Supernatural--Cold Fire (26 page)

“Can I help you?” she said with a cheery smile.

“Agent Collins, FBI,” Castiel said, once again trotting out the false identity. “I need to check on two of Dr. Hartwell’s patients. Chloe Sikes and Olivia Krum.”

“Chloe and Olivia,” she said. “Oh, my! They both came in minutes ago. Literally.”

“I’m aware of that.”

She typed on her computer keyboard, checking information on the monitor. “They’re both in labor, waters broken, both admitted… I don’t see birthing room assignments. Let me call up there.” She reached for her phone, made a quick call and jotted down information on a notepad. “They’re on the second floor of the tower. Chloe is in birthing room 7, Olivia in room 9. Dr. Hartwell arrived a few minutes ago. She’s up there already. Is she expecting you?”

“No,” Castiel said.

He circled around the reception desk and walked to the center bank of elevators.

The receptionist spun around in her chair to follow his progress. “Should I call and let her know you’re coming?”

Castiel pressed the UP button. “Only if it’s necessary.”

“It’s… well… she might want to…” the receptionist said. “I should call.”

The elevator doors opened. Castiel stepped inside and pressed the button for the second floor. Dr. Hartwell might question why he’d come to the maternity center, but he wasn’t sure he had a good answer. His only acknowledged reason was the vague sense of unease he’d experienced when he learned of the simultaneous labor. For now, he’d prefer to wait nearby, in the background, on the off chance something happened. At the same time, he understood that maternity wards might have security concerns over strangers lurking in the hallways. Yet another reason to flash the ID for his fake persona. And at that point, Dr. Hartwell might as well know he was present.

He hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps on the second floor when a nurse intercepted him to ask if he needed help. After identifying himself and stating his intention to see Dr. Hartwell, he continued for another two dozen steps before a male doctor with gray-streaked hair and horn-rimmed glasses stopped him and asked which patient he had come to see.

“Patients,” Castiel said.

“Patients? Plural?”

“Sikes and Krum.”

“Two? You’re not the—never mind,” he said, shaking his head as if to rid himself of a distracting thought. “This is most unusual.”

“I need to talk to Dr. Hartwell,” Castiel said.

“Agent Collins!” From behind the older doctor, Vanessa Hartwell waved and approached. “I’ve got this, George.”

“Very well,” Dr. George said. “He’s here to see two, he says.”

“Yes, George, thanks.”

After he backed away and moved out of earshot, Dr. Hartwell said, “I wasn’t expecting you. Is there a problem with the case?”

“I wanted to check that everything is… normal with Chloe and Olivia.”

“Other than both of them going into labor minutes apart, everything is normal,” she said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“The trauma,” Castiel said instead of discussing any supernatural control over the pregnancies. “They’ve both lost someone close to them.”

“Of course,” she said. “Well, at this point, nature takes over. I’ve only checked in with them briefly. But I’ll be here monitoring everything, just in case there are any complications.”

“Has anyone reported seeing the strange woman?”

“Oh, no! I would have called immediately,” she said. “And security has been notified to look for anyone matching her description. Granted, a vague description, but it should be sufficient. After the Atherton incident, they’re on high alert, believe me. We have security cameras covering the public areas. Nothing in the patient rooms, obviously. Privacy concerns. Otherwise, everything about the pregnancies is fine and normal.”

Everything seemed under control, but Castiel couldn’t shake his unease. How could he ask this woman to report anything that defied reason without losing his credibility? Still, he couldn’t leave without trying. “Agents Rutherford, Banks and I are concerned that whoever is responsible for the murders may try to… interfere with the birthing process.”

“That’s not possible,” she said. “I’m very familiar with everyone on staff here today. If I see any strangers, I will report them to security, but we have everything under control. If they—I don’t know—cut power to the building, we have backup generators. Don’t worry, Agent. We do this every day. It’s our specialty.”

“You’ll call us if anything… strange happens?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling indulgently. “Anything weird, I call.”

“Thank you.”

He started the walk back to the elevators when she called out to him, “Oh, Agent!”

Stopping, he turned to face her.

“Chloe’s fine,” she said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Castiel nodded.

As he returned to his Lincoln, he told himself that Denise Atherton had given birth without incident, as had Melissa Barrows and Brianne Green. There was no reason to think that the monster would interrupt or try to influence the birth of either child. For now, they both seemed safe. At each red light on the way back to the motel, he pulled out his phone to check that it was working, that the battery hadn’t died, that he had a good signal.

Despite his initial misgivings, a call for help never came.

While Castiel checked on Chloe Sikes and Olivia Krum at Lovering Maternity Center, Sam and Dean made trips to the county recorder’s office and the county assessor’s office to check deeds and get maps for any properties previously or currently owned by members of the Larkin and Nodd families. Though current information was available online, the records from when the town was known as Larkin’s Korner were spotty, as the conversion to digital was incomplete. At the assessor’s office they printed copies of property maps, focusing on lots involved in recent sales.

They also checked any properties owned by either family and zoned for residential use from the mid-forties to the mid-sixties. That timeframe included Calvin Nodd’s return from the war with Malaya, his Filipino bride, as well as Riza Nodd’s life in Larkin’s Korner through the time of her pregnancy and departure with her rebel boyfriend and, finally, Nodd’s last days in town culminating in a physical assault of one of his patients and his flight from town.

“If the pontianak arose or winked into existence—or however one is created—after Malaya’s death during childbirth and attached itself to any of the Larkin properties,” Sam reasoned as they climbed out of the Impala and returned to their motel room, “we’ll have a record of that land here. And we should be able to find her.”

Looking at the thick stack of printouts Sam carried from the car, Dean shook his head in doubt. “Good old Arthur Keating wasn’t kidding about the Larkin family owning most of the freakin’ town.”

He opened the motel room door.

Across the room, Castiel rose from the chair where he’d been sitting. “Good. You’re back.”

“Everything okay at LMC?” Dean asked.

“Nothing unusual,” Castiel said. “Both women should be in labor for at least several hours. Dr. Hartwell promised to call if anything unusual happens.”

Sam laid the pile of records and maps on the table, completely overwhelming the small surface area. While he sorted the information to place the maps of recent property sales on top, Dean drove to a diner a few blocks from the motel to pick up an order of burgers, chicken sandwiches, a salad and fries.

While he was gone, Sam told Castiel they believed they were hunting a pontianak, created when Malaya Nodd died giving birth to Riza, and how they planned to stop it. He then recounted their search of Larkin and Nodd property records going back to the post-war era.

As Sam finished the abbreviated debriefing, Dean returned with the food and, since the round work table overflowed with photocopies, lined up the wrapped sandwich options on top of the dresser.

Sam grabbed a chicken sandwich and salad. “The working assumption is that either Sally’s arrival in town or the new construction on former Larkin land somehow awakened the pontianak.”

“So we check the land involved in the recent sales?” Castiel asked, taking one of the burgers.

“We have a bunch of recent sales here,” Sam replied. “But only a couple of those properties have gone under construction during the timeframe of all four murders, which narrows the search considerably.”

Castiel looked from one brother to the other. “Any idea what we’re searching for?”

Dean smirked. “No freakin’ clue.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Anything unusual, obviously,” he said. “Sigils, a shrine, human organs as trophies…”

“Trust me,” Dean said. “He has no clue.”

“Or the pontianak herself,” Sam continued, ignoring Dean’s jibe. “Her lair or nest, wherever she concealed herself for the past fifty years.”

“Maybe she’s like a bear,” Dean suggested. “Hibernates in a cave.”

Dean unwrapped a cheeseburger, seemed to think about it a long time before pushing it aside and taking a bite of a chicken sandwich. Another test of his control, forgoing his indulgences, at least those involving red meat and alcohol.

“Who knows?” Sam said. “But these properties give us a place to start.” He looked from Dean to Castiel. “Unless someone has a better suggestion.”

“Should’ve bought the pecan pie,” Dean lamented. “Damn it.”

“I meant about—”

“I know what you meant.”

“If we knew her next target,” Castiel said, “we could wait for her to attack.”

“A stakeout?” Dean asked, distracted as he joylessly worked his way through the chicken sandwich. “Only if there’s pie.”

“That’s the problem,” Sam said. “We can’t predict her next move.”

“Wonder if they deliver.”

“Forget it,” Sam said. “We’re leaving.”

* * *

Of all the recent sales of Larkin land, the two with ongoing construction represented their best chance of discovering the pontianak. Sam asked Castiel to check the Coventry Crossing development, while he and Dean took the farmhouse and barn on the large property adjoining the Stanton Fertility Clinic. Sam figured he and Dean could split up and check the two buildings separately, while the Coventry Crossing development was nearly complete, so Castiel wouldn’t have a large area to cover on his own. With luck, they would either find the pontianak’s resting place or rule out both locations before Chloe or Olivia gave birth. The monster’s connection to both women meant their unborn children would be in danger, through no fault of their own, soon after they came into the world.

Before splitting up to conduct their individual searches, they made a pit stop at On Track Locomotive Repair outside Evansville for a specialty item not sold by the local hardware stores. Then Castiel left for Coventry Crossing, while Sam and Dean drove in the opposite direction to check out the farmland.

The sun dipped below the tree line as Dean drove past a street-level billboard promoting the arrival of the Braden Heights Outlet Mall, C
OMING
T
O
T
HIS
L
OCATION
E
ARLY
N
EXT
Y
EAR!

“We’re close, Dean,” Sam said. “The east end of the property was sold for the Stanton Fertility Center parking lot expansion. The west end was rezoned for commercial use for those outlet stores.”

Dean nodded, tapped the brake and swung the Impala onto the entrance of the gravel driveway of the old Larkin farm but stopped short. A rusty chain at the foot of the driveway hung between weather-beaten wooden posts on either side, blocking casual access to the property. High grass, a sea of weeds and wildflowers covered most of the land. Up a long, gradual incline, at the crest of a gentle hill, Sam saw the sprawling farmhouse and, beyond that in deeper shadows, the long rectangular shape of the barn. In the dying light, the red paint on the abandoned structures had faded to a rusty brown. At this distance, their lack of structural integrity was suggested rather than confirmed. Far beyond the farmhouse rose the silhouettes of modern buildings bathed in a haze of artificial light cast by office windows and streetlights. Somewhere on the far side of the expansive property, the Stanton Fertility Clinic’s parking lot had already begun to encroach on former Larkin Land.

AC/DC’s “Hells Bells” came on the radio as Sam exited the car to unhook the chain from an eye bolt. No padlock, obviating the need for bolt cutters. The small metal sign nailed to the left post—P
RIVATE
P
ROPERTY
– N
O
T
RESPASSING
—substituted for tighter security. After Sam climbed back in the car, Dean drove up the long driveway, frowning as gravel crunched and popped under the Impala’s tires. Anyone within a few hundred feet would’ve heard their approach.

“So much for the element of surprise.”

At the top of the hill, the gravel driveway transitioned to cracked and crumbling blacktop, with weeds sprouting at every fault. Dean parked between the two dilapidated buildings. At this distance, their lack of structural integrity was no longer a matter of conjecture. Most of the farmhouse windows were shattered, the main door—under a covered porch—hung precariously from one failing hinge, and the roof sported at least two jagged holes. The barn’s long slanted roof sagged past the point of condemnation. Beyond the barn stood the blackened ruin of a grain silo, reduced to a waist-high ring of charred wood. Whether the fire had been the result of a lightning strike, vandalism or arson, a search of what remained required little more than a sweeping glance.