“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, someone—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.”
NINE
From the outside, nothing distinguished the s
uburban 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?”
“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.”
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