He was not omniscient. He wasn’t even a proper angel at the moment, his Grace fading by the day. What would happen to Claire after he faded away for good? No, there was no certainty involved when it came to her safety. That had been her choice, to go her own way, but the change had been in him. He couldn’t worry about her when it was convenient, when it fit his schedule. That meant that the job was a permanent, all-day responsibility. And most of the time, he had to take it on faith that she was okay. The irony was not lost on him. Someone once said the worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves.
So had Castiel suffered a moment of parental panic, seeing Claire in Chloe’s condition, the pregnant woman’s similarity triggering an anxiety that might always lie beneath the surface of his consciousness? Where is Claire now, right this moment? And is she safe?
A question that would quite possibly, on one level or another, haunt him for the rest of his life.
And because he could do nothing at the moment for Claire, he pushed himself onward, to do something now, for the young woman who had become, in some strange way, her stand-in.
He arrived at the Duffords’ home just as Cordero was leaving, having already given the boy’s parents the devastating news. The Assistant Chief of Police gave brief introductions to Donald and Paige Dufford, explaining that Castiel—Special Agent Collins—was also working the case for the FBI.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Castiel said on the Duffords’ doorstep as Cordero drove away from the house. Fearing the bereaved couple would be loath to repeat whatever information they had given Cordero, Castiel preemptively added, “I apologize for not coming sooner.”
“Please come in,” Paige Dufford said, her red-rimmed eyes making only fleeting contact with Castiel’s before she ducked her head and backed into the room.
A grim-faced Donald Dufford, his jaw set, seemed to stare into the middle distance. With a curt nod he stepped back and held the door open for Castiel, closing it softly behind him. Paige led the way past a dim living room into the kitchen, where afternoon sunlight streamed through gauzy curtains in dust-filled shafts. She removed a used mug from the table and placed it in the sink before offering him coffee. Castiel sensed that she needed to keep herself occupied with small tasks, to keep her focus limited to immediate mundane concerns rather than direct her attention to the vast gulf of dark emotion that threatened to consume her.
“Yes,” Castiel said to her offer of coffee. “Thank you.”
“Please, have a seat,” she said, indicating the chair he supposed Cordero had occupied. Castiel sat, hands folded on the table.
She filled a black mug with white lettering and placed it before him. The text on the mug read “John Dillinger Museum.” Castiel wondered if the mug selection, considering his guise as an FBI agent, was intentional or mere coincidence. Dillinger had been born in Indiana and the museum was local, so he was inclined to believe the latter. After all, the mug that had apparently served Cordero featured a pair of well-known cartoon mouse ears.
“Milk? Sugar?” she asked. “Sorry, we don’t have any cream.”
“Milk and sugar is fine,” Castiel said, giving her a few more simple tasks to complete. She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator and set a container of sugar before him, along with a teaspoon.
Donald Dufford stood to Castiel’s right, his hands clutched on the top of a ladder-back chair, knuckles white. Only after Paige sat across from Castiel did Aidan’s father pull back the chair and sink into it.
As silence began to fill the room, Castiel heard soft crying from above.
Paige sniffed. “That’s Amy,” she said. “Aidan’s little sister.” She pressed her palm to her mouth, her shoulders shuddering for a moment as she fought for control.
“I want to find the person responsible,” Castiel said, adding a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk to the coffee. “Can you think of anyone who harbored ill will against your son?”
“As we told the police,” Donald said, “Aidan had no real enemies. He only had a few friends at school, but he never mentioned anyone like that.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt an eighteen-year-old boy?” Paige asked. “He spent his days at school, doing homework and hanging out with his friends. How could any of that be the cause…?”
“Aidan didn’t return home last night,” Castiel said. “Was that unusual?”
“Yes,” Paige said. “We—we didn’t know. He often pushes his curfew, that wasn’t unusual, but he’s never been out all night. I fell asleep and Donald… Donald was out late.”
Donald’s gaze dropped to the tabletop. “I came home very late. I was… I was tired. Didn’t think to check on him.”
Castiel recognized the father’s guilt over this lapse, but in all likelihood—Castiel couldn’t be sure because he didn’t have the coroner’s estimated time of death—Aidan had already been murdered before his father came home. The police may have searched for and found the body several hours earlier, but the killer would have been long gone.
“We’ve had a bit of a rough time,” Paige said. “Donald was laid off recently and is still looking for a new job. Getting out of the house was probably an escape for Aidan. I thought he needed…”
“Assistant Chief Cordero may have mentioned another attack in Braden Heights,” Castiel said.
“The man attacked in his backyard,” Paige said, nodding.
“Because of the similarities between the two attacks,” Castiel continued, “we are looking for a connection between the victims. We’re considering the possibility that both victims knew their assailant.”
“I don’t see how,” Paige said. “Chief Cordero said that man was new in town. Unemployed. I can’t imagine how or why their paths would have crossed.”
“David Holcomb was new in town,” Castiel said. “But not unemployed. He moved to Braden Heights because of a job offer in Evansville.” Castiel checked his notebook. “A night manager position at Vargus Fabricators.”
“Vargus?” Paige said, her surprise evident, her gaze shifting to her husband. “Don…?”
Castiel looked at Donald as well. “What am I missing?”
“Stanley Vargus, the owner,” Donald said, “is my former employer.”
“You worked at Vargus?”
“Yeah,” Donald said bitterly. “For a year and a half.”
“Was Dave Holcomb your replacement?”
“I don’t know any Dave Holcomb,” Donald said. “Never met the man. Besides, I was a grunt. Not management, by any stretch. Guys like me, we’re a dime a dozen to somebody like Stanley Vargus.”
Turning to Castiel, Paige said, “You can’t think Donald is involved in this. Even if he is upset with Stanley Vargus, David Holcomb is—was a complete stranger to us.”
“You’re right,” Castiel said. “This doesn’t make sense.”
And yet, he wondered if that job connection somehow tied Holcomb and Aidan together in the killer’s mind. The line of animosity stretched between Donald and Vargus, but it may not have been mutual. Donald’s resentment stemmed from his dismissal, but Vargus may have felt justified in terminating Dufford. He may have regarded it as a business decision, not a personal affront. Even allowing for mutual dislike between the two men, why target Dufford’s son and Vargus’ future hire?
“May I ask why you were dismissed?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Donald said with a brusque wave of his hand as he shoved his chair back and left the kitchen. “But it had nothing to do with my son!”
Confused, Castiel turned to Paige.
Lips pressed tight, she shook her head. After a few moments, she spoke softly, quiet enough that her voice wouldn’t carry beyond the kitchen. “Attendance issues,” she said. “Donald… he struggles with, you know… personal demons. He goes to meetings, but sometimes… sometimes that’s not enough.”
Castiel thanked her for her time, again expressing sympathy for the loss of her son, and quietly left the gloom of the Dufford hous
ehold and climbed into his Lincoln. For a few moments, he sat in the car, hands on the steering wheel, lost in thought. Finally, he took out his cell phone and clutched it in the palm of his hand. Before making a call, he scrolled through his contacts and settled on the picture of Claire, a wistful smile on her face, and wondered how different her life would have been if Castiel had never interfered with Jimmy Novak’s life.
True faith would have him trust in God’s plan.
Yet even a positive outcome never meant everyone involved received the best result. Some people were simply destined to suffer in this life. History had proved that time and time again. How many of those unfortunates saw the wisdom in the grand plan? Maybe only the martyrs.
He dialed a number.
“Hello,” came the familiar voice of Sally Holcomb’s grandmother, Mary.
“This is Agent Collins,” Castiel said. “I have—”
“Have you found him?”
“Who?”
She lowered her voice before continuing. “The monster who killed David.”
“No, not yet,” Castiel said. “I have some follow-up questions for Mrs. Holcomb if I—”
“I’m sorry, Agent Collins,” the old woman said. “The poor girl wasn’t feeling well and turned in early. Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Castiel said. “Yes, of course it can wait. Thank you.”
Next he called Dean, to update the Winchesters about Dufford’s connection to Vargus Fabricators. For a moment, he thought about calling Sam with the information, but Dean had been defensive lately, convinced Sam and Castiel were talking about him behind his back. Rather than feed the incipient paranoia, Castiel decided to keep the lines of communication open between them.
On the second ring, Dean picked up.
THIRTEEN
“You know what happened to Cass?” Dean asked Sam.
“No,” Sam said, opening his laptop on the small table by the window in their shabby budget motel room, its only redeeming feature—well two if you counted the free WiFi—being the framed photos of classic muscle cars on the wall facing the twin beds. A cherry red ’67 Pontiac GTO and cobalt blue ’70 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda.
“Another wild goose chase?”
“Dean, I don’t know.”
“One minute he’s right behind me. The next he’s off into the wild blue yonder.”
“You could call him.”
“I’m good,” Dean said, settling back on his bed, doubling his pillow to stare comfortably at the far wall. Those cars were sweet, but no competition for Baby. Still, better than gazing at another vase of impressionistic flowers or landscapes of apocalyptically vacant beaches.
Once they’d returned to their motel room, their first order of business was ditching the Fed suits for more comfortable attire. Dean had picked the nearest bed and plopped down on it, hands interlaced behind his head, lamenting the poor quality of the mattress and the strange odor permeating their room. “Dude, I miss my bunker bedroom.”
“Maybe get that on a tattoo,” Sam had suggested sarcastically.
They had lived on the road for most of their lives, interrupted by brief periods of what passed for normalcy. All the crappy motel rooms had become anonymous pit stops along the way, with one fading into the next. When that’s all you know, that’s all you expect. But the bunker had changed their expectations, giving them a home of sorts. It represented downtime, but it also represented a standard of living no grimy motel clinging to an interstate highway exit could match. But maybe that was the point. The road kept them from becoming soft and complacent. For hunters, the road meant war and battle. So maybe it was best they find no comfort there.
“Could be a ghoul,” Dean speculated while Sam poked around the Web on his laptop. “Or a rakshasa or a rugaru. Hell, maybe a wendigo. All flesh eaters.”
“I don’t know,” Sam said absently.
“Victims still had their hearts and brains, so we can rule out werewolves and wraiths. And rawheads go for kids.”
“Interesting,” Sam said from across the room from behind his laptop.
“Aidan was eighteen,” Dean replied, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Not technically a kid anymore. And Holcomb? Definitely not a kid.”
“No, this local news article,” Sam said, pointing at the screen, though it was directed away from Dean. “Traffic accident.”
“Traffic accident?” Dean asked, perplexed. “Unless it involves a hook hanging from a door handle, how does that concern us?”
“Elijah Green,” Sam said, skimming the article again to read the salient facts aloud. “Pharmaceutical sales rep, returning home to Braden Heights from Evansville, crossed into oncoming traffic, head on collision with a semi.”
“Let me guess,” Dean said. “Didn’t end well for Big Pharma.”
“Not at all,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Killed on impact. Apparently he was rushing home to witness the birth of his daughter.”
“Tragic on two or three levels,” Dean said. “But unless this is some sort of Maximum Overdrive situation, what’s the angle?”
“Green suffered head trauma,” Sam said. “The details are a bit vague here, but from a comment the trucker made to the press, it sounds like both of Green’s eyes were destroyed.”
Dean sat up. “Faulty airbags?”
Sam shook his head.
“What about the rest of him? Insides still inside?”
“Doesn’t say. But guess who was at the scene?”
“Cordero?”
“Sands,” Sam said. “Captain Jaime Sands.”
“The Green file!” Dean said, remembering their brief introduction. “Thought she was referring to color coding or a recycling report.”
He sat up and flipped between the two business cards he’d set on the bedside table in front of the digital clock radio, settling on the Sands card. He took out his phone to dial her number but the phone rang before he entered the first digit. He checked the caller ID.
“Cass,” he told Sam before answering the call. Instead of a greeting, he said, “What happened?”
“Dean,” Castiel said. “I interviewed Aidan’s parents.” After a moment, he added, “Were you expecting something else?”
Like another magical mystery tour that led nowhere? Dean thought. No, not at all. “No,” he lied. “Another dead end, right?”
“Something,” Castiel said. “Maybe only a coincidence.”
“Tell me.”
Castiel explained how Donald Dufford had recently been terminated by Vargus just as Holcomb was scheduled to start.
“So Vargus links one victim to the father of the other victim,” Dean said. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a stretch,” Castiel admitted.
“It’s something, anyway,” Dean said. As leads went, it wasn’t much, but it was more than they had an hour ago. “Sam also found something. Possible third victim.” He told Castiel about the Green accident. “I’ll talk to Sands. BHPD may have withheld some details from the press.”
“Where are you?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dean said, remembering Castiel hadn’t been with them when they checked into the latest fleabag special. “Look for the Blue Castle Lodge on Front Street.”
“That name is indecisive,” Castiel said.
“Nobody will mistake this place for a castle,” Dean said, “but there’s a picture of one on the sign out front.”
After ending the call, Dean dialed the cell phone number on the business card he still held and waited three rings for her to pick up.
“Captain Sands.”
“Captain, this is Special Agent Banks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“What can you tell me about the fatal accident involving Elijah Green?”
“Green? But that’s—never mind,” she said. “His wife had gone into labor with their first child. He was speeding to get home in time for the birth. He drifted into oncoming traffic. Hit a semi head on. Killed instantly. Car totale
d. Driver of the truck was treated at the scene and released after declining hospitalization.”
“What about Green’s body?” Dean asked. “From the witness account, he lost his eyes. Was he disemboweled?”
“Disemboweled? No, of course not,” Sands said. “But the eyes… yeah, that was odd.”
“How so?”
“Some of these highway fatalities are gruesome, to say the least, especially on interstate; at those speeds decapitation is not uncommon. But with Green’s eyes, whatever caused that damage, well, we were unable to tie it to anything specific in the wreckage. And he was the lone occupant of the vehicle. But I remember thinking at the time…”
“What?”
“Keep in mind,” she said, “this is not something I put in the official report. Too ‘out there,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Unofficially, then,” Dean encouraged.
She sighed in resignation, obviously concerned she might be putting her professional reputation on the line by engaging in this type of speculation. “Unofficially—judging by some of the lacerations on his face—I had the impression that something gouged out his eyes before the crash.”
FOURTEEN
Before they began, Jesse Vetter had been meticulous about covering every inch of the nursery’s hardwood floor and baseboards with drop cloths, secured with two rolls’ worth of masking tape. He’d bordered the windows and the doorframe with more tape and tossed another drop cloth over the door itself. Forbidding Olivia to lift a finger, he’d moved all the furniture to the center of the room, with a third translucent drop cloth tossed over the crib and fish mobile, dresser, changing table, standing lamp, and wooden rocking chair, commenting that the whole mass looked like the world’s most ungainly ghost. Only then had they begun to paint the room in aquatic, gender neutral colors, banishing from existence its humdrum off-white walls.
“Really, Olivia,” he’d said before they began, “where’s the mental stimulation for an infant staring into a white void all day?”
Olivia had shrugged, smiling as she played along. With the palm of one hand on the eight-month swell of her abdomen, she’d said, “Maybe the baby will achieve a Zen state.”
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