Author’s notes: This chapter is owed all to one well-timed day of Hooky. All bow to the Hooky gods-that allow us to take a mental health day when needed. Ridley is not encouraging the act of Hooky in no way, shape, or form, and can not be sued for wages lost, or slipping grades. That said-Hooky is freakin’ awesome.
Chapter 6
Dean could not explain the wave of relief that crashed over him as he turned the corner at near break neck speed only to catch a glimpse of his brother standing exactly where he said he would be. Thank you.
Sam was leaned up against the Sheriff's office, under the awning, looking tired but very much alive. Dean didn't miss the fact that his brother made moving look like an extreme effort as he pushed away from the building and walked to meet the car once it had stopped with a grinding of tires and a cloud of dust.
Dean nearly leaped from the Impala. “Where the hell have you been?”
Sam frowned, as his brother practically climbed over the car between them to get in his personal space. He almost expected him to slide across the hood in Duke fashion. “Right where I said I was going to be. What‘s wrong?”
“You didn’t answer your cell. It’s turned off. We never turn the phones off, Sam.”
Sam shook his head, half irritated, half concerned at the wild look in his brother’s green gaze. “I was in the library, Dean. I must have forgotten to turn it back on. What is your problem, man?”
“My problem is that you never listen.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. Okay, a Dean tirade was usually brought on by one of two things. Since the car was still in one piece, that must have meant he was worried. Something had him spooked. “What happened at the Kinkade’s?”
Dean raked a hand through his hair. “Her husband died-that’s what happened.”
“We already knew that, Dean.”
“It happened in three days-just like the others.” You’ve been sick for two, Sammy.
“So, we know that whatever it is runs its course in three days?” That explains it. I’ve been sick for two.
“Damn it, Sam! That fucking photographer took Kinkade’s picture, too.”
“Yeah,” Sam looked at his brother, “and that makes you angry-why?”
“Don’t you get it?” Dean felt like shaking him. “He’s the Soul Collector-the Crow.”
“Okay, Random,” Sam borrowed one of his brother’s terms of endearment, “where the hell did that theory come from?”
“It’s been eating at me ever since I saw that picture at the preacher's house. Through out history there have been myths about cameras being able to capture a person’s soul-kind of like the whole mirror thing.”
Sam nodded. “A lot of cultures believed that having one’s picture taken was like a small death-a part of their essence was captured for eternity. But Dean…”
“I think Monroe found a way to use that. Every victim that we know of had their photograph taken by Death Warmed Over.” Including us. “ I say we find the freak and toast him.”
The younger hunter looked incredulously at his brother. “Dean, we don‘t know where to start looking for him. Even if we did, we couldn’t just kill him. We don‘t even know what he is.”
When he recognized the stubborn flare in the hazel gaze , Sam raised his hand to cut off the protest that he saw building. “Let’s say that you’re right. Why the three days? Why capture five souls? What’s the pentagram have to do with it and the whole element thing, Dean? Where does Dellacrois fit in? And our phantom Indian friend?”
Dean rolled his eyes, irritated with his brother‘s damn sensible logic. “ I don’t know. I’m not the psychic. What ‘s the force telling you, young Jedi?”
Right now it was telling him that his brother was an ass. “What it’s telling me is that we’re missing something.” Sam held up the journal and some papers that he’d found at the library. “Something that might be in here.”
Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to soothe his frayed nerves. “Are you okay?”
Sam nearly laughed. “You could have just asked me that in the beginning, you know, jerk.”
Dean averted his gaze, as he felt a slight warmth creep into his cheeks. So sometimes concerned, worried Dean looked a whole hell of a lot like pissed off Dean. “Just answer the question, bitch.”
“I’ve been better.”
The honest statement brought Dean’s gaze instantly to his brother’s flushed face. He had to resist the urge to reach up and check his forehead for fever. “Could be the flu.” Dean knew it sounded lame, but he just wanted it to be true so freakin’ badly.
“Yeah,” Sam forced a grin, “I hear something’s going around.”
“Really, Sammy-are you okay?”
Sam cleared his throat and pushed aside the sudden urge to tell his brother just how shitty he felt. He wasn’t five for crying out loud. “I’m good.”
Dean shook his head, not buying it for a minute, but not about to waste more time banging his head against a brick Winchester wall. “Then let’s go see the sheriff.”
“He’s out on patrol. I already checked.”
Dean glanced around the small town, wondering what in the hell the man patrolled. “It's only a little after twelve,” he nodded to the car. “Get in, we're taking a little trip.”
Sam opened the passenger door. “Where to?”
“The hospital.”
“Why?” Sam actually backed away. “I told you that I was alright.”
“Yeah, well we've got to talk about that lying habit, little brother. But we're not going there for you.”
Sam finally got in the car and Dean followed suit. He looked at his brother, waiting for an explanation. “There's a fourth victim, and he‘s still alive.”
“Really?”
“Apparently a fisherman has come down with the flu.” Dean started the car and did a U-turn in the small parking lot.
“Water.” Sam's face paled. “The old man said that the Crow would soon have water.”
The younger Winchester could see it on his brother's face, but knew he'd never say it, so he did. “That leaves Fire.”
Dean glanced to the road they were turning onto, taking them out of New Hope and towards Bowie. “I know most lawyers probably go to Hell, Sammy-but that doesn't mean that you'd qualify in the flame category. You haven't even taken the Bar yet.”
Sam continued to stare at him, frustrated that his brother wasn't willing to admit that Sam most definitely had a connection to the element that had stole so much of their lives. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”
“Not working?”
“Not really.”
Dean forced a smile. “Then let's talk about your newest chick of the week. What did you find out from the hot librarian?”
Sam sighed, thinking back on his conversation with the old woman. “Well, Sally knew Mathers and his wife. Olivia Mathers was definitely one of the victims back in 1955, and get this she was an avid swimmer-had even gone to the Olympics when she was younger.”
“If your theory is on the money-then she would be the water element in that particular killing spree. I guess that she swam in the lake a lot?”
Sam nodded. “That's one of the ways they blamed it on the toxic leak into Canyon Lake.”
“So, Carolyn Kinkade mentioned to me that this Mathers was in the nursing home.”
Sam looked a little surprised but nodded. “That's what Sally said. He ended up there after he spent most of his adult life in and out of mental institutions . Late on-set Schizophrenia-or something.”
“What a pleasant ending to his Norman Rockwell story.”
“Sally was all too happy to dish out all the old dirt. She said it was the talk of the town. Mathers became obsessed with the idea of the curse having killed his wife. Get this-he claimed his wife's soul had been stolen by a devil.”
“That's a good way to end up where he did.”
“Rose said that he started researching all things paranormal. Bought tons of salt and circled his house with it. Made his little girl wear garlic and carry blessed water with her.”
Dean glanced at his brother. “That would explain Rose’s reluctance to talk much about the supernatural shit.” Dean could understand the waitress’ caution. He and Sam learned quickly not to discuss their father’s obsession.
“Finally, Olivia’s family got involved and social services took Rose. They had Reese declared incompetent and had him committed.” Sam glanced at his brother, a pensive look crossing his young features. “Do you sometimes wonder how Dad avoided that whole scene?”
Dean shot him a hard look, and his voice took on an edge. “Dad wasn't crazy, Sam.”
“Apparently, neither was Mathers.”
The older hunter sighed, not wanting to think of the possibilities of how different their lives could have turned out. “Did she recognize the name Monroe, or Dellacrois?”
“No, but we did a search of the town’s historical records and found this in the archive.” Sam held up a piece of paper. “It's an account of a murder from the town's first newspaper.”
“A murder?”
Sam nodded. “It happened back in the early 1900’s -one Jebidiah Monroe was found stabbed in the local apothecary's shop. Apparently, they never did find the murderer.”
“That's about the same time that the first cycle of killings started. Not a coincidence I'm guessing.”
“Probably not-considering the apothecary shop was owned by Marguerrite Dellacrois and she was never seen or heard from again. The local law enforcement figured she was either killed also or kidnapped.”
“So- are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“Apothecaries often used magic and other natural remedies.”
“Dellacrois was a witch?”
Sam shrugged. “ Makes sense, and we know Monroe owned the homestead. I’m betting he was the same little kid that watched his family be murdered by Geronimo. Maybe he never gave up on the idea of getting revenge.”
“Back to Geronimo.” Dean knew it was coming but rolled his eyes anyway. “But Geronimo would have been an old man by then. And we know he was moved to a reservation in Florida, and he died there.”
“But maybe Monroe couldn't let it go.” Sam could understand that. He'd lived it.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Dellacrois and Monroe made themselves a deal. He wanted revenge for his family being killed.”
“You think she cast a spell?”
“That would have to have been one hell of a spell. Nothing like we've ever seen.”
The more they learned-the more tangled the whole web seemed. “It still doesn’t explain the soul collector thing and the pictures.”
“I think that’s where Dad’s journal will come in. Whatever is written in there may be what we need to connect all this.” Dean looked at his brother. “This Wakeen friend of the sheriff’s will translate it for us-one way or another.”
Sam felt a chill course through him and pulled his jacket tighter. “I just wish Dad were here.”
Dean sighed, seeing the exit sign for Bowie. “Me too, Sammy. Me too.”
The Mercy hospital was relatively small and quiet, considering it was the middle of the day.
Sam carefully pulled himself from the car, trying not to give into the sudden wave of nausea that had settled over him on the short drive. “And exactly how are we going to get in to see this Calvin Davis?” He hunkered in his jacket and shivered as the wind kicked up dirt around the two brothers.
“We're his nephews,” Dean replied easily with a crooked smile and Sam sighed. Sometimes lying came all too naturally to his brother.
“What if he's in a quarantined section?”
“I doubt it since the CDC pulled most of their people out. From what Kinkade's wife said only one agent stayed behind after their investigation failed to uncover anything linking the deaths to a specific toxin or viral strand.”
Sam shivered again and nodded. “You think the guy will be able to talk to us?”
“Only one way to find out.” Dean opened the door and walked into the small ER. Sam followed and hung back a little as his brother approached the front desk.
“Excuse me.”
The young brunette looked up from her computer screen and an instant smile spread across her face. “Yes, may I help you?”
“Yeah,” Dean read the nametag prominently displayed on the nurse's Scooby Doo scrubs,
“Misty, I'm Dean Davis and I understand that my uncle Cal was admitted here yesterday?”
Nurse Misty smiled at Dean again before tapping a few keys on her keyboard. “Is that Calvin Davis?”
Dean nodded gravely. “My brother and I just heard and we drove all through the night to get here from New Mexico. We didn't want him to go through this alone.” The older hunter threw a smug glance over his shoulder at Sam, who rolled his eyes at his brother's dramatic performance.
“Oh dear,” Misty glanced up from her screen and a look of complete sympathy crossed her face. “Maybe you should talk with Dr. Hayes.”
“Is something wrong?” Sam stepped around his brother and leaned on the counter.
The nurse stood quickly, nearly knocking over her cappuccino that was resting on a stack of files. “You should really speak with Dr. Hayes. I'll page him.”
Before Dean or Sam could reply Misty had scurried across from her small cubicle to a phone on the wall. She picked up and they could see her whispering animatedly to the person on the other end.
Sam nudged his brother's arm. “What do you think is going on?”
“I'm guessing that Uncle Cal isn't doing very well.”
Misty hung up the phone and hurried back to them. “Dr. Hayes will see you now. He's up on the third floor, in the ICU ward.”
“Thanks.” Dean headed for stairwell, skipping the elevators, which several people were waiting on.
“You think he's dead?” Sam was panting before they made it to the third floor fire door.
Dean shot him a concerned look. “Probably. You okay? You're sweating all over the place.”
Sam ran the back of his arm across his forehead. How could he be sweating when he was freezing only moments before? “Must be out of shape.”
“Right.” Again, with the lying. Sam could out run him any day of the week, which pissed Dean off to high heavens considering he was the one who worked out any give chance he got. “Too many cheeseburgers.”
“Yeah,” the young Winchester replied, opening the fire door to for his brother, “that must be it.”
The hospital wing smelled of antiseptic and something citrus-probably used to cover up the smell of sickness that always seemed to permeate such a facility. Another wave of nausea coursed through Sam as he recalled too many visits to places just like this one when he or Dean or his dad had been hurt while on a hunt.
“I bet that’s him.”
Sam pushed away the unwanted slide down memory lane and followed his brother over to a tall stern-looking man with glasses. He wore the typical white coat and stethoscope around his neck, but his tie was bright blue and was decorated with the Tasmanian Devil and Road Runner.
“You two must be Mr. Davis' nephews?” He extended his hand first to Dean and then to Sam. “I'm Todd Hayes.”
“Doctor,” Dean shook the man's hand and then looked at Sam. “I'm Dean and this is my brother, Sam.”
“Let's talk in here, shall we?” Dr. Hayes motioned to a small room that served as a waiting room for the ICU patients' families. “No one should be here at the moment. Your uncle was the only patient on this part of the floor.”
“Was?” Dean didn't miss the use of the past tense.
Dr. Hayes sighed, holding his clipboard close to his chest. “I'm afraid so.” The doctor nodded for the boys to take a seat in the uncomfortable orange chairs. “He passed on just a few hours ago. I've already sent someone out to notify your Great Grandmother.”
“We were headed to the nursing home after we checked in on Uncle Cal.”
“I'm sorry your visit came about this way.”
“Yeah,” Dean raked a hand through his hair, “so are we.”
“I wasn't aware of Mr. Davis having any other family but his Grandmother.”
“Our dad has been out of the picture for a while,” Sam shrugged. “You know how brother's are.” Maybe lying was genetic.
“I do.” Dr. Hayes seemed to really notice Sam for the first time. “Are you feeling alright, young man? You don't look so well.”
“Can you tell us how all this happened?” Dean asked, trying to shift Hayes' attention back to him.
“Oh, yes,” the doctor opened his chart, “I pulled your uncle's file when Misty called. I don't know if you are aware or not, but we have had several cases of this type of illness in the last couple of months. Unfortunately, there is no detectable cause for the sickness.”
The doctor scratched his beard and then looked up at Dean once more. “Even the fancy labs in Phoenix have been clueless. It starts out like the flu. The person may feel tired and achy, they may have headaches, muscle or stomach cramps, or run a fever. Your uncle was already pretty sick when he checked in with us. He was only conscious for a few hours.”
“But what exactly killed him?”
“Basically, his fever got out of control, he was severely dehydrated and his kidneys shut down.”
“And there was nothing that you could have done?” Dean couldn't help the knot of worry that was slowly tightening in his gut.
“We treated the symptoms, but we could never detect a bacteria or viral strain in the victims. You can't fight what you can't see.”
Dean sighed. “Yeah, that's a real bitch.”
“You might want to speak to Agent Hill from the CDC.” The doctor stood. “He's been talking to all the families. He's down in the morgue with our pathologist.”
“No, that's okay.” The older Winchester quickly stood up and shook his head. The last thing they needed was to be interrogated by the government. “I think we just need some time to process what's happened.”
“Of course,” the doctor nodded in understanding. “It's never easy losing family.”
“Yeah.” Dean turned and nudged Sam's foot with his boot. “Let's go, Sam.”
Sam started to stand up but his muscles momentarily refused to cooperate. He felt removed from the room, like he was caught in some strange type of limbo.
“Yo, Sammy? Are you coming? We need to check on Grams.” Dean had stopped at the door, puzzled that his brother was still sitting in the chair staring at the floor. He was taking the mourning nephew bit a little far.
Finally Dean's voice penetrated the fog and Sam convinced his legs to work. He stood, but he felt himself sway as soon as he was upright. Dr. Hayes' hand shot out to steady him. “Are you sure you're alright, son?”
Before he could reply, the doctor had reached up and laid a hand across his forehead. “You're burning up.” He looked accusingly at Dean who had quickly made it back across the room. “How long has he been like this?”
“He had a fever last night.”
Sam glared at his brother and stepped back away from the doctor. “I'm okay. I just have a cold or something.”
“Or something.” The doctor took Sam's wrist without asking permission and checked his pulse. “Your heart is racing.”
The youngest Winchester pulled away, shooting his brother another accusatory glance. “We really need to be going.”
“Have you had nausea or fatigue? What about muscle or stomach discomfort?” The doctor wasn't going to be dissuaded.
Sam sighed. “Some.”
Now Dean looked angry. “Tell him the truth, Sam.”
“I started feeling bad last night. I have a headache and I've been sick.” The youngest Winchester shrugged. “There's been some chills and some stomach pain.”
The doctor nodded. “I'd like to run some tests.” He smiled and both boys could tell it was forced. “It could be nothing, but I'd like to be sure.”
Sam shook his head. “No- we don't have time for that.”
“Let him do his tests, Sammy.”
“What?” Sam hissed, shocked and a little stung that his brother was agreeing with the man. “We have important things to take care of. This is a waste of time.”
“It doesn't take both of us to go the nursing home. I'll come back afterwards and pick you up.”
The younger hunter stepped away from the doctor, guiding his brother away from the man. “Don't leave me here. I'm…”
“Don't say you're fine, because we both know you're not.” Dean looked towards the door, and then back at his brother. “Just let him run his tests. Then we’ll know for sure.”
“We already know, Dean,” Sam growled, frustrated that his brother still wouldn’t admit what they’d danced around all day. “I have it-I’m the last element. I’ve been sick for two days. You heard the man. They couldn’t do anything for any of the victims. It will be the same for me.”
“Please.”
Sam hated the look on his brothers face just then-a mixture of fear and helplessness. Dean was the bravest person he had ever known-he always knew what to do. But there it was-lurking in the hazel gaze. And Sam couldn’t ignore it.
He hadn’t seen it often-rarely ever. But it was enough to stop his protest-it was enough to cause him to give in. Sam would do anything to glaze over the chink in the armor.
Dean must have sensed his victory. “I promise that I'll come back and get you before I meet with the sheriff. Just let him run his tests.” He took a deep breath and met Sam's gaze. “Maybe it’s not what we think.”
Sam sighed. “Alright.”
Dean grinned and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “That's my boy. I'll be back within the hour.”
“You better be.”
“Trust me, Sam. I won't leave you for long.”
Sam watched him go-those words echoing in his head. He thought of the visions he’d had and suddenly he wished he’d told his brother about them. What if he should have warned him?
A sudden panic overtook him as that mocking voice in his mind taunted him. Just like, Jessica. You’ve done it again. You’ve failed him.
He took a step towards the door, but the doctor’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Let’s get you down to the lab, son. This won’t take long.”
Sam glanced at the man and nodded. The hunter swallowed down the lump that had sprung to his throat. It didn’t take long for a person’s world to fall apart either. It could happen in a heartbeat.
It didn't take Dean long to get to the nursing home. The New Hope Home of Rest wasn’t actually in the town, more on the outskirts, just off the Interstate. It sat on sprawling acres of golden earth, and was landscaped to look more like a typical home than a hospital setting. Even the building itself appeared more ranch-like than clinical.
He stepped through the double wooden doors, going over his cover story in his mind. Dean Davis was now Dean Winters-a patient counselor from the hospital. Thanks for that one, Marilyn.
Surely he could pull it off. He had to. They were running out of time. Sam was running out of time. His brother was weakening. Dean had tried to ignore it, but he’d felt his little brother slipping away from him. And that was something Dean couldn’t -wouldn’t-accept.
“Can I help you?” The voice startled Dean out of his thoughts and he realized that his legs had carried him seemingly of their own accord straight to a counter where two women in scrubs sat. Two very attractive women-whom were definitely going to be added to his list of things not to hate about New Hope.
“Yes, I’m Dean Winters from Mercy Hospital in Bowie. I was sent here to talk with Ellie Davis.”
The two women exchanged curious looks. “The pastor already came by and spoke with Ellie this morning.”
“I know, but I’m the patient counselor, I just wanted to make my services available to Ellie-to see if there was anything I could help with.”
“You’re a therapist?” The blond one asked, with a disbelieving half-grin on her face.
“I am.” Dean leaned against the counter and smiled back.
“Do you have a couch and everything?” she teased, playfully.
Dean started to reply but the nurse with the red hair frowned suddenly and cut him off. “Funny, but I didn’t know that Mercy had atherapist on staff. I did my residency there.”
Great. One of them had to have brains. “I’ve not been there very long.”
“You know,” the blond looked at her coworker. “I heard from my friend that works at the Jalapeño that there were two really good-looking reporters in town researching all these freaky deaths. I bet they would love to talk with Ellie, too.”
Okay, so maybe they both had IQ’s above their bra sizes.
“Really?” Red raised a brow at Dean. “But he’s not really that good-looking.”
Dean looked from one woman to the other, feeling offended and somewhat like a toy being tossed between toddlers.
“Yeah,” Blondie finally agreed. “She said these two were extremely hot.”
“I really hate to interrupt this little discussion, but could I just talk with Ellie Davis. I promise not to bother her-okay. It’s really important.”
They shared another look, that led Dean to believe that life was a little too dull around the old New Hope Home of Rest and they were enjoying yanking his chain.
“Okay, Doctor,” Blondie pointed towards a glass door to the right. “But we’ll be watching you.”
Red smiled. “Ellie is out in the gardens, but don’t give her that crap about Bowie because she’ll eat you alive.”
“Use the smile, instead,” the blonde added. “It’s distracting, and might throw her off.”
Dean shook his head, feeling more than a little off his game. Thank God Sam wasn’t here to see it. “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
He could still hear them giggling as he left the building and started down the stone path that led to a shaded area in the distance. Dean was definitely worried that he was losing his touch.
Luckily there wasn’t more time to dwell on it because he had had just passed through a vine-covered wooden archway when he caught site of a fragile white-haired woman sitting on a stone bench. And she wasn’t alone. Maybe his luck was changing.
The hunter took his time approaching. He could tell that the woman was upset, and he didn’t look forward to yet another encounter with a grieving victim. The cloying smell of flowers was almost overwhelming-reminding Dean of a funeral home. It was the one scent he hated-it reminded him of his own mother’s funeral. The only thing he could really remember about it. Funny that something he knew Mary loved-flowers-only brought feelings of sadness and anger for her son.
His feet crunched on the colorful man-made pebbles surrounding the stone seat and both Ellie and her friend looked up at him.
“Who are you?” the man asked rather harshly, giving Dean the once over.
“I’m Dean Winchester,” he said as if that explained everything, then added, “and you’re Reese Mathers.”
Reese straightened some, but kept his arm protectively around Ellie. Dean imagined that he’d be a tall man if he stood. His hair was salt and peppered, and still thick and present. Hesitant blue eyes peered at him from under thick eyebrows. “I am.” He looked more like an absent-mined professor than a seasoned reporter with his checkered twill pants and tan, wool sweater. But there was a hungry gleam in his eyes that Dean almost found familiar.
Dean turned his gaze to Ellie. She was a slight woman, probably in her eighties, and looked very much like the grandmotherly type in her crocheted shawl, and faded blue and yellow print dress. “I’m sorry about your grandson, Mrs. Davis.”
“You knew my Cal?” Ellie clutched an embroidered handkerchief in her spotted, wrinkled hands. Her cloudy green eyes were red and swollen from crying. “Are you a fisherman?”
“He’s no fisherman.” Reese eyed the boy. “Too clean cut. Too green. Too soft.”
Dean sighed. What was it today. “I’m a hunter.” Okay, why not try something new.
Reese laughed. “And what exactly do you hunt, boy, besides the fairer sex?”
“I huntEvil."That took the smile off the old man's face. "Demons, monsters, werewolves, shape shifters, poltergeists, dead Indian Chiefsandtheir pet wolves-anything that frightens and hurts the innocent. You name it, my family has probably hunted it. But here lately, I‘ve beenon the trail of a Soul Collector. ”
Reese shook his head-afraid his damn hearing aide was cutting in and out again. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” Dean didn’t know if he could bring himself to repeat it. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever said it all aloud to anyone but Sam-and one other that he’d rather forget. “ I think you and I may have something in common.”
Reese glanced nervously at Ellie and then back to Dean. “Is this some kind of joke, son?”
“I never joke about this.”
“What’s he talking about, Reese?” Ellie looked from Dean to the man beside her.
“I’m talking about your grandson and why he died.”
“He died from a sickness. The one’s that been going around town.”
Dean and Reese shared a look. “Ellie, why don’t you go on back in and lie down for a while. I’ll sit and chat with this young man.”
The old woman looked unsure, but then nodded and allowed Reese to help her up. “I could use some rest.”
“Mrs. Davis, could I ask you one quick question?”
The woman sighed wearily. “Of course.”
“Did your grandson have his picture taken in town? At the Ol’Timey Photo Shop?”
Ellie smiled. “He did. We went into New Hope to have dinner the first night he was here. Cal thought it’d be a hoot for me to dress up like one of them Saloon girls.” Her eyes filled. “I tried to tell him I was too old for such nonsense, but he said I was still the prettiest girl in town. Mr. Monroe convinced me-saying us old folk had to take advantage of such moments.” She looked at Dean. “I’m so glad I did now. At least I have that memory.”
“Go on inside now, Ellie,” Reese patted her arm, “I’ll be along soon.”
Dean watched the woman make her way down the path. The red head was waiting for her at the door. She waved to Dean and Reese and helped Ellie inside.
“Let’s walk,” Reese didn’t wait for a reply from Dean before setting off down the narrow path.
Other patients were at picnic tables and resting on other benches along the way, but they were away from the path and seemed uninterested in the two men strolling by. “You read my article, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
Reese glanced at the young man. “And you expect me to believe that you hunt creatures of the night?”
“You believed your wife’s soul was taken by a Devil.”
Reese sighed. “You young pups are smart mouthed these days.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry but I don’t have time to dance around the subject. Carolyn Kinkade told me that you called her after her husband died. You think the same thing that happened to your wife is happening again.”
Reese nodded. “Four people have died already. The fifth one won’t be far behind them.” He looked at Dean. “It may be too late already.”
“I can’t accept that.”
Reese stopped, and raised one bushy silver brow. “Why’s that?”
“The
last victim…,” Dean swallowed hard, trying to force the undeniable
truth past his forbidding lips.“The last victim is my brother, Sam.”
Onto Chapter 7
Back to Chapter 5