Supernatural--Cold Fire (10 page)

“I’m her grandmother.”

“Could we have a few minutes of her time?”

“The poor dear is in a state,” the woman said. “She’s already talked to the police. Can this wait?”

“Grandma Mary, who is it?” called a masculine voice.

The old woman looked over her shoulder. “Three FBI agents,” she said, adding, “And I asked you not to call me that, Ramon.”

From her tone of voice, Sam had the impression she’d made the request on repeated occasions but had no illusion that compliance was forthcoming. Turning her attention back to Sam, she said, “I’m sorry, it’s a bad t—”

“The police believe Mr. Holcomb was the victim of an animal attack,” Sam continued, hoping he wouldn’t have to wedge his foot in the door to stop her from slamming it in his face. “We have reason to believe that’s not the case.”

Frown lines joined the assemblage of wrinkles on her brow, whether from curiosity or suspicion, Sam couldn’t tell. “What reason?”

“We’ve… seen this kind of thing before,” Sam explained.
Maybe not the exact M.O. but enough inconsistencies to point to a supernatural menace at work.

“It’s okay, Grandma Mary,” a younger woman said as she approached the door, a wad of damp tissues clutched in one hand. “I’ll talk to them.”

The grandmother backed away, but not without a pointed finger and a chiding tone as she said, “You set a bad example for your little brother, Dalisay.”

“He started it,” Sally Holcomb said, allowing herself a blink-and-you-miss-it smile as the old woman surrendered the doorway to her.

Couched within the old woman’s admonition, Sam sensed true affection and warmth in the term of endearment. No wonder they ignored her request. Sam guessed the teasing and easy familiarity was a small comfort during this time of shock and grief.

In her early thirties, Sally Holcomb had shoulder-length black hair currently in a slight bit of disarray, and a natural caramel skin tone. Devoid of makeup, her face showed signs of stress and sleeplessness, her lips pressed tight but at times trembling with repressed emotion as she struggled to maintain her composure.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Holcomb,” Sam said, again making introductions and flashing his fake ID. “As I mentioned to your grandmother, we don’t believe your husband was the victim of an animal attack.”

“What else could it have been?” she asked. “The way he was…” She sniffled a bit, pressing the crumpled tissues to her nose.

“That’s what we want to find out,” Dean said, behind and to Sam’s right. Castiel stood another step back, on Sam’s left.

“If you could spare a few minutes for some questions,” Sam said. “And allow us to review the crime scene. Won’t take long. Promise.”

“You really think you’ll find something the police missed?”

“We won’t know for sure,” Dean said, “until we check.”

“Okay,” she said. “Come in.”

Little brother Ramon joined his sister at the door as the Winchesters and Castiel entered the home. Ramon stood an inch or two shorter than his sister, with matching hair color and complexion, and had the solid build of a welterweight boxer. He placed his hand protectively on his sister’s shoulder as he examined the three ostensible FBI agents with a slow nod.

“Police okay with you guys second guessing them?”

“Assistant Chief Cordero knows we’re here,” Sam said, avoiding a direct answer. Some police departments resented outside interference. Some welcomed the assistance. Sam couldn’t guess if the man fell into the former or latter group. “He’s given us a copy of the case file.”

“We have more experience with… unusual cases,” Dean added.

“Some very unusual cases,” Castiel said absently as he took in the new surroundings.

“Can I—we get you anything,” Sally asked, glancing at her grandmother for potential assistance. “Water? Brownies? Some neighbors brought casseroles, but…”

“No, thank you,” Sam said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

“Okay,” Sally said. “Please have a seat. This is all—you can’t prepare yourself for something like this. I don’t know how to act… how to be… Inside, I’m falling apart and it feels like the walls are crumbling around me but…” Her voice caught in her throat. She dabbed at her eyes as tears welled, catching them before they could roll down her cheeks. “I’m lost without Dave.”

Sally sat in the middle of the sofa in the living room, Sam and Dean on either side of her. Castiel sat in a wingchair angled toward the sofa on the other side of a glass coffee table. Ramon stood behind the sofa, maintaining physical contact with his sister, leaving the matching wingchair unoccupied, obviously expecting his grandmother to take that seat. But the old woman wandered into the kitchen on some unspoken errand. Maybe she needed to keep herself busy. Everyone handled grief differently.

“Do Ramon and your grandmother live here with you?” Sam asked.

“No,” Sally said, pausing each time her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. “They came to help me out. Dave’s parents are on a Caribbean cruise. They’ll be here as soon as they can. Right now, everything’s in a holding pattern. I’m not sure what to do about… about Dave’s body.”

The grandmother returned, bearing a tray with a water pitcher and glasses, in case anyone changed their mind about refreshments. “I told her to put the house back on the market,” the old woman said. “This is no place for her now.”

“It’s our home…” Sally began halfheartedly, even failing to convince herself.

“This is a house,” Mary said, shaking her head. “Not a home. Just because you sign some papers doesn’t make it a home. There wasn’t time for that.”

Sam looked around, noticed some unpacked boxes here and there against the walls. They really hadn’t been in Braden Heights long enough to settle in. And now that was hardly possible given the circumstances.

Ramon said, “They moved here because David had a job offer. That don’t matter no more.”

Sally nodded. “That’s true. Dave’s old friend from high school, Stanley Vargus, offered him a job as night manager at a factory he owns in Evansville. Dave met everyone, toured the place, but he hadn’t even started yet. He wanted to fix up… fix things before…” Another long pause while she tried to compose herself. “There really is nothing for me here anymore. Those neighbors? The ones who baked the brownies, brought the casseroles… I don’t even remember their names. And the idea of staying in this house, where Dave…”

Ramon leaned down, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a fierce hug. “No reason you gotta stay, sis. We’re here for you until you’re ready to go.”

Sally nodded, pressing the flat of her hand to her mouth.

“Is it possible,” Sam began, “in the short time you’ve been in Braden Heights, that your husband made any enemies? Someone who might have wished him harm?”

“No,” Sally said. “How could he? Dave’s been a homebody since we got here, checking off repairs on his long to-do list. Other than the factory tour and the times he drove to the home improvement center for supplies—he was probably their best customer lately—he hardly left the house. Besides, everyone liked Dave. He was easygoing. I doubt he’s ever had any real enemies…”

She alternated between present and past tense when discussing her husband; it was obvious Sally hadn’t adjusted to his loss. Sam wondered if she could really look at the situation objectively. Clearly, she was still in shock, her coping mechanisms not yet in place.

Dean leaned forward, turning to address her. “You found your husband and reported the attack.” She nodded. “Anything strike you as odd about the surroundings? The house? The backyard?”

“His pickup was backed into the driveway,” she said. “To unload supplies. I thought he would have been finished by then and parked on the street so I could bring the groceries in through the garage. But when I checked on him in the backyard, I saw he hadn’t done any work. Everything was stacked on the patio except one section of fence. I thought he left on foot, for some reason.”

“He must have been… attacked soon after you left,” Castiel said.

“Soon after he returned from the home improvement center,” Sally said. “I’m not sure when that…”

“How did you find him?” Sam asked.

“I searched through the house when I didn’t see him in the backyard,” Sally said. “Then I thought maybe he went in the utility shed, maybe had an accident with a power tool or… a heart attack or something. I didn’t know what to think.”

“What made you check behind the shed?” Dean asked.

“The broken branches,” Sally said. “Looked like he pushed his way through. And then I saw… blood on the leaves. Then…” Her voice hitched. “It was horrible. What happened to him… How could something like that…? In our own backyard?”

“We want to find out,” Sam said sympathetically. “Do you mind if we have a look now?”

“No, but I can’t…” Sally said. “The police are done collecting evidence, so you can—but…”

“She stays here,” Mary said. “Once was enough.”

“That’s fine,” Dean said.

The old woman led the three of them to the back door, which opened onto a cement patio that overlooked the wide yard and the utility shed. She followed them out but stayed on the patio—which remained encumbered with fence panels, posts and pickets—as if the artificial surface protected her from whatever evil had descended upon Dave Holcomb. She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “To come all this way, make such a big commitment, only to pack up and go before you even finish unpacking in the first place… Maybe this place is cursed for her, after all.” She shrugged. “Sometimes life makes no sense.”

“Man’s mistake is assuming he has complete control over his life,” Castiel said absently as his gaze wandered across the yard. “Free will exists, but some choices are forced upon him. And sometimes he has no choice.”

“That’s a debate for the philosophers,
diba
?” she said with a fatalistic air. “Right now, I have a traumatized granddaughter to comfort.”

After she returned to the house, Sam, Dean and Castiel approached the utility shed, centered on the far side of the yard. Dean turned the handle and the three of them crowded into the twelve-by-ten structure. Dean and Castiel made a casual inspection of the assorted rakes, shovels, hoes and power tools while Sam took readings with an EMF meter.

“No hex bags,” Dean said.

Castiel scanned the walls and ceiling. “No mystical symbols or sigils.”

“Whole lot of cobwebs,” Dean added, brushing his hands off.

In short order they concluded their search, finding no evidence of a struggle, no bloodstains, and no unusual paranormal readings.

Next they made their way through the overgrown bushes to examine the crime scene. Sam noticed that although some branches had been snapped, others had been snipped clean off. “Bagged for evidence,” Sam said as he held one truncated branch up for visual inspection. The crime scene unit had removed any branches or leaves with blood evidence. In addition, it appeared as if they had cut away enough of the overgrown brush to allow for single file passage between the side of the shed and the bushes. Per the official report, the blood recovered from the bushes belonged to Dave Holcomb and his wife, both of whom had suffered scrapes and cuts pushing their way through the overgrowth. And, despite the medical examiner’s working theory, no animal fur or blood had been recovered from the area.

The cramped space between the rear of the utility shed and the fence showed signs of a hasty departure. Sam noticed two torn bits of yellow crime scene tape in the dirt, with a third torn piece attached to the back wall of the shed. Dark stains from blood splatter remained on the fence panel opposite the rear of the shed. Where Holcomb’s body had been found—face down per the police report—the ground dipped, as if the tragedy had left a scar on the land. The more likely explanation was crime scene excavation of topsoil to collect blood and loose viscera.

Again, Sam took readings with the EMF meter, walking the perimeter of the crime scene and finally bringing the meter down close to where Dave Holcomb had taken his last breath. And once again, no telltale spikes. As he returned the meter to his jacket pocket, he glanced over the rotting stockade fence, beyond a thin screening of trees and an open, weed-covered lot to a dilapidated rancher.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Abandoned house,” Sam said. “Far side of the lot.”

“Worth a look.”

“Definitely,” Sam said.

* * *

After Dean picked the padlock bolted to the front door, the rundown rancher yielded no unusual EMF readings or definitive clues. Any furniture had been removed long ago and the walls were bare. A lumpy, stained mattress had been tossed on the floor of a bedroom in the rear of the house, along with a scattering of crushed beer cans, an empty bottle of peach schnapps, and several candy wrappers.

At some point, someone had made an effort to clean the place, based upon the presence of two filled plastic trash bags placed against the front wall. Since then, a side window had been jimmied to bypass the padlocked front door. From what Sam could gather, somebody watched over the place, but not as vigilantly as necessary considering the determination of area teens eager for a private place to light up or down a few.

Breaking the eerie silence of the abandoned house, Dean’s cell phone rang.

He grabbed it and checked the caller ID. “BHPD.” He cleared his throat and answered before the third ring. “Special Agent Banks.” A pause. “Hi, Chief. What—?”

A longer pause. Dean nodded, eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be right there.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Another victim.”

“Same M.O.?”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “Disemboweled. Plucked peepers.”