“Sally’s”—Dean caught himself and lowered the volume of his voice—“Sally’s pregnant.”
The grandmother nodded. “Only a few weeks,” she said. “But she will keep the child. That’s why she made the decision to leave. She’ll be a single mother, raising a child on her own. She wants to be near family. Mr. Vargus has offered to help her, but he is not family. He was close to David, but they hadn’t seen each other in a while and Sally is not close to this man. Here, she is among strangers in a place which has only bad memories for her. And for her family.”
“Found our connection,” Dean said.
Sam nodded. “All the victims had some sort of relationship with a pregnant woman.”
Unfortunately, each victim had a relationship with a different pregnant woman. There was no common denominator.
“Small problem,” Dean said. “Until a few hours ago, nobody knew Sally was pregnant. Not even Sally.”
“Please do not tell this news to anyone,” Mary said. “Not even Ramon knows.”
“We’ll keep the information confidential,” Sam assured her.
Dean downed his glass of water while imagining how much more refreshing a cold beer would have been. But he’d been trying to cut back, earn his choir boy badge in an attempt to keep the Mark’s violent urges under control. With a sigh and a slight head shake, he placed the empty glass in the sink.
Through a gap in the curtains of the small window over the sink he could see the backyard of the Holcomb house and beyond, to the open space past their fence and the abandoned house on the far side of that lot. He remembered the field had been overgrown and the house had been visited by teenagers secretly indulging in alcohol and other controlled substances. But the condition of the connecting property had improved. Dean heard the buzz of the motor before he spotted the old man on the riding mower, trimming the weeds to a respectable height.
Dean recalled the stuffed plastic trash bags lined up by the front door of the house and wondered if the lawnmower man was the irregular caretaker of the place. If he’d been around at the time of Dave Holcomb’s attack, he might have witnessed something that could help in the investigation. So far, the closest they’d come to having an eyewitness was Jesse Vetter and Olivia Krum, who had been in the same house but several rooms distant when the Perreault attack occurred.
“Gonna see a man about a mower,” Dean said to Sam, pointing toward the caretaker visible through the window.
* * *
While Sam remained at the Holcomb residence with Castiel, Dean jumped in the Impala and followed the winding suburban street around to the curb of the vacant house. He parked opposite a GMC pickup from the late fifties; its red color had faded over time to a shade best described as rust. Hitched to the pickup was a single axle open trailer with a plywood bed and ramp that had a decidedly homemade quality. Or perhaps the original materials had been patched or replaced over the years with a dedicated DIY mentality. Neither truck nor trailer had a business sign on display, adding to the homebrew quality of the setup. If the old man on the riding mower was running a business he had avoided any attempt at marketing his services to the locals.
As Dean exited the Impala, the old man neared the back of the vacant house, his mowing grid taking him from the back of the property to the front. Dean estimated that he had less than fifteen minutes remaining to finish the job. The man made a turn at the right edge of the property line and rumbled back toward Dean, finally noticing the visitor.
The old man wore a grease- and grass-stained John Deere trucker hat, a threadbare red plaid shirt, naturally distressed jeans and scuffed, steel-toed boots. His face brought to mind prunes and old leather, with a touch of sunburn on his ears and the tip of his nose. A spotty gray beard swathed the bottom half of his face and the upper half of his neck, trimmed well enough to keep his thin lips visible but any attempt at precision grooming ended there.
When the riding mower came within arm’s reach of Dean’s position, the old man switched off the power and sat there for a moment, silently squinting at him.
Though he hadn’t donned his Fed suit, Dean had his fake FBI ID and flashed it for the old-timer. “Special Agent Banks, FBI.”
The old man brought up some phlegm, turned his head to the side and spat an impressive distance before answering. “You don’t say?”
He climbed off the riding mower with deliberate care, as if giving his old joints time to acclimate to a new alignment. With both feet on the ground, he pulled a rag out of his back pocket, wiped off his hands, tucked the rag away and held out his right hand. “Arthur Keating.”
Dean shook the proffered hand and said, “I’m investigating a death on the property next door.” Not wanting to panic the locals with tales of a serial killer on the loose in Braden Heights, he phrased the statement to conform to the official party line of an animal attack rather than a murder. He had no qualms about telling the family of victims he believed they were murdered, but telling the general public might annoy the police and end any pretense of cooperation and sharing of information. Moreover, their FBI credentials might not hold up to additional scrutiny. If Assistant Chief Cordero ever decided to call Washington to lodge a complaint about rogue agents, that day would not end well. “Hoping you can answer a few questions.”
“Holcomb fella?”
“Got it in one,” Dean said. “Know anything about it?”
“About as much as they put in the papers,” he said. “And what little I hear around town. Not one to trade in gossip but the stories going around these days certainly perk up the ears.”
“I bet they do.”
“Way I hear it, you got more than one of these guttings.”
“There have been similar incidents.”
“I’m no wildlife expert, Agent Banks,” Keating said. “And I don’t expect you are either.”
“Not at all,” Dean said.
“I’m at a loss what kind of animal might be responsible for all this.”
“Some animals might surprise you,” Dean said.
Keating flashed Dean a bit of knowing side-eye. “Suspect you’re right,” he said. “But I don’t see how I can help.”
“Answer a few questions.”
“All right,” he said. “I’d invite you inside, but there ain’t no decent place to sit.”
“Out here’s fine,” Dean said. “Do you own this property?”
“No, sir,” Keating replied. “Look after it now and then. Long as someone pays for the privilege. Last owner died, left a contested will, tied up in the courts. I’ve been paid by the executor, usually after enough people complain about the state of the place.”
“That why you’re here today?”
“No, sir,” Keating said again. “Real estate agent paid me to spruce up the grounds, make it presentable. Said she’s putting the Holcomb place back on the market and doesn’t want the neighborhood eyesore driving down the asking price.”
“So you weren’t working the grounds the day Holcomb was killed.”
“No,” Keating said. “And thank God I was nowhere near here. Could’ve been me gutted instead of Holcomb. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve lived a long life—not always good or easy, but I don’t have too many complaints—and Holcomb was a young fella, certainly not deserving of what he got, far as I know, but I ain’t ready to give up the ghost yet. Suspect I have a few more years in these creaky bones.”
Dean looked across the open field, mostly mowed, to the rotted fence Dave Holcomb had been attempting to repair when he was attacked. “Notice anything out of the ordinary back by the Holcomb property line?”
“Other than weeds?” Keating shook his head. “Couple fast food wrappers, garage sale flyer, few pages from a newspaper. Stuff I suspect the wind had a hand in depositing back there against the fence.” He shrugged. “Of course, if there were shell casings or cigarette butts back there, I might have missed them.”
“Good thing we’re not looking for a sniper,” Dean said.
“Wasn’t always like this,” Keating mused.
“How’s that?”
“Braden Heights,” Keating said. “Town’s growing, for sure, but it’s been a quiet growth, if you know what I mean. Not much trouble. Not real trouble anyway. Teenage mischief, broken windows here and there. But nothing to make you double-check your locks at night.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I get the local monthly paper, The Corner Press,” Keating said. “Hell, everyone does. It’s free. As you’d expect, it’s mostly local interest stuff, advertiser supported. But they also list the police blotter activity and it’s mostly minor crimes; a comfort in a way, if you think about it. Live as long as I have, and you know how much worse that type of listing can get.” He looked at the section of the yard he hadn’t yet mowed and Dean imagined he wanted to get back to it. But he wasn’t quite done. “As the town grows, as it becomes more successful, you know the bad stuff will come.”
“But you didn’t expect it to come so soon,” Dean guessed.
“No, sir,” Keating said. “I have days filled with gloom and doom thoughts, but I never imagined something this bad would come so soon.”
“It’s not normal,” Dean said. “No matter how big the town. Sometimes bad things happen.”
“Suspect you’re right,” Keating said. “Braden Heights had a good run, been quiet a long time. At least since they changed the name.”
“Changed the name?”
“Of course, they had to,” Keating explained. “After the tragedy.”