FIVE

It was mid-afternoon—the sun still high in the sky, throwing long bars of tree-shadow across the two-lane highway—as Dean drove them back toward downtown Mission’s Ridge.

“You think there’s any connection between Castiel’s Jesus witness and what’s going on here in town?” Sam asked.

“How can there not be a connection?” Dean countered. “I mean, The Passion of the Christ isn’t exactly on my Netflix list, but just because Cass’s witness shared a Happy Meal with JC, it doesn’t mean he can’t be a trouble-making son of a bitch. And that sure as hell fits the description of whoever—or whatever—killed Dave Wolverton.”

“So you’re thinking demon.”

“For starters.”

“I’ll start running a search for the most common first-order witnesses currently in circulation.” Sam glanced at the speedometer and saw they were going eighty. “And you might want to ease up on the gas,” he added. “I don’t want to end up meeting the local sheriff under the wrong circumstances.”

“Yeah, what’s his name again?”

“Says here...” Sam checked the notes he’d copied from the internet. “Jack Daniels.”

Dean did a double-take.

“No way.”

“Would I make something like that up?”

“Sure you would.” He glanced at his brother, and then turned his attention back to the road. “I can’t wait to meet him.” But he slowed the Impala down closer to the speed limit.

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”

Passing through downtown, Dean swung up to the curb in front of the sheriff’s office, parking next to the cruiser. The police vehicle gleamed as if it was newly washed and waxed, its windows down so Sam could hear the radio crackling faintly from inside. As they got out, he noticed an empty sandwich wrapper on the seat.

“Any guesses?” Sam asked.

“Lemmee see. I’m gonna say...” Dean paused, eyes half-closed, as if consulting some inner oracle, “mid-fifties, bald, big belly held in check with a Sam Browne belt.”

“Sixties,” Sam said, “handlebar moustache, full head of hair that he gets trimmed every Saturday morning over at Babe’s Barbershop. Oh yeah, and he’s rail-thin—one of those guys who can eat chicken-fried steak three times a day and not gain a pound.”

“‘Nam vet. Buford Pussar type. From Walking Tall.”

“Deliverance refugee. Civic citations all over his desk.”

“Son lost a leg in Desert Storm. Secretly he envies the kid.”

“Cheats on his taxes,” Sam said, swinging open the door. “Dotes on his wife.”

Dean snorted as they entered the sheriff’s station.

“Wears women’s underwear. Crotchless. The kind that—”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Both Winchesters froze, and looked round at the same time.

Sam was the first to regain his composure.

“We’re... ah, looking for the sheriff. Jack Daniels.”

The woman in the snugly fitting brown uniform nodded.

“I’m Jacqueline Daniels.” She took three steps toward them, the heels of her leather boots clicking smartly on the tiled entryway. She wasn’t quite as young as the two women they’d spotted in the street—Sam guessed she was in her early thirties—but her brown eyes and full lips suggested a vitality that wasn’t going to fade anytime soon.

Dean, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at her eyes at all. He was staring at the badge she wore, which shone as if polished with the same fervor as the cruiser outside.

“Sheriff Daniels, is it?” With some effort, he shifted his attention. “I’m Agent Townes,” he said, pulling out his ID, “and this is Agent Van Zandt—”

“Townes?” the sheriff said. “Van Zandt? Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

Sam cocked an eyebrow.

“Beg your pardon?”

She shot them a look.

“Your names,” she said.

“Look, are you suggesting...” Dean puffed.

“Either you’re pulling my leg,” she continued, staring at them doubtfully, “Or your superior has one warped sense of humor.”

Dean sighed.

“Yeah, and people probably call you Jackie, right?”

“They call me Sheriff Daniels,” she responded flatly. The phone started ringing, and she glanced back inside at her desk—which from this distance at least looked as clean and organized as her car. The only exception was a metal ashtray full of what looked like wadded-up bubble gum wrappers.

“Look, can you excuse me a moment? My secretary called in sick today, and I’m a little busy here.”

“Sure, take your time.” Dean waited while she walked back to pick up the phone, and Sam didn’t have to look at his brother to know where his eyes were going. “Hey. What do you think she—” Dean began.

“Stop,” Sam said. “Just stop.”

“I’m just saying, man, they write songs about this stuff.”

“They write songs about going to jail, too,” Sam said. “Let’s try to avoid doing that in the first ten minutes we’re here, okay?”

Sheriff Daniels finished her phone call.

“All right,” she said, staying on the far side of her desk, “let’s get to it.

“I’m going to be straight with you two,” she continued before either of them could speak. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a situation, and if I don’t come up with some answers, something’s going to hit the fan.” The phone was ringing again, but the sheriff made no move to answer it, “So if there’s something you need from me, make it fast.”

“By all means,” Sam said.

She gave them another look.

“Well?”

“Let’s start with this guy Dave Wolverton, the...” Dean gestured vaguely, “what do you call them? Dress-up guys?”

“They’re called re-enactors,” the sheriff said. “If you call them dress-up guys, they’ll probably clean your clock for you.”

“Right. Sorry. Re-enactors. According to the report, Wolverton was playing the part of an actual Civil War soldier named Jubal Beauchamp, right? And he shot another dr... re-enactor on the field with a replica of a rifle?”

Daniels nodded curtly.

“A customized model of the classic Springfield musket, built to fire blanks.”

“How do you know it wasn’t real?”

“I know a replica when I see one.” She pointed at a chair off to the right. There was a rifle propped against it. “Like that one.”

“May I?” Sam asked.

“Go ahead.”

He picked up the replica and hefted it in his hands.

“Feels pretty real to me.”

“Of course it feels real,” the sheriff said. “It’s an ounce-for-ounce recreation of the actual weapon. These re-enactors are intensely devoted to authenticity in every detail. They’re hardcore.”

“Yeah, so we hear,” Sam replied. “What happened to the actual bayonet and gun that Wolverton used on the battlefield?”

“They’re in the lab now. Getting tested.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “So maybe he just got a little carried away and decided the war was still going on? You know, maybe he was a little, I don’t know, unbalanced?”

Daniels sighed.

“Maybe you didn’t hear what I’m telling you. We’re talking about tax attorneys and IT guys who voluntarily choose to dress up in itchy wool uniforms and hobnail boots and do twenty-mile marches in ninety-degree heat. For fun. This is their idea of a good time.

“They’re not ‘a little unbalanced,’” she continued. “They’re certifiable. But they’re all carrying replica guns. I don’t care if you think you’re the ghost of Lee Harvey Oswald—you’re not killing somebody with a gun that only shoots blanks.”

“So you’re saying...” Dean started, but then he stopped, not knowing where he was headed.

“So I’m saying that, barring the existence of a wormhole in the time-space continuum which suddenly switched these replicas with real guns and live ammunition, there’s no way a weapon like the one Dave Wolverton was carrying yesterday could have possibly done anything like this.”

She opened a drawer in her desk, took out a manila folder and dropped it on the desk, glossy eight-by-tens falling out. Sam picked up the crime-scene photos of a corpse in a Union soldier’s uniform.

He passed the first print to Dean. Most of the head had been scalloped away just above the neck and was sprayed out around it. In full color, it looked as though somebody had spilled a particularly messy Italian meal across the grass.

The next photo was a close-up of another re-enactor with one eye gouged out, blood dried over the skin like a theatrical half-mask.

“Wolverton stabbed him with a bayonet,” Daniels said, nodding at the side table to the left of the desk. “Just like that one.”

Dean picked it up, turning it over in his hands, and tested the edge of the blade against his palm.

“You couldn’t cut Wonder Bread with this.”

“Gee, you think?” Daniels’ eyes, very green and sharp, flicked back and forth between them. Reaching into her desk, she pulled out a piece of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth, then wadded up the wrapper and stuffed it in the ashtray.

“Look,” she said, “I know you two aren’t from around here. So here’s what I suggest. Go to the Historical Society, look at some old pictures, check out the battlefield, talk to some re-enactors—”

“We already did that,” Dean said.

“Good for you.” She took the gum out of her mouth, gave it a look as if it had somehow personally betrayed her, and wadded it up. Into the ashtray it went. “So we’re clear, then. Do your own homework, and let me get back to my job. If you come up with any intelligent questions, get back to me, okay?”

With that she turned her attention to the paperwork on her desk. Clearly the discussion was over.

“Right,” Dean said. “Intelligent questions.”

Sam glanced up.

“I’ve got one.”

The sheriff looked up, gazing at him from the depths of bottomless indifference.

“Yes?”

“Wolverton stabbed himself to death with his own bayonet, right?”

“Yes.”

“So,” he pointed, “what are these marks around his neck?”

“Where?”

“Right here.” Sam tapped the photo, indicating Wolverton’s throat, where a pair of red friction-burns ringed the flesh. “Like bruises, see?”

“You’d have to ask the coroner.”

“You didn’t notice anything strange yourself?”

“Anything strange?” The sheriff arched one eyebrow. “Are you joking?” But Dean noticed that she didn’t actually answer the question.

“Maybe we should talk to the coroner ourselves,” he said.

“Be my guest. His office is two blocks away.” She glanced at her watch. “Tell you what—it’s getting late, but I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re coming.”

“Bruises.” Dean was still scrutinizing the photo. “Almost looks like he was choked or something. Right, Sam?”

When there was no immediate answer, he turned to look over his shoulder at his brother, expecting agreement, or at least a nod of acknowledgment.

“Sam?”

But Sam Winchester had done a very strange thing.

He had fallen utterly silent.