Dean continued on a different tack, into delicate territory. “Did you notice any changes in Elijah’s behavior lately?”
“No, not really,” she said and allowed herself a fleeting smile. “Except for the father-to-be nerves, checking that everything was ready, making lists, jumping every time I had an ache or a pain.”
“Any trouble at work?” Sam asked.
She thought for a moment and shook her head. “Other than a cancelled or postponed appointment here or there, everything was the same old same old. He had his routines, doctor office and pharmacy visits, meetings, presentations. Nothing I would call unusual.”
“No competition at work? Promotions on the line?”
“He had his territory,” she said. “But I wouldn’t say he was in competition with anyone. Maybe another pharmaceutical company’s competing product. He never mentioned anything like that. And if he was up for a promotion, he kept it secret.”
“Any unusual objects he may have found? Or saw in somebody else’s possession?”
She frowned. “No.” She twisted her engagement and wedding rings on her finger. Either a nervous habit, or something to help her focus on her husband. “Did the police find something in his car they haven’t told me about?”
“No,” Sam said. “Not at all.”
“I’m confused,” she said. “These questions make it seem like you suspect Elijah’s crash wasn’t an accident.”
“We’re considering the possibility of… interference,” Sam said.
Dean raised his eyebrows, shorthand for asking his brother, Are we going there?
Sam fidgeted slightly, brow furrowed, a sure sign he was hesitant about how to begin the next line of questioning. “How much did the police tell you about the condition of your husband… after the crash?”
Brianna visibly recoiled, her back arching, as she pressed her hands to her mouth and inhaled deeply through her nose. She shook her head several times as if trying to rid herself of the thought or at least the mental image. “Oh, God, it’s so horrible… like some cruel punishment, Elijah not seeing his daughter in life or in death. His eyes… the police have no idea how that happened.” She swiped at a tear before it streaked down her cheek. “Head trauma, they said, from the wreckage.”
Malik, having settled the baby in her crib, had quietly descended the stairs, almost on tiptoe to avoid the slightest creak of wood. He settled in beside his sister as she spoke about the loss of Elijah’s eyes, shaking his head. “Terrible thing,” he said softly.
“Kiara?” Brianna asked.
“Still sleeping, Bree,” he said, patting her knee. “Don’t worry about her.” He turned his attention to the Winchesters. “You think the police got it wrong? About Elijah’s eyes?”
“We’re investigating some recent assaults,” Dean said. “In reviewing Elijah’s accident, we noticed some similarities.”
“Elijah was alone in his car,” Brianna said. “How could he have been attacked?”
“Right now, we don’t know,” Sam said truthfully. “Just due diligence. Following up any leads. If someone else was involved, we want to stop them.”
Stop meaning gank, Dean thought. “Thank you for your time in this difficult situation,” he said, rising from his chair. Sam followed suit and Malik walked them to the door.
With the brothers on the doorstep outside, Malik leaned forward through the open storm door. “You find out somebody did this to Elijah, you let me know, all right?”
“We’ll keep you informed,” Sam said.
“When you get the bastard,” Malik said, “you give me five minutes alone with him. That’s all I ask.”
“When we find him,” Sam said, “we’ll bring him to justice.”
Of course, that was the party line, had they been genuine FBI agents instead of hunters. In all likelihood, finding whoever or whatever was responsible was synonymous with discovering its weakness and killing it. No exchange of information with the families of the victims would be forthcoming. The Winchesters would end the killing and leave town. Malik’s desire for personal vengeance would go unfulfilled, but the scales would be adjusted in his favor.
SIXTEEN
Back behind the wheel of the Impala, Dean tried to reconcile Elijah Green’s apparent accidental death with the murders of Dave Holcomb and Aidan Dufford. “Three victims,” Dean said. “What are the odds that the husband and boyfriend of women in late-term pregnancies are two of the victims of the same killer?” He shook his head. “It’s not much. But is it enough?”
“Based on eye gouging alone?” Sam said. “Considering it occurred immediately before a head on collision—yeah. But you’re forgetting the other connection.”
“What?”
“LMC,” Sam said. “Lovering Maternity Center.”
“Not much of a connection there either,” Dean said. “Brianna and Chloe have different doctors. The simple explanation? Pregnant women don’t go to a general hospital when there’s a maternity center in town.”
“Makes sense.”
“And unless I need my eyes checked,” Dean said, “Sally Holcomb wasn’t pregnant.”
Dean’s cell phone rang.
“Hey, Cass,” Dean said, after spot-checking caller ID. “Missed you again. On our way back now.”
“Dean, I’m not at the motel.”
“What?”
“There’s been another… incident.”
* * *
As Dean pulled in behind Castiel’s gold Lincoln, Sam looked across the street, where a row of police and emergency vehicles lined the curb of a craftsman-style home now bathed in flashing light, which revealed intricate and impeccable landscaping. From the outside, Sam saw no clue that something horrible had happened there a short time ago. As the Winchesters approached the house, walking up the long driveway, Sam spotted Castiel on the covered front porch, situated perpendicular to the paneled door of a two-car garage.
“Captain Sands is inside with the crime scene team,” Castiel said when they reached the two steps leading up to the porch. “Medical examiner is reviewing the body. The attack happened in the garage.”
“Lead the way,” Dean said.
Castiel took them through the front door, across a small foyer and into the kitchen where an open door led out to the garage. Through the door Sam heard several overlapping conversations, while the occasional burst of flashbulbs cast stark shadows along the back of the garage.
Castiel waved to Captain Sands, who stood on the far side of a silver Prius by the garage door, Dr. Hugh Trumble beside her, bent at the waist as he studied the corpse. From their vantage point Sam couldn’t see the body, only blood splatter on the second and third horizontal garage door panels.
“Victim was Brandon Perreault, mid-thirties, purchasing manager at a financial services corporation in Evansville.”
“Coming or going?” Dean asked. Sam looked at him. “Attacked in the garage.”
“He’d returned home from work minutes before the attack,” Castiel said. “According to his husband, he was leaving to pick up dinner. Chinese takeout, apparently. But he never made it out of the garage.”
“His husband?” Dean asked.
“Yes,” Castiel said. “Jesse Vetter.”
“Okay, then,” Dean said, glancing at Sam again.
Sam was having the same thought: The pregnancy connection was mere coincidence. Unlike Elijah Green and Aidan Dufford, Dave Holcomb and now Brandon Perreault were not married to or dating pregnant women.
“Any chance Jesse works at Vargus Fabricators?”
“Currently between jobs,” Castiel said. “Last position was in the admissions office of a community college.”
Sam frowned. Another possible connection dismissed.
They edged forward, circling around the busy crime scene techs as much as the garage allowed, hoping for a look at the victim. By the time they reached the front of the Prius and glimpsed the body, the medical examiner stood upright and leaned back, massaging his lower bac
k with both hands.
“Another animal attack, Doc?” Dean asked, unable to conceal a hint of sarcasm.
“Very likely,” Trumble said, glancing over his shoulder. “Unless you have a better explanation?”
We will, Sam thought, but not yet.
Dean glanced at Captain Sands, “Any indication how this mystery animal got into and out of the garage?”
She shook her head and spoke softly. “No.”
Trumble refused to give up his animal theory. “Entry is simple enough,” he said. “Victim opens garage door from inside his car with an automatic opener. Obviously the animal darts inside. Victim fails to notice its presence. Victim enters house, comes out a few minutes later, and the cornered animal attacks.”
“Judging by the blood spatter on the garage door,” Dean said, “looks like your animal cornered the victim, not the other way around.”
“Obviously the animal turned the tables on the victim,” Trumble said. “Then slipped out through the kitchen door.”
“So this cornered animal had the run of the place.”
“Easy to criticize a theory when you have none of your own,” Trumble said. “Look at these wounds! The only rational explanation is an animal attack.”
While Dean goaded the medical examiner, Sam had inched forward for an unobstructed view of the body. To Sam, it appeared as if Perreault had been held against the garage door and, when released, had slipped down into a seated position, slumped to one side, hands palm up on the concrete garage floor, his head hanging at an angle. Whatever attacked him had impressively sharp claws, capable of slashing through several layers of clothing—including the tailored jacket of a business suit—to eviscerate him. From sternum to mid-thigh, he was covered in dripping blood, ravaged ropes of glistening intestines and chunks of unidentifiable flesh. And as with the other victims, both eyes had been viciously gouged out of their sockets. The skin around the empty eye sockets showed the clearest evidence of claw marks, narrow but deep jagged lacerations inconsistent with a sharp-edged weapon.
Trumble didn’t know any better; his experience only attributed the possession of claws to animals. But Sam did.
“What should animal control look for?” Captain Sands spoke to Trumble in such a measured tone Sam couldn’t tell if she’d bought into his weak theory or if she was subtly mocking him. “Brown bear? Coyote? Mountain lion?”
“I don’t know,” Trumble admitted, heaving a frustrated shrug. “Most likely a brown bear.”
Sam was certain somebody near one of the crime scenes would have noticed and reported a bear roaming the suburban streets. Then again, Trumble’s theoretical brown bear entered and exited homes and the backseats of cars without leaving any noticeable damage or disruption other than the eviscerated corpses. But, to be fair, any theory Sam came up with to counter Trumble’s would be met with equal derision by Braden Heights’ law enforcement officers, so he kept his mouth shut.
“But I am certain of one fact,” Trumble added, casting a significant look at the three professed FBI agents, while jabbing an index finger in the direction of the body. “No human committed this crime.”
Castiel caught Sam’s eye and motioned him over. When he stood nearby, Castiel spoke softly, “Look at the roof of the car.”
Sam looked. “What about it?”
“Closely,” Castiel advised.
Sam took a step closer and another, his gaze sweeping across the gleaming silver paint. Something was off. He tilted his head down to change the angle of light and then he noticed three faint indentations alternating along the roof. The impacts had dented the metal but the coat of paint hadn’t been scratched. Moving forward, he examined the hood of the car and saw two more of the dings. If Sam imagined the path of the dents, they originated by a freestanding shelf near the kitchen door and arrowed directly at the body, had it once been standing where it now lay.
He looked at Castiel. “Footprints?”
“Whatever attacked him leapt onto the car,” Castiel began, “and ran across the roof and the hood before pinning him to the garage door.”
“Bear’s light on his feet,” Dean said.
Sam debated bringing the new evidence to the attention of the medical examiner, if only to see how he’d spin the information as further confirmation of an animal attack. Might be amusing to watch the pompous old man squirm, but ultimately pointless. Besides, if the police bought into his man-eating animal theory, the Winchesters and Castiel would have more latitude to continue their own parallel investigation.
Before Sam could change his mind about not mentioning the footprints, he heard a disturbance in the kitchen.
“Just, please, cover him,” a distressed male voice pleaded. “It’s not right to leave him exposed like that.”
Castiel returned to the kitchen with Dean following him. Sam took one last look at the car roof footprints, then hurried to join them. Jesse Vetter, the husband, might have heard or seen something. The other three victims had been isolated when attacked: Holcomb in his backyard; Aidan behind a closed shopping center; and Green alone in his car.
A patrol officer blocked Jesse Vetter—also in his mid-thirties but wearing green-speckled white coveralls instead of a business suit—from entering the garage. Jesse clutched a pale blue blanket against his chest while the cop held him in place with a hand on each of Vetter’s shoulders. “Please wait here, Mr. Vetter,” the cop said. “Once the medical examiner is finished, I promise we’ll cover the—Mr. Perreault.”
“It’s not dignified,” Jesse Vetter said, his face raw with emotion. “All those people just staring…”
“They’re professionals, Mr. Vetter,” Sam said. “Just doing their job.”
“We’ll catch whatever did this,” Dean said. “I promise.”
Jesse turned his back to the open garage door, as if he needed to remove it from his field of vision in order to cope with what was out there. He wiped at his swollen eyes with the back of his hand. When he spoke again, he had regained some control of his voice, suppressing his grief long enough to help with the investigation. “I don’t understand how this could happen,” he said. “I was in the house all day. How could something get in here—hide in here—and I never knew?”
“Did you hear the attack?” Castiel asked.
“No,” Jesse said. “I was upstairs, painting, when he left. I heard the door slam when he went into the garage and… I thought I heard it slam again, but—I don’t know—I thought he came back in because he forgot his keys or a coupon or something. But I had a feeling something was wrong and couldn’t understand why. Then I realized I never heard the garage door open or close when he left.” He took a deep breath. “The house was quiet and I don’t think the garage door is properly balanced. You can always hear it bang shut. But I never did.”
“Is that when you called 911?” Castiel asked.
“No,” Jesse said grimly. “I came down to check, to see if he had car trouble or a problem with the door. I didn’t know… how could I ever imagine? This is a good neighborhood. Something like this…”
“You found the body?” Dean asked.
“Yes,” Jesse said. “But not at first. I saw the car, parked and empty. But then I saw the stains… the blood stains on the door and I walked around to the front of his car and he was… he was… like he was sitting there but… I must have gone into shock. I thought I would scream, but I was gagging, choking on bile, burning my throat…”
“Through all of this, you never heard or saw the attacker?” Dean asked.
“Nothing,” Jesse said. “Just that second slam… and the garage door hasn’t opened since then. He… whoever did this must have crept through the house after… left through the front door or a window. The first police officers checked the entire house. No sign of forced entry, they said. But someone came into our home. Someone did this.” He shuddered. “Seeing him—seeing Brandon… after was horrible enough. Thank God I came down alone.”
“Who would’ve come down wit
h you?” Sam asked.
“Olivia, of course,” Jesse said, as if his answer should have been obvious. “But in her condition, she only takes the stairs when absolutely necessary. That’s why I was alone.”
Confused as Sam, Dean looked at Castiel and asked, “Olivia?”
As if on cue, a woman’s strained voice called down the stairs, “Jesse, I’m all packed. We can go now.”
Jesse looked at them. “She can’t possibly stay here tonight,” he said. “I couldn’t do that to her.” He pressed the folded blanket to his chest. “Don’t think I can stay here tonight either. Every time I close my eyes, I see him out there. One minute we were joking around and the next he’s just… gone. I have no idea what to do now. All our plans… Without Brandon, nothing makes sense anymore. The baby will be here any day. I’ll be a single parent. And a widower. He’ll never see… God, what do I do now…?”
Sam had a sense the question was more than rhetorical. The man seemed at a loss, buffeted by a whirlwind of consuming and dark emotions. “It’s overwhelming now,” Sam acknowledged. “Stay focused on short-term decisions. Call a friend where you can crash for the night or pick a hotel. Get through tonight. And then find a way to get through tomorrow morning.”
A uniformed policewoman came down the stairs carrying a soft suitcase with an extendable handle and wheels a few steps ahead of a very pregnant woman wearing threadbare denim overalls with black hair tucked under a scarf. Her face was red, her eyes puffy from crying.
Castiel nodded toward her. “Olivia Krum,” he said. “The surrogate mother.”
SEVENTEEN
Less than ten minutes had passed since Gary Atherton dimmed the lights in spacious birthing room 3C of Lovering Maternity Center and settled into the padded, reclining lounger reserved for new fathers. In the bed next to him, his exhausted wife slept, propped up at a thirty-degree angle with their newborn son asleep on her chest. The only other source of illumination came from the hallway through the doorway, open a few inches to give the new family some quiet privacy to regroup after a tiring day. Deeper in the room, by the bed and lounger, warm shadows ruled, and the ambient sounds of the round-the-clock hospital staff transformed into a soothing white noise.
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