Where to start? Ch. 3

CHAPTER THREE

When I was ten, my parents took my brother and me to Sedona, Arizona during summer vacation. Being ten, I was definitely not thrilled of the idea of going to the dusty, wild west that was Arizona. But when we got there, the air was crisp and cool and created a comforting blanket from the hot sun that warmed my bones. There were these gorgeous red mountains in the distance and the trees had just started turning fall colors.

My brother, Josh, being him couldn't see that past his seemingly undying hatred of the mosquitos. He could get shot in the arm and stitch himself up without a peep but it's mosquitos that had got him wining like a baby.

A smile spreads across my lips as I think about this, stepping out of the Impala and into the chill Indiana air. I walk a couple steps behind the Winchester brothers as we walk towards Bunker Hill's so-called best Diner. Sam opens the door, a bright sound of bells filling the room for a moment and all three of us go to take a seat at a nearby booth. I open my mouth to speak once we all sit down but instead a soft yawn comes out instead. The car ride from Bobby's house in South Dakota to here was long and tiresome, not to mention the constant grilling of questions I got from the boys.

I have no doubt that the only reason they have let me come this far with them is merely because Bobby told them to and I worry I'll soon have to give them a real explanation. Until then I can hope for the best which lately does nothing to help what-so-ever.

"What can I get you, three?" A woman with cherry red lips and in a baby blue, dress uniform says as she pulls out a pad and pencil.

Sam's laptop was already out and loaded up in front of him and without looking up from the screen he says softly,

"Just a ceaser salad for me."

Dean looks the waitress up and down and gives a flirtatious smile that would make any unsuspecting girl's knees go weak.

"What's your special, sweetheart?" He asks making the waitress smile and she pushes her pencil behind her ear.

"We've got the best bacon, cheese burgers in all of the state." She says proudly,

"Then I guess I should have that, then."

I roll my eyes at his relentless flirting and turn my head to the woman,

"That sounds great, I'll have that too." She smiles again and turns to leave, jotting down our orders as she walks.

"At least, you got decent taste in food." Dean says, almost under his breath, and I smile.

"Hey, so get this," Sam's says as he turns the laptop so the monitor was facing Dean and me. "The first vic. was a man named Shawn McDonald, a relator whose wife said he was going to a bar one night and turned up the next day half eaten."

"Okay, so, Bobby already told us all this." I say,

"Yea, but the first two victims were found after days of being missing and there was almost nothing left but a few bloody pieces of flesh and bone but then this guy is barely finished."

"So, what are you thinking? Some monster thought to get some midnight snack but was interrupted halfway through?" Dean said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

The waitress then comes up to us, arms full of plates and places them each in front of us, "Tell me if you need anything else." She says and I tell her thanks before she leaves, "Sure thing, kiddo." My jaw tightens at her condensing response, we were practically the same age and she was calling me, kiddo? Please. Dean gives a soft chuckle and I glare at him above my water glass.

"What I'm trying to say," Sam continues with the same intensity as before, "is that something or someone interrupted whatever was eating McDonald, maybe they got a glimpse at what it was."

Dean nods into his burger and responds through mouthfuls, "Sounds like a plan, me and you will check it out after."

"And what exactly will I be doing?" I interrogate,

"I don't know, watch some TV, do research."

"I did not come with you two, to be waiting around like a sitting duck twiddling my thumbs." That made Dean put down his sandwich.

"Why did you come? Cause, we sure as hell don't need help. We have been just fine without anyone else."

"I'm only here because Bobby asked me to."

"Yea, and why would he do that? Because if he thinks Sam and I are going to be babysitting—"

"You are not my babysitters." I say sternly cutting him off, "I have my reasons. Now, can we get off the subject of why I'm here and focus on what we need to do? Of course, if you need to know my personal life, maybe we should swap stories? You go, first."

That shut him up.

In the end, Sam thought the best solution was for him and me to go to the police station while Dean interrogated McDonald's now widow, Sherry. I'm leaning against the black Chevy Impala so my arms rested lazily on the hood, dressed in my best grey pantsuit. I could feel the weight of my gun hidden expertly behind the dark blazer that I'm wearing.

Looking over to my right, I can see Sam talking intensely on his phone. I can't hear what he's saying but I can feel in my gut he's talking to Bobby. Suddenly, he shoves his phone into the inside pocket of his suit and I turn away as he starts over to where I'm standing.

"Who was that?" I ask, curiosity getting the best of me as I walk with him into the town police station.

"No one," He says and opens the Plexiglas door, I sigh in surrender. This was getting old, quick.

"What have I done to get the cold shoulder from you and your brother?"

Sam stops in his tracks, grabbing my arm so I stop with him. He lowers his voice so everyone walking around us can't hear.

"Nothing. And that's the problem. We don't know you, Natalie and you won't answer any of our questions with a straight answer. It kind of makes you hard to trust." I open my mouth to respond but a man walks up to us, his dark blue uniform contrasting against his pale and pasty skin. Sam and I turn around in mild surprise already reaching for our FBI badges in our breast coat pockets.

"I'm lieutenant, Bradberry, can I—" The man says, cutting himself off once we flash him our fake ID's.

"I'm agent Smith and this is agent Zeppelin," I tell him and he straightens his posture slightly, "We're here about the recent murders in the area."

"You mean the bear attacks?"

"We're, uh, not so sure that they were." Sam responds and we follow the lieutenant out of the waiting room.

He scoffs, "trust me, fellas, they were. Found the second attack myself. No one, could do that."

Sam and I trade an uneasy glance and stop Bradberry.

"You found the body?" Sam questions and the guy runs a sweaty hand through his damp hair.

"Yeah, at least what was left of him, anyway. Pretty gruesome, too. Could barely keep my lunch down when I saw him." He looks up, his face a pale green, "I was patrolling my usual routes when I saw something. I thought that it was just some run over deer but it wasn't till I got closer did I see the sneakers. Pretty much the only thing that made me realize it was actually a person…"

I clear my throat and ask, "Would you say there was anything unusual about the, uh, remains?"

"Hell if I know, after I found him, I called it in and stayed a good twenty feet away just to make sure I didn't puke on myself. But if you want to see well, what's left of him, we still got him in the morgue."

"Show us the way."

"See what I tell ya, there's no way a person did that."

Sam and I stood over the bloody mess of bones and flesh in the cold morgue underneath the police station. He was right, no human could have done this but in my line of work, I knew that didn't mean much.

"Lieutenant," I call over at Bradberry who had his back against the wall across the room. "We're gonna need all of those case files for the attacks."

"You guys are still bent on your whole murder theory?" He asks quizzedly.

"Call it an educated guess." Sam says as he takes a pen from the tray next to him and uses it to lift a piece of gooey skin. When he looks up he gives a tight smile at the cop and Bradberry quickly leaves. Probably to go throw up.

When I can't hear his hurried footsteps down the hall I turn back towards Sam.

"So, what do you think?" He goes to speak but his eyes seem to catch something causing him to close his mouth and grab a pair of latex gloves. He searches threw the mess of slimy skin.

"What are you doing?" He responds by pulling out something black and sticky, a weird goo dripping off it. "What in the hell is that?" Sam examines it, a face of disgust as he wipes of the slimy skin. I raise a hand over my nose, the smell almost overpowering.

"It's a feather." He responds.

Hey friends! I hope you all have great Thanksgivings!