"Not only are female redheads frequently lovely but theirs is a loveliness that suggests both lust and danger, pleasure and violence, and is, therefore, to the male of the species, virtually irresistible. Red O red were the tresses of the original femme fatale…Redheaded women! Those blood oranges! Those cherry bombs! Those celestial shrews and queens of copper! May they never cease to stain our white-bread lives with super-natural catsup." – Tom Robbins
Three days later.
The neon sign beamed the name "Hoity Toit Beer Joint" into the night, but there was certainly nothing "hoity toit" about the joint which was essentially an unassuming warehouse with corrugated tin siding and the occasional vintage metal liquor or beer sign slapped to the walls. The boys shut their respective doors to the Impala and exchanged a look. It looked more like a rough biker bar than anything, and the array of motorcycles out front only added to the image.
The sharp crack of pool balls accented the general rumble of conversation laced with drunken laughter, and "Heartbreaker" blared from the jukebox in a corner. The patrons were an odd assortment of bikers, college kids, middle aged drunks, and the occasional businessman whose collar was left loose and unbuttoned. Sam and Dean walked in unnoticed among the hodgepodge of guests, just an extra couple of guys passing through.
"Nice place," Dean commented, eyeing a large deer head mounted on the wall. Next to it was what looked like a fragment from a jet cockpit painted with a scantily clad, overly busty blonde. "Charming décor." He turned to grin at his brother who was also examining the art with a look torn between disbelief and amusement. "Beer?"
"Yeah," Sam answered, scanning the rest of the place a bit more seriously than Dean who looked more like he was scanning for chicks than information. "And don't forget we're actually here to work?"
"Dude, I know!" Dean insisted seriously. "Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun with the job!" he added, giving his brother a roguish grin before turning to wade through the crowd towards the central bar. He slipped up between two guys who looked far too young to be here and a couple in their forties playing tonsil-hockey against the bar. Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and scooted away from them before catching the attention of an older, heavy set Hispanic man tossing a variety of liquor into a shaker.
"Two Budweiser," he ordered, and the bartender nodded before shaking up whatever concoction he had whipped up and pouring it into five even shot glasses for what looked like a birthday party group. It was electric blue in color, and Dean wondered what it was. Probably tasted like ass, he admitted to himself, and he turned away (in the opposite direction of the entangled couple) to further survey the bar which consisted of wooden columns, roughly hewn tables and stools and benches, and a variety of neon signs advertising everything from "The Lone Star State" to "Coors Lite." Across the middle room where Dean waited was a small stage with equipment for live music, though either there was no band tonight or they were taking a break. The girls were cute with their cut off shorts and tight tank tops, and a few of them were sporting cowboy boots with skirts. A crowd by the pool tables suggested a good game later and a chance to score some cash. Overall, not a bad crowd. And Sam thought he wasn't working…
Grinning, Dean was just turning back to check the status of his order when he saw her.
Long, ruby red hair glinting under a neon moon fell over one shoulder as she leaned low over a pool table, lining her cue up just right. Her jeans were dark and tight, hugging her legs and covering a pair of leather boots, and for a moment that was all Dean noticed- those perfectly fitted boot cut jeans clinging to her curves. But then she straightened and brushed that fiery mane back behind her shoulder and he noticed the black silk corset tank top with laces down the front. Dean took a moment to imagine loosening those laces one by one as she slipped around the pool table to view a different angle. He wondered if he had the creativity to figure out what was underneath those clinging garments. Yes, yes he certainly did.
"Sir?"
Distracted and abruptly pulled from his musings, Dean turned back to the bartender to see him holding out two beers. "Oh, sorry," Dean apologized, digging in his pocket for his wallet. "Hey, I have a question for you," he said, pulling out some cash. "Who's that girl over there?" Dean nodded to the redhead who was waltzing around the table with a smug grin. Minx. He assumed she must have made her shot, because she was lining up another.
"Name's Marley," the bartender answered, following Dean's indication. "She's not from around here. Came into town for a cousin's funeral."
"Funeral?" Dean repeated with peaked interest. "That wouldn't happen to be Christopher Lawrence's funeral, would it?" And Sam thought he wasn't working…
The bartender stared long and hard at him for awhile until Dean was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Yes, yes it would. Why do you ask?"
There was something slightly accusing in the bartender's voice, so Dean stuffed a few one dollar bills into the tip jar with a smile, answering, "Just curious," before heading back towards his brother.
"Find out anything?" Sam asked, taking the beer Dean offered him.
"See that girl over there?" Dean pointed Marley out to Sam. She was lounging against her pool cue and watching as her opponent moved around the table eyeing what she had left him. "Came in for Chris' funeral. She's his cousin. I think I should go talk to her."
Sam turned a suspicious gaze to his brother who was trying to look as serious as possible. "If she came into town for the funeral, what is she going to know?"
"Maybe she has some insight," Dean pointed out reasonably. "Maybe she knows something about Chris' past that could be insightful."
Sam looked unconvinced. "So this has nothing to do with redheads?" he asked, his brows lifted skeptically.
"Oh, that's just a bonus," Dean replied with a rakish smirk. "Have you had any of that?"
Sam held up his beer and shook his head. "No, why?"
"Great, thanks." Dean grabbed the bottle out of Sam's hand and headed towards the pool tables. It was Marley's turn again and there weren't many balls left on the table. Three solids, including the eight ball, and two stripes. Marley surveyed the table with obvious calculation, drumming her fingers against the wooden cue absent-mindedly.
"It's Marley, right?" Dean interrupted, drawing her gaze from the table. She had large, almond-shaped dark blue eyes, almost navy in color, and they fixed on him with suspicious expectation that bordered on impatience. It was the look a girl gave a guy when she knew she was about to be hit on and wasn't interested. "He said you could use another drink," Dean explained, nodding back towards the bartender. Still Marley was quiet, instead looking from his face to the offered beer and then back to his face.
"That's nice of you to offer, but I don't drink open beers from strangers," she eventually replied in a tone that was sweet yet spicy at the same time- like she was being mockingly polite and didn't mean it.
"The bartender can vouch for me," Dean placated with a friendly smile, neither offended by her edgy tone nor ready to give up so easily. The corset top alone was worth two shut downs at least.
"Look, man, it's not you; it's just a policy I have," she replied breezily, turning back to the pool table to examine her options. "Anyways," she added as an afterthought, "you said the bartender sent you? I'm not even drinking Budweiser."
This was, of course, a good point, and Dean had to do a bit of backtracking and start on a different angle. "Alright you caught me," he admitted, ignoring the fact that Marley's pool opponent was now giving him the ugly eye. "The beer was for my brother, I just thought what with your cousin and all you could use it more than he could."
Marley stiffened and looked at him over her shoulder with a hard gaze. "Cousin…?" she repeated, and her tone sounded like she was losing her patience.
"Chris Lawrence." There was an obvious shift in the people around the pool table; the carefree atmosphere constricted, and Dean knew he should choose his words carefully. "The bartender said you were his cousin. I thought you might like a drink."
Marley stared at him for a moment, her face completely unreadable. She didn't seem sad or upset; in fact, the mention of her cousin's name seemed to have no effect on her at all. Dean wondered if perhaps he had crossed a line, but then she softened, a faint smile twitching at the corners of her lips.
"Let me take my shot and we'll go to the bar," she said with a sly smile, and then turned her attention back to the pool table. She focused for a moment, before shuffling along the edge and leaning over to take her shot. Her opponent took advantage of the view, admiring her bent over position. Dean settled on giving him a reproving look, as though he wouldn't have done the same if he had been in that guy's position. It took two shots for her to make the last three solids into the pockets. She collected a fat sum of money from her opponent who looked more miffed about the end of the game than its outcome, and then she was leading the way to the bar with Dean following close behind. Whatever perfume she was wearing smelled heavenly.
"Dos Equis, dressed. Thanks, Mario," Marley ordered with a smile, leaning against the bar and fixing Dean with a curious eye.
"You have a name?"
"Dean," he introduced himself, holding out a hand.
"You have a last name?" she inquired further with lifted brows, gripping his hand in a firm handshake.
"Is that really important?" Dean countered smoothly, taking several long drinks of beer. Marley looked amused by his answer.
"How long have you been in town for?" she asked, accepting her beer from the bartender and jerking her head at Dean to indicate he would be paying for it. She squeezed the wedge of lime into the bottle as Dean pulled out his money.
"Uhh, just got here, actually," he replied, handing the bartender a twenty. He was momentarily distracted as she pressed her tongue to the salted neck of the bottle and followed it with a swig of beer. Whether the action was done on purpose or not was unclear, but Dean had to blink several times before he pulled himself together. "You?"
"Oh, just got here a couple of days ago," she replied, turning her body so that they were facing one another. "What brought you to town?"
"Investigating your cousin's death," Dean answered, resting one arm on the bar. Marley looked taken aback, but again she lacked the sadness Dean would have normally expected.
"Who are you with?"
"FBI."
Marley's deep blue eyes bore unwaveringly into his, and Dean found himself feeling unexpectedly flustered under the intensity of the scrutiny. She seemed neither impressed nor entirely convinced. "I thought they had already brought the Feds in," Marley explained quietly. "Nobody can figure out exactly what happened."
"Uh, well, yes, that's why they called us. They sent us in for further analysis," Dean elaborated, trying to think up a way to change the subject.
"Us?" Marley repeated curiously. Dean seized the moment.
"My partner, Sam," Dean explained, pointing to his brother who was talking with another bartender who was far too old to be wearing the top that revealed at least half her bosom. Remembering that he was technically supposed to be getting information for the case, Dean added, "Uh, look, you don't have any idea what happened, do you? You haven't heard or seen anything since you got into town?"
"Obviously not," Marley replied coldly. Then as though remembering something, she shook her head and looked away. "I should be asking you that question," she continued quietly. Dean took advantage of the moment and rested a hand on her shoulder. The look she shot him made him instantly remove it.
"We only know what you know as of right now," he answered hastily, turning away and tossing his empty bottle in the trash can. "Do you drink whiskey?"
"Yeah?"
"Two whiskeys," Dean ordered, and the bartender nodded.
"Are you allowed to drink like this on the job?" Marley asked skeptically, eyeing Dean with those intense cobalt eyes as she licked more salt off the bottle's neck and took a long drink. This time the action definitely looked intentional. Dean realized he was no longer the one running this game.
"I just got to town," he answered, "Not exactly on the clock yet." He grinned and winked, but Marley did not look excited or giggly. She looked amused, maybe, but Dean got the impression she was a thinker more than a drinker. She was studying him, and it made him feel a bit uncomfortable, like she was discovering his secrets. As it turned out, however, that did not mean she couldn't shoot whiskey. She downed the Jack Daniels without batting an eye. In fact, she kept those inky blue eyes locked with his as she tossed the amber liquid down her throat.
"So, Dean," Marley began, carefully placing the shot glass on the bar and running a finger tip around the rim; her eyes were focused on her hand as she asked her next question. "You really have no idea what happened to Chris?" She looked up at him and Dean was alarmed to find that her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. He instantly felt uncomfortable, his curiosity vanishing with the sudden awkwardness.
"Uhhh," was all he managed to get out. She rushed to continue talking, looking away from him as though embarrassed.
"It's just- nobody has any answers! You'd think- I dunno, you'd think someone would be able to tell me something!"
Dean couldn't think of anything to say, at least nothing helpful. "Well, given the fact they called us in, I can tell you this isn't a normal death. I certainly don't think he got trampled to death by a startled pony, or whatever the hell the cops are saying," he answered at length, which was the truth, if not a little…vague. Something in Marley's persona shifted, and she looked calm once more, if not a little disappointed. "I might have a better answer for you tomorrow. Do you have a number I could reach you at?" he asked as innocently as possible. She might be useful for the case, considering she was related to the victim. At least that was half of Dean's reasoning.
Marley smiled. "Sure," she replied with a sphinx-like grin, and her hand snaked around his waist and plucked his cell out of his back pocket so deftly he wondered if she was a pick pocket as well as a pool shark. It took her a few seconds to put her number into his phone, and then she handed it back to him.
"You aren't going to put it back where you found it?" Dean asked slyly, but Marley only smiled and held out the phone. He took it and she finished her beer in several long gulps. "Let me get you another-" Dean started, fishing for his wallet, but Marley held up a hand.
"Actually, I have to meet someone. Call me tomorrow, k?" And with a smile and a wave she was heading for the door. Dean felt strangely flabbergasted, like someone had yanked the rug out from under him. Just when he thought he was back in charge… damn redheads.
"Well you two seemed to have been getting along. What'd you say to scare her off?"
The approach of his brother brought Dean out of his reverie. "Nothing," he answered honestly. "Got her number though," he added with a self satisfied smirk. Sam rolled his eyes. "What about you? You seemed to be making your way into Cougartown," Dean said, jerking his heard towards the older woman bartender Sam had been talking to.
"Well since you clearly weren't getting anywhere-"
"-I wouldn't say that-"
"-anywhere with the case, I thought I'd ask around. She was just filling me on the stuff not printed in the papers. Like the eyewitness accounts of the kids with Chris when he died."
"Ah, Sammy, that's why I bring you along," Dean commended with a grin. "Learn anything helpful?"
"I got their names," Sam replied with a smug smirk.
"Great, so we talk with the kids tomorrow."
"That's not all I found out," Sam continued. "So, there's a reason they call it Donkey Lady Bridge. According to local lore, back in the 50's a man set his house on fire with his wife and kids inside. The kids died, but the woman was allegedly burned and freakishly disfigured. Her hands and feet were melted together so they were more like hooves, and her face was elongated and the skin loose making her look like, well, a donkey. Anyways, she was cast out and forced to live in the woods until she went insane. Now her spirit haunts this area around the bridge attacking anybody who bothers her."
"Sick. This brings Dr. Moreau to a whole new level," Dean muttered.
"Tell me about it," Sam agreed. "But it gets better."
"Of course it does," Dean muttered sarcastically.
"According to the legend, the Donkey Lady or whatever died out in the woods. That means no proper burial, no gravemarkers-"
"Which is going to make torching this bitch a…well…bitch…" Dean trailed off awkwardly and then cleared his throat. "Alright, well, maybe we can sweep the bridge for EMF. Gotta start somewhere. Hey, maybe you can do your geek thing and find out some more info on the net."
"My 'geek thing'?" Sam repeated indignantly, scoffing. "You mean I do the work while you drink?"
"Well…we've all got our strengths." Dean flashed Sam a smile before turning around to order another drink.
"Dude, I don't know why we have to be are at five in the morning," Dean complained loudly, clutching his coffee like it was his last remaining lifeline as he leaned against the hood of the Impala. The birds were chirping happily in the early morning light, and already the day promised to be hot. Insects were buzzing around, and the river giggled and gurgled over the rocks in the stream below. It would have been a pleasant scene if it wasn't five in the freaking morning.
"Dude, I told you not to take that shot," Sam replied, struggling to control his smirk.
"No, you said it smelled like bad decisions," Dean corrected, his face contorting as though just talking about the shot was making him feel sick to his stomach.
"Yeah, well, I was right, wasn't I?"
Dean opened his mouth to respond, but found he actually didn't have anything to say to that, so he just sort of shrugged and nodded and took another gulp of caffeine.
"C'mon," Sam said with a slight laugh, pulling out the EMF reader and flipping it on. He walked across the bridge, scanning, but got nothing.
"They said the body was found closer to the river," Dean suggested grumpily, pushing off the Impala and walking off the road and down towards the river. Sam followed.
"So a few kids check out a local legend," Sam recapped outloud, "One ends up stomped to death. Cops show up and rule the death a result of a startled horse. Except there are no tracks, and no nearby ranches. It's all pretty woodsy out here, but none of the properties are large enough to keep horses."
"Hey, check this out," Dean said, spotting something. He crouched down and pushed a few blades of grass out of the way to reveal an indention in the clay-like mud, something that looked very much like-
"A hoofprint?" Sam also crouched down next to his brother, examining the mark. "Are there any others?"
Dean looked around, but didn't find anything else. "Not that I can see, but maybe they washed away or something. So much for no tracks. Spot on police work, guys," he muttered under his breath.
Sam frowned and pulled out his phone, snapping a picture of the print.
"Anything on the EMF?" Dean asked, peeking under the bridge. Even in the early morning daylight it was shadowy and damp and cold.
"No, still dead, but maybe she only comes out at night," Sam replied, switching the thing off and stuffing it in his pocket. "
Dean stepped back from the bridge, took one more sweeping look of the place before saying, "Alright, well let's go talk to the kids."
"I'm sorry, the police have already talked with Jen several times. She's distraught, can't you people just leave her alone?"
Sam smiled sympathetically at the tired-looking woman. "We understand, Mrs. Breish, but we just need to talk with her one more time. We want to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible, and anything your daughter could add would be immensely helpful."
Mrs. Breish stared at Sam before drifting her eyes towards Dean, who just grinned. She swallowed slowly and nodded, stepping back from the door to let Sam and Dean inside. "Jennifer! Can you come down here, please!" she called up the stairs after the front door was shut. A girl appeared at the top of the stairs, her blonde hair raggedly messy and her cheeks blotchy and stained with tears.
"I've already talked to the cops," she said wobbly. "I don't have anything to add."
"Jennifer, they just want to help," her mother explained exhaustedly.
"The Donkey Lady killed Chris, alright?" Jenifer spat, a fresh wave of tears flooding down her cheeks. Her mom sighed and rubbed at her temples.
"This had been going on since Chris' death. She's been in hysterics," Mrs. Breish explained tiredly.
"The Donkey Lady?" Dean repeated, looking at Jen. "Who's that?"
"It's just a myth, an urban legend," Mrs. Breish dismissed before her daughter could answer.
"Well, we'd like to talk with you about it, if that's alright…?" Sam called, looking up at Jennifer who still stood at the top of the stairs. She nodded slowly before descending.
They sat in the living room around the coffee table with a pot of coffee between them that Dean was generously helping himself to. Sam was just glad the lady hadn't sat out any food. "So, Jenifer, tell us what happened."
Jenifer immediately looked away, looking as though she was trying to calm herself before beginning her story. "Well, it was just me, Chris, Marissa, and Justin. We were hangin' out and wanted something to do. We started talking about places around town that are haunted, like the train tracks and stuff."
"Train tracks?" Sam repeated curiously.
"Yeah, you know, the train hits the bus full of kids and now the kids will push your car over the tracks if you park on them…? Y'all aren't from around here, are you?"
Dean grinned, swallowing a mouth full of hot coffee. "Not exactly."
"Anyways, Justin started talking about the Donkey Lady," Jen continued, an involuntary shudder running down her spine.
"And what's that story?" Sam pressed gently.
"Back in the 1950s there was this fire. A man set his house on fire and burned it to the ground, along with himself, his wife, and his children. Except his wife didn't die. She was horribly disfigured, y'know? They say she almost looked like a donkey, that her hands and feet sorta melted together into hoof-like stumps." Jenifer shrugged. "Something like that. Anyways, now her tortured spirit haunts the bridge, attacking anybody who honks their horn, or calls her, or bothers her in any way."
"And you think this is what killed Chris?" Dean asked, pouring another cup of coffee. Sam shot him an aggravated look and Dean shrugged.
Jen's eyes welled up with tears. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but- we walked down to the river and Chris saw this… print. Like a hoof print." Her voice was becoming thick with tears, but they seemed to be coming from fear rather than sadness. "And then we heard this… noise. Like hooves. And we bolted, but I guess Chris didn't make it. Justin went to go look for him and-" her voice disappeared for a moment, and she had to swallow tightly before continuing. "Well, you know how he found him."
"You say Justin found him?" Sam repeated, writing the name down on a small note pad. Jen nodded. Dean looked from his brother to the girl.
"Got an address?"