When Darkness Calls

Chapter Eight

Sam glared at the empty motel room in fury and disbelief. His body trembled with rage as he snatched Dean's phone off the bed and quickly read Charlie's latest taunting note.

Ah, Sammyboy, GPS tracking. Very clever of you! Why ever didn't I think of that . . . oh yeah, I did. I'll always be one step ahead of you. A mind of a serial killer is a very deadly thing try not to forget that in the future. So let me catch you up to speed, by the time you read this, the score will be Charlie four/Sam zero. Poor Frankie, such a waste. Guess there really is such a thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hope you do better this time around cause I have to tell you, Dean is making for such easy prey. Ah, I'm feeling very generous right now so I'll give you a clue as to where to find me . . . . you can find me at the very last place you'd think to look . . . . Charlie

Crumpling the letter in his fist, Sam stuffed it in his pocket and stormed out the door, heading for the Impala. He'd just slid behind the wheel of the car when his phone rang. Quickly checking the caller ID, he noticed it was a restricted caller and jabbed the button fully expecting to hear Charlie's sardonic voice.

"Hello," he growled into the phone.

"Agent Underhill?" came a raspy voice from the other end of the line. "This is Thomas Porter, I got your message regarding Two-finger Charlie."

"Agent Porter, thanks for calling me back so quickly."Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm interested to know any information you could provide about Charlie."

Sam could hear the man's deep racking cough, before Thomas replied, "Well, I'm in Kellogg right now, working on two murders associated with the case, but would be happy to discuss it with you when I get back."

Two towns away from here. Finally, just a bit of luck on our side. "Look, Agent Porter, I can be there in about a half-an-hour and I really need to speak with you."

The line was silent for a moment and then Thomas replied, "All right, I can meet you at the Berkwood Inn where I'm staying in about forty-five minutes, but I only have about twenty-five minutes to discuss the case with you."

"Twenty-five minutes is great. I'll be there as fast as I can. Thanks."

Agent Porter coughed loudly into the phone again. When he spoke again, his voice was even more raspy. "All right, I'll be waiting for you. Room 15." He then hung up.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Sam made it to the Berkwood Inn in record time. He sat nervously tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at the room Agent Porter was staying in. Damn, this better not be a waste of time. He'd better have something more for me to go on than I can find Charlie at the last place I'd ever look to find him.

As Sam got out of the car, another spasm of coughing, racked his body, leaving him feeling weak and trembling. He slammed the door shut, and leaned against the doorframe. He shivered uncontrollably as the cold air bit into his fevered skin. God, I don't have time for this crap. He struggled to catch his breath, lungs aching. Just breathe stupid. Dean needs you right now. You can cough up a lung tomorrow.

He strode to the door and knocked. A few seconds later, a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair and eyes to match, opened the door.

"Agent Underhill?" The man's hoarse voice cracked as he spoke.

Sam was about to answer when another coughing spell overwhelmed him. He braced himself against the wall, gasping for breath. "Yeah," he finally managed to choke out, then showed Agent Thomas his fake FBI badge. Man, I'm so screwed if he realizes this a fake. Just smile at the man and try to look official. Sam smiled awkwardly at Thomas, then started sneezing. "Sorry, gotta a cold."