The Bridge Valley Independent’s office looked small from the outside: a single window with business hours written on a sign in the corner, and a narrow door with the name of the paper painted on the front. The brothers parked on the street and got out of the Impala.
“Not exactly The New York Times, is it?” Dean said.
They stepped inside. There was a single main room with several smaller ones branching off from it. In the middle was a single antique desk that looked at least a century old, on top of which rested a laptop and printer. The lights were soft and yellow and the floor was made from dark wood boards that creaked beneath the brothers’ feet.
A woman in her late twenties sat behind the desk. She had short black hair and wore a long-sleeved purple-and-white blouse with black slacks, and hoop earrings in the shape of hearts. A scarecrow-thin man sat in front of her. He had straight black hair that looked as if he’d applied too much hair gel and it hadn’t had time to dry. He wore a gray suit jacket over a black dress shirt, jeans, and somewhat grubby sneakers. He held a small notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.
Both the woman and the man turned to look at them, and Sam was stunned to see that the man was none other than their old friend Garth Fitzgerald IV, retired hunter and werewolf. Garth broke into a wide grin when he saw them. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he glanced at the woman, dropped the smile, and assumed a neutral expression.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” the woman asked.
Sam and Dean identified themselves as FBI agents and showed their IDs.
“Are you guys really FBI agents?” Garth said. “That’s awesome!” He gave the brothers a wink.
Sam knew that Garth—in his own awkward, overly enthusiastic way—was trying to help sell their cover story, but it was the kind of help they didn’t need. A big part of making their cover work was getting past the introductory stage as quickly as possible, so people didn’t have time to question their credentials. And it was even more important that they get past this stage when dealing with someone whose job it was to ask questions. Someone like a reporter, for example.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Sam said, “but my partner and I are investigating the murder that took place outside town several nights ago.”
“You mean the gory one where the guy’s heart was ripped out?” Garth asked. “That’s why I’m here too. I’m working on a book about mysterious murders in the Midwest, and when I got word of what happened here, I hightailed it to Bridge Valley.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a quick glance. As cover stories went, Garth’s wasn’t bad. It might not have the authority and intimidation factor of claiming to be an FBI agent, but it explained why he would want to ask questions about any strange killings. But why did Garth need his own cover story at all? He’d suggested teaming up with them on a permanent basis, but Sam and Dean had urged him to remain retired. Garth had found a place for himself with his wife and her extended family. So what if they were all werewolves? Family was family, and so long as they remained peaceful and fed only on animal hearts, it was all good as far as Sam and Dean were concerned. Weird, but good.
Had Garth changed his mind and started hunting again? Sam hoped not. Hunters’ lives contained more than their fair share of violence, and while Garth had been used to that as a human, being around violence—and the darker emotions it could stir—wouldn’t be good for him now that he was a werewolf. Fighting and killing could make the animal half of him stronger and harder to control. His pack strived to live in harmony with their wolf selves, but it was a delicate balance. If Garth was going to maintain that balance, he needed to live a normal life. And yet, here he was.
A terrible thought occurred to Sam then. Garth had joined a peaceful pack that didn’t believe in preying on humans, but the Winchesters were here investigating a murder committed by what sure as hell sounded like a trio of werewolves. Could Garth have been one of them?
Sam felt guilty for thinking this. He told himself that Garth would never do anything like what had been done to Clay Fuller. But both Sam and Dean knew that the dark powers of the supernatural world could be difficult—if not impossible—to resist.
From the frown on Dean’s face, Sam knew his brother’s thoughts were running along the same line. They would have to speak to Garth about their concerns, as uncomfortable as that might be, later.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dean said. He looked at Garth. “If Mr.…”
“Thrash,” Garth said. “Raleigh Thrash.”
Dean raised an eyebrow.
“If Mr. Thrash doesn’t mind us taking you away from him for a few minutes?”
Garth waved a hand in a “No big deal” gesture. “Fine with me, as long as I get to listen in. Totally off the record, of course.”
Dean knew a real FBI agent wouldn’t permit this, but since Garth was working the same case they were, letting him listen made sense.
“Sure,” Dean said. “Knock yourself out.” He turned to the woman. “Okay with you, Ms.…”
“Melody Diaz. Editor, office manager, and head reporter.” She shook their hands. “I’m happy to help in any way I can. You two want to pull up a couple chairs? My sports guy is out covering a middle-school football game, so you can borrow the chairs from his desk.”
She pointed toward an ancient office chair and a simple wooden chair in front of an old metal desk. Neither looked particularly comfortable.
“Thanks, but we’re fine,” Sam said.
“I don’t blame you for passing on them,” Melody said as she sat back down. “As you can see, we put the small in small-town newspaper. We can barely afford the necessities, let alone upgraded office furniture.”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Sam said, “but I’d think things would be more… lively in here right now. A murder like Clay Fuller’s would be news anywhere, but in a small town—”
“It should be the story of the century, right?” Melody said. “I’ve got another of my people out looking into Fuller’s background. But, honestly, a story like this gets so much coverage from larger papers and television stations that we end up just covering the basics and trying to add a more local angle, like highlighting the problems our community’s been having with substance abuse. That kind of thing.”
Sam understood exactly what she meant. The cases he and Dean investigated were usually grisly and baffling, and because of this they attracted a good deal of media attention. This was one of the reasons why they tended to ditch their suits as soon as they could when working a case—so reporters wouldn’t recognize them as FBI agents and try to interview them.
“I take it you’ve already spoken with the sheriff?” she asked.
“He’s not exactly forthcoming, is he?” Sam added.
Melody laughed. “That’s one way to put it. You ever heard the phrase ‘Trying to get blood from a stone’? Well. That’s a hell of a lot easier than trying to get Alan Crowder to tell you anything useful.”
“The sheriff did confirm that Mr. Fuller’s heart was removed from his body,” Sam said.
“Removed is too neat a word,” Dean said. “How about ripped out?”
“Did he confirm the part about heart-stealing monsters too?” Garth asked. “I mean, whoever heard of anything more laughable?” He gave a too-loud and entirely unconvincing laugh.
Says the werewolf, Sam thought.
“I reported that aspect of Amos’s account because it was news,” Melody said, “and I figured his story would get out to the public sooner or later. I did my best to avoid sensationalizing it though. Unlike some media outlets in the area.” She scowled. “Damn ratings-chasing vultures.”
“Do you believe him?” Dean asked. “Or do you think he’s a couple toys shy of a kid’s meal?”
“We’d never met before I interviewed him.” When the three men looked at her, she said, “What? You think because we live in a small town everyone knows everybody else? Bridge Valley isn’t that minuscule. He seemed shook up by what he’d witnessed, but otherwise he appeared clear-minded. His story seems crazy, but he doesn’t. But still, heart-stealing wolf people?” She shook her head at the idea.
“Were you able to look at the body before it was cremated?” Sam said.
“I asked, but the sheriff told me I couldn’t see it until Fuller’s next of kin were notified. As near as I can tell, he has no kin in town, and the body was cremated before I could pester the sheriff again about letting me see it.”
“Do you have an address for Mr. Boyd?” Sam asked.
“Sure.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and consulted the notes app. “He lives outside town, twenty-four Edgewood Road. I’ve got his phone number too, if you want it.”
She read it out, and Sam dutifully wrote it down.
“Have there been any other strange deaths in town lately?” Sam asked.
“Real weird ones,” Dean added. “Mutilated corpses, severed limbs, heads torn off—that kind of thing.”
Melody looked at Dean as if he might secretly be a serial killer. “No, nothing like that,” she said.
“But there have been disappearances, yes?” Garth asked.
“It’s true,” she admitted. “We did a story on that last summer. Bridge Valley has a higher rate of disappearances than is average for a town our size. The sheriff says our drug problem is most likely to blame. People might leave town to avoid paying off debts they owe to suppliers. Some might be suppliers who end up in disputes with their competitors— disputes which turn deadly, and the bodies are buried in unmarked graves.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Dean said, his tone neutral.
“ Sounds is the operative word,” Melody said. “I believe there are too many disappearances to simply explain away. And there’s a definite pattern to when the majority of them have occurred.”
Garth glanced at Sam and Dean, eyebrows raised, smiling, as if to say, Wait for it…
“Around the time of the full moon,” she finished.
“Could be coincidence,” Sam said.
Melody sighed. “I know. But something about the whole situation feels hinky, you know?”
“We do have some experience with hinkiness,” Dean said.