Read Supernatural: Night Terror for Free Online

dream. “This is my... strategic reserve.”
    “Worried about a shortage?”
    “Keeping my options close at hand. Timesaver. That’s all.”
    “All right,” Sam said, smiling as he nodded. But he let it go.
    They changed into their FBI suits and drove to the municipal building to check in with the chief of police. Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” was playing on the local classic rock station when Dean turned off the Impala’s engine.
    They climbed out of the car and crossed the parking lot. The sky was a crisp blue with a staggered line of cottony clouds. To the west, the Rocky Mountains loomed but their edges seemed muted, slightly out of focus.
    “Look,” Sam said and pointed to a curved brick wall, fivefeet high, fifteen-feet wide, with flagpoles at each end, one flying the US flag, the other the state flag of Colorado. The concave front of the wall faced the brick municipal building, with a lofty white clock tower rising from the middle, on the other side of Main Street. “The curved wall’s the memorial. I recognize it from the online photos.”
    They circled around to the front of the memorial. Mounted in the center of the wall was a bronze plaque which listed details about the explosion. On either side of the main plaque were smaller bronze plaques, side by side, with portraits of each of the victims, their names, ages, birth and death dates. The death dates were identical. At the base of the wall fresh bouquets of flowers, along with stuffed animals and framed portraits of the victims or their relatives, filled the open space and spilled out onto the sidewalk.
    “This new every day?” Dean asked.
    “Flowers are fresh.”
    A sign directed them to the police entrance in the back of the municipal building. A short corridor led to a small lobby adjacent to the dispatcher’s elevated area behind bulletproof glass. A gray-haired woman sat on a chair wearing a lightweight headset while she knitted. Next to a microphone in front of her, a nameplate read “Millicent Perkins.”
    Dean tapped the glass to get her attention and flashed his counterfeit FBI credentials.
    “Ms. Perkins,” he said.
    She leaned forward, switched on the microphone.
    “Oh—oh, my! How can I help you?”
    “FBI,” Dean said. “Agents DeYoung and Shaw. We need to see Chief Quinn.”
    “Just a moment. I’ll see if he’s available.”
    She turned to the side, picked up a phone and spoke into it. With the microphone off, her voice was too muffled for him to distinguish individual words.
    Dean looked around. The lobby held some framed newspaper articles highlighting the police department’s activities in the community. A wall-mounted display rack held various informational pamphlets: how parents could recognize drug use in their children, how to form a neighborhood watch, emergency preparedness checklists, and gun safety tips.
    The inner door, beside the dispatcher’s booth buzzed, then opened to reveal a trim man with gray hair in a charcoal-gray police uniform.
    “I’m Chief Quinn,” he said. “You are?”
    Dean flashed his ID again. “Agents DeYoung and Shaw.”
    “Didn’t realize we had a Federal matter here in Clayton Falls.”
    Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who cleared his throat and said, “Homeland Security. We believe—”
    “That’s quite enough.” Chief Quinn held up his hand to interrupt. “Let’s take this back to my office.”
    Quinn led them down a short hall, past a row of desks with computers, two of which were occupied with uniformed police officers, and stopped at a door with a gold nameplate: “Chief Michael C. Quinn.” He ushered them into his spartan office: law books and police manuals on one bookcase, several framed photos of Quinn at community events or posing with local dignitaries, coat rack in the left rear corner, US flag on a stand in the right.
    Quinn closed his office door and motioned them to the two padded chairs in front of his desk. He sat in the much more comfortable chair behind