Supernatural--Cold Fire (9 page)

After a ten-hour overnight drive from Lebanon, Kansas, the Winchesters rented a room at a local motel, switched into their Fed suits and made their way to the Public Safety Center in Braden Heights, Indiana. Of recent construction, the sprawling complex had a modern aesthetic with a curved driveway leading to the landscaped, tree-lined front entrance with access to rooms designed to accommodate town and school board meetings. An exterior directory pointed them to the rear of the building for police-related matters. The rear parking lot was smaller than the front and side lots and the occupied spaces held police cruisers, a K-9 SUV, and a police van. Dean parked the Impala in a corner spot, nearest the side parking lot, possibly to look less conspicuous among all the law enforcement vehicles.

The receptionist, behind her bulletproof glass barrier, buzzed them through into the police office area. If they were to maintain their FBI covers and receive cooperation from local authorities, the first order of business called for checking in with local law enforcement. They made it past a mere half-dozen low-walled cubicles, and only a couple of those occupied by uniformed police officers working at computers, when Assistant Chief of Police Francisco Cordero intercepted them. Since Sam had suggested the hunt to help take Dean’s mind off the ongoing futility of searching for a cure to the Mark, he let Dean take the lead.

“Agents Banks and Rutherford, FBI,” Dean said with the aplomb of a seasoned con man, flashing the fake FBI laminate and exchanging a quick handshake. Sam already had his ID out, and displayed it simultaneously with a curt nod.

“Assistant Chief Francisco Cordero,” the man said, introducing himself with a quick, amiable smile as he moved from shaking Dean’s hand to Sam’s. Medium height, approaching fifty while maintaining a trim, muscular build, Cordero sported a thin black mustache trimmed with a laser’s precision. “But you can call me Frank. What brings you to Braden Heights, gentlemen?”

“We’re looking into the Holcomb murder,” Dean said, “and hope you can answer a few questions before we visit the scene.”

“Ah, that’s a bizarre one,” Cordero said, nodding. “And gruesome, besides. But we’re not ready to call it a murder just yet. Preliminary opinion of our medical examiner is animal attack.”

“Animal attack?” Dean said, arching an eyebrow.

“There’s the matter of the murder weapon,” Cordero said.

“What about it?” Sam asked, recalling no mention of a recovered murder weapon in the report he’d read online.

“Technically, there isn’t one,” Cordero said. “Whatever killed Mr. Holcomb did so with claws and teeth.”

“Teeth?” Dean asked. “He was bitten?”

Cordero frowned and waved them back toward his office, as if reluctant to speak about the case in the open, even though the only potential eavesdroppers were fellow officers. On their way, the Assistant Chief was interrupted by a uniformed woman in her mid-thirties, blond hair pulled back in a bun, with the two bars of a captain’s rank pinned to her shirt collar.

She gave Sam and Dean a quick appraising glance before turning her attention to Cordero. “The Green file you requested, sir,” she said, handing him a manila folder.

He thanked her, introduced her as Captain Jaime Sands and informed her that they were investigating the Holcomb case. Cordero lowered his voice. “Captain Sands and I basically run the place while Chief Townshend attends conferences with other chiefs. Homeland terrorism or emergency crisis management or—what is it this week, Captain?”

“Effective Budgeting with Limited Resources, sir,” she said, exchanging a conspiratorial grin with Cordero. “I think.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Cordero said. “Anyway, I’m usually stuck here with meetings, reports and analysis. Captain Sands is most likely to be in the field, so you may need to liaise with her if you need anything.” From his wistful tone of voice, if not for the change in pay grade, Cordero would have preferred to have their roles reversed.

Before she left, Captain Sands removed two business cards from her shirt pocket and passed them to Dean and Sam. Cordero ushered them into his spartan office. His desk held a computer workstation, two stacks of folders, a tray of business cards and a family photo in a silver frame. The wall behind his desk had one row of framed photos—Cordero with the absentee Chief Townshend, Cordero in an official department group shot, Cordero wearing a racing bib and medal at a childhood brain cancer charity 5K event, Cordero shaking hands with the mayor—and a plaque denoting a commendation for bravery.

Cordero didn’t invite them to sit in the two wooden chairs facing his desk, so Sam guessed whatever he had to say wouldn’t take long. The Assistant Chief stood with his hands on his hips, thumbs tucked under his police belt. “Where were we?” he asked.

“Teeth,” Dean provided.

“Oh, yes, teeth,” Cordero said. “This was left out of the information released to the public, but some of the victim’s organs were missing. At first the medical examiner suspected these organs had been… harvested. But teeth marks seemed to indicate something else.”

“The organs were consumed,” Dean guessed.

“Exactly,” Cordero said. “Along with the evidence that the victim had been viciously clawed, the consumption of human organs… well, you can see how he came to the conclusion that Dave Holcomb was the victim of an animal attack.”

“But the case remains open,” Sam said.

“Yes,” Cordero replied, glancing away for a telltale moment, curled hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “There are a few… inconsistencies with the animal attack theory.”

“No animal tracks in the yard,” Sam said.

“None consistent with the size of an animal capable of such an attack.”

Dean nodded. “Guessing none of the neighbors noticed any wild animals roaming the area.”

“No reports,” Cordero said. “My officers canvassed the whole block. Nobody noticed anything unusual.”

“So what’s the explanation?” Sam asked.

“The property faces an unoccupied lot,” Cordero said. “Something could have come over the six-foot fence, but again…”

“No claw marks on the fence,” Dean said.

“No,” Cordero admitted. “And the fence has rotted. The weight of a large animal scaling it would have caused additional damage.”

“What’s left?” Dean asked. “Large bird of prey?”

Cordero shrugged, at a loss. “Turkey vulture could have fed on the body after the initial attack,” he said, “but they’re carrion eaters. Dine on roadkill, mostly.”

“And something—someone—else killed Holcomb,” Sam said.
Something with claws and fangs, possibly, that left no tracks.

“If, as you believe, some
one
—and not some animal—killed Holcomb,” Cordero said, “that person is one true sicko.”

“What can you tell us about Dave Holcomb and his wife?” Dean asked.

“Recent transplants from the west coast,” Cordero said. “Job opportunity for the vic—husband. Haven’t been in town long enough to make many friends—or any enemies. Of course, it’s always possible an enemy followed them here.”

Easier for the Assistant Chief to suspect an outsider with a specific motive, Sam imagined, rather than a homegrown menace that might stick around and continue to terrorize Braden Heights.

Cordero had the department secretary print out a copy of the official report, which included contact information for the widow, Sally Holcomb, along with her street address.

“Listen,” Cordero told them as they stepped out of his office, “I have a good department here. Not likely we missed anything relevant to the case.”

“No doubt very thorough,” Dean said agreeably. “Consider us two pairs of fresh eyes. That’s all.”

“Make that three,” said a familiar voice, approaching from the reception area.

“Our colleague,” Sam said quickly, as Castiel joined them. “Special Agent Collins. Agent, this is Assistant Chief Cordero. He’s been filling us in on the Holcomb case.”

Castiel’s usual attire—open trench coat and loosened necktie—and default demeanor—a carrying-the-weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders seriousness—was more than appropriate for the grim nature of the Holcomb case. In other words, he fit right in. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Wrapping up that other case,” Dean said.

“Yes.”

“Looks like we have the makings of a full-blown task force here,” Cordero said in a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity.

“We’re nothing if not thorough,” Dean said. “That’s the Bureau for you.”

“Well, good to meet you, Agent Collins,” Cordero said. The Assistant Chief gave them copies of his own business card, which Sam and Dean added to their growing Braden Heights Police Department collection. Castiel looked at the card for a moment as if he were expected to memorize it, then shoved it absently into the pocket of his overcoat.

“Thanks for your time, Chief,” Dean said. “We’ll bring our colleague up to speed at the crime scene. And get back to you with any developments.”

“I’ll do the same,” Cordero said, thumbs tucked in his belt again.

Sam couldn’t help but wonder if the man’s suspicions had been raised by the arrival of three FBI agents to investigate an apparent animal attack. They’d stay out of his way and hope he did the same.

Cordero returned to his office while the Winchesters and Castiel headed toward the reception area. Dean cast a sidelong glance at Castiel that spoke volumes without his uttering a word. He seemed about to say something out of FBI character, thought better of it considering the presence of police officers within earshot, and gave a slight, disbelieving head shake instead.

Once they were in the rear parking lot, where Castiel had parked his gold 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V next to the Impala, Dean stopped and looked around before addressing the angel. “Look, Cass, I’m in control,” Dean said. “Got it? I don’t need a freakin’ babysitter.”

“Dean, I’m not here to… babysit,” Castiel said. “We all want the same thing.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “One for all and all for one. I get it. Just stop staring, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, Dean continued to the Impala.

Castiel turned to Sam. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “He’s a little on edge. Think you remind him we’re no closer to removing the Mark.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Castiel said, as if the unwanted association physically pained him.

“Got to say, Cass, wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” Sam said.

Castiel frowned. “My contact dug a little deeper. And the lead was worthless after all.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say it involved a series of vellum forgeries hoarded by a cave-dwelling hermit who apparently lost touch with reality several decades ago.”

Sam glanced at his brother, sitting in the Impala’s driver’s seat, staring through the windshield, apparently lost in thought.
Dark thoughts
, Sam suspected. “Dean doesn’t need to know about this.”

Again, Castiel frowned. “You want me to keep it from him?”

“No,” Sam amended, “but let’s not rub his face in more failure. If he asks, downplay it. We’ve still got the search for Cain and the
Book of the Damned
. We’ll figure something out, find another way. We always do. Right?”

But Sam could tell by the way Castiel avoided his gaze that the angel had begun to have his own doubts, that maybe the Mark of Cain was an unsolvable riddle. They weren’t buying time for Dean, they were simply ignoring the meaning of its passage, filling their days with wishful thinking and fruitless searches instead of preparing themselves for the inevitable day when Dean finally succumbed to the Mark.

Sam refused to believe that. Not while they had options and avenues to explore. As far as he was concerned, they only failed if they quit looking for an answer before time ran out.

He climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala, clutching the police report in his hands. “You got the address?”

“Read it to me,” Dean said.

Sam opened the folder, read the street address aloud, along with some scribbled driving directions courtesy of Cordero.

After Sam tossed the folder on the dashboard, Dean backed out of the parking spot and drove out of the lot, Castiel following behind him. He gave a slight nod toward the rearview mirror. “So?”

“What?”

“Cass’s lead,” Dean said. “A bust, right?”

Sam stared ahead, feigning more interest in the road than the conversation. “It was a long shot.”

After a long moment, “Yeah.”

From the outside, nothing distinguished the suburban Holcomb residence from the other homes on the block. No visible indication that tragedy had befallen this house in particular. The lot boasted the same well-manicured lawn and neatly trimmed bushes as the others. So often personal tragedies remain hidden to the casual viewer, only to be experienced in painful solitude.

But Dave Holcomb’s widow was not home alone.

When Sam rang the doorbell, an elderly woman opened the door, her twinkling gaze taking each of them in turn, attempting to make a careful appraisal before addressing them. “Yes? How may I help you?”

“Hello, ma’am,” Sam said, showing his FBI credentials. “Special Agent Rutherford. With Agents Banks and Collins. We’re looking into the death of David Holcomb. Is Mrs. Holcomb home?”