-sized serrated hunting knife, being of the school of thought that it was impossible to ever carry too much weaponry. Pulling it out he measured and carefully rapped the handle on the corner of the object, making a small pea-sized chunk break off. Inside the object was grainy but solid black, with a faint tinge of yellow. Getting a small test tube, Sam used a pair of tweezers – nothing would have induced him to touch it – and placed the sample in the test-tube. He was sure Mrs Godfrey had run a spectrum analysis on whatever it was, but if they were unable to find or access her work, they would have to run their own tests. Sam had a pretty good idea already of what that faint yellow tinge might be. As if reading his mind, Dean brought out the plastic bottle of Holy Water they carried and carefully flicked a few drops onto the 'rock' – whereupon it immediately began to smoke.
Leaving the lab undetected, they followed the wall plan to where the Archaeology victim had had his office, ensuring that they kept to side corridors as much as possible and striding out purposefully when they passed anyone as if they had every right to be here. Once again, Dean picked the lock to the guy's office and had them inside within ten seconds.
"Pay dirt," declared Sam as he checked the desk and hefted a brown cardboard folder crammed with papers. He checked them, "The archaeologist was collating all the data their research produced on the Satanic football …or whatever it is…" he pulled off one of those Post-It® Notes and read it. "Everything they know is in this file except for…Biochemical spectral analysis report number…blah, blah…"
"Which is where?" demanded Dean.
"The Senior Lecturer has it – had it – on his computer in his student-lecture laboratory," Sam finished reading, "which is…the end of this corridor, left, right and at the end of the hallway."
Putting an elastic band around the folder, he shoved it into the backpack he'd brought with him to foster the 'student' air and they left, with Dean relocking the office as they went – actually not as easy as picking the lock. An office that was still locked didn't make people start thinking deep thoughts about the police and fingerprint dusting.
The Biochemistry 'lab' was similarly kitted out with Mad Scientist paraphernalia and techno-geek hardware heaven. Unlike several of the other labs, it also had a door the top half of which was a rectangular clear-glass pane. Dean kept watch while Sam booted up the computer on the lecturer's desk and began to search.
"Found it." Sam said finally, turning on the printer so he could print the report. "Ugh, twenty pages. It's going to take forever to read through everything."
Dean didn't answer as he kept his eye on the corridor while the colour printer whirred and clacked and spat out pages. Fortunately nobody came down the corridor but as his hand brushed the doorknob Dean felt a faint vibration through it. He frowned…minor earth tremor? He concentrated and heard a faint rhythmic rumble that was vaguely familiar – for a moment he couldn't place it then he remembered when Sammy had been really little, camping out somewhere in the Midwest. There was a wide but shallow river and Sammy had been paddling while Dean kept a careful eye on him one summer afternoon.
Then Dean heard distant thunder, but the sky had remained cloudless and clear. Looking around his sharp eyes had spotted a rapidly approaching black mass on the horizon. Snatching Sammy from the water, Dean had painfully scrambled up onto a narrow overhanging crag and held onto Sammy for dear life as a large herd of elk, obviously startled by some predator, came charging across the river and into the forest, crushing grass and plants and battering bushes and saplings as they went. The dust had been choking and the noise of hundreds of huge, hard hooves horrible.
Just as the memory clicked, the double doors at the far end of the corridor surged open and a horde of students entered the hallway, relentlessly bearing down on the end lab.
"Sam!" Dean barked, "They're coming here for a class! There's no way out without them seeing us!"
Jumping up, Sam grabbed the just-printed report and stuffed it into his backpack, looking around, but there was no other door – out of the room, that was. "Quick, into the stationery store!" he urged.
Hastily they scrambled into the supply store, which turned out be about four feet long by three feet wide by nine high, and closed the door so it was just slightly ajar; Sam groaned as he realised he had not shut down the Word file or turned off the computer, but it was too late as the door burst open and chattering students poured into the room; they were well and truly trapped – and if anyone came to this supply room for a pen, royally screwed as well.
Continued in Chapter 11…
© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart