Supernatural--Cold Fire (13 page)

For several blocks and two or three traffic lights, Castiel followed the black ’67 Chevy Impala four-door through the streets of Braden Heights. Dean intended to stop at the motel where they’d checked in shortly before Castiel arrived in town. As much as the brothers needed to take a break after the long road trip, followed by witness interviews and crime scene visits, Castiel suspected Dean, if not both Winchesters, wanted out of the Fed suits before continuing with the investigation.

So far they had discovered little in the way of clues to point them toward the culprit in the cannibalistic murders. But the term “cannibalistic” assumed the killer was human, and that was far from a given, especially in their line of work. The murderer might be something that was once human or something that had passed for human or something entirely inhuman. But what had become obvious during the course of the day was that the solution would not be a—what did humans call it?—a slam dunk. Perhaps the better metaphor was not a piece of cake… although Dean preferred pie. Not a piece of pie? Castiel did not believe that expression was part of the common parlance, but he thought that maybe they should be interchangeable. They were both baked desserts.

Human metaphors aside, the case was beginning to look like a longer term project than Sam or Dean had probably anticipated when they’d left the relative comforts of the bunker. So they probably wanted to review their progress at their motel room and make themselves comfortable before resuming the hunt.

At some point during the drive back to the motel, Dean turned left and Castiel reached for his turn signal to follow but hesitated. A moment later he had driven straight through the intersection. He recalled the names, addresses and phone numbers that Chloe Sikes had rattled off from her cell phone for Sam to write down. While that exchange of information occurred, Castiel had noticed again the young woman’s resemblance to Claire, Jimmy Novak’s daughter. But this time, that’s all he saw. A resemblance. Gone was the uncanny mirror image of Claire that had momentarily haunted him when Chloe first turned toward him.

He believed it had been a human response, like a form of déjà vu. And he had trouble shaking it off. In his devout faith, Jimmy Novak had offered his body to Castiel’s possession and because of that faith, Jimmy Novak had died. Unlike Hannah, his fellow angel, Castiel could never return the body to the man he had borrowed it from. That weighted the initial offering with greater importance, because a gift had become an ultimate sacrifice. And that sacrifice forced Castiel to recognize what had been lost: a father’s relationship with his daughter. And triggered by Hannah’s selfless action, Castiel decided to embrace that responsibility; knowing that he could never replace him, he tried to fill the void that had been left after Jimmy’s passing.

What if his acceptance of that emotional bond had changed something in his mind as well? He’d often heard it said that parents never stopped worrying about their children, no matter how old they were. Bringing a life into the world became a lifelong commitment for the parent. Castiel inhabited a human body with the DNA of Claire’s father. And Castiel had chosen to take on the role of father figure to the young woman. Would it be so strange to consider the possibility that a mental connection had been forged between them, that Castiel had activated a dormant father–daughter link simply by his acceptance of the role?

Rationally, he knew she could think of him in a time of need and he would know she was in trouble. But he had an idea that the parent–child bond did not always result in rational responses. After all, Claire could only contact him if she was aware of any danger she faced and remained conscious long enough to make the “call.” Any number of perils could befall her without her knowing until it was too late. A car accident, a gunshot, a stalker, a medical condition…

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 household 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.