Supernatural: Night Terror by John Passarella Read Free Book Online Page B

them.
    “Remembered one other thing,” he called. “White mist, clinging to the ground. Noticed it right before the beast attacked.”

FIVE

    Blake Dobkins, marketing manager at an organic food company located in an industrial park at the south end of Clayton Falls, met Dean in the lobby and led him to a conference room where they could speak in private.
    “Not much to tell, Agent DeYoung,” Dobkins said. “My wife and I were out celebrating our fifth anniversary at this Italian place where we had our first date. Actually, we were leaving the restaurant to go home, when I saw the speeding car hit that young man in the middle of the street.”
    “Police report said the car was red. Any other details?” Dean asked.
    “Not really a car enthusiast,” Dobkins said apologetically. “It was an older car. Maybe one of those muscle cars from the sixties or seventies. Gone before I had a good look at it.”
    “Nothing unusual about it? Spoiler? Fancy hubcaps? Tinted glass? Anything?” Dean pressed.
    Dobkins shook his head, almost a reflexive gesture. But then he closed his eyes. Dean waited, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the shiny surface of the conference room table. He could imagine Dobkins trying to visualize those brief seconds as the car sped up to Bullinger, struck him, and raced away from the scene.
    “White,” Dobkins said at last, opening his eyes and nodding. “A streak of white.”
    “But you said the car was red.”
    “Yes, it was,” Dobkins said, “but it had a wide line—a racing stripe—on the hood. That was white. My eyes tracked the boy when the car struck him. Everything happened so fast, but yes, I remember a streak of white on the driver’s side of the hood.”
    “Good,” Dean said, trying to sound encouraging. “That could help us find the car.” Assuming the car was real and had a human driver. “What happened after Bullinger was hit?”
    “I ran into the street, to see if he was okay, but I... when I got up close... it looked bad. I called for an ambulance, but...”
    “Before he died, Bullinger spoke to you?”
    “He said nobody was driving. Didn’t make sense, but considering his condition, I wasn’t surprised.”
    “Were those his exact words?”
    “He said, ‘nobody driving.’ That’s all I heard.”
    Sam flashed his FBI credentials at the front door of the Clayton Falls Child Care Center and was buzzed in by a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and a distracted demeanor. She introduced herself as Mary Horton, the manager. She wore a white smock with dozens of colorful giraffe silhouettes dotted across it. They stood in the middle of a spacious room with scattered activity centers for children, including a mini puppet show theater, art supplies and easels, a stocked bookcase, jigsaw puzzles, blocks and bins filled with toys and action figures. All the tables and chairs were scaled down for children, but the room was empty. Judging from the commotion Sam heard out back, they were all enjoying the playground equipment.
    “Oh, no! This isn’t about a kidnapping, is it?” Mary Horton said, eyebrows dancing with concern.
    “No, Ms. Horton,” Sam said. “I’m here to talk to Linda Dobkins.”
    “She’s not in any sort of trouble, is she?”
    “I have a few questions about an accident she witnessed.”
    “Oh, yes, she told me about that. Horrible. Who could do such a thing?”
    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
    “Wait here. I’ll get her,” she said. “One of us has to stay with the children at all times.”
    Sam followed her to the back door and waited there in the relative silence.
    Mary talked to a younger woman with a blond ponytail wearing a white smock with monkey silhouettes over faded jeans and sneakers. Compared to the chaotic appearance of her boss, Linda Dobkins seemed almost serene in the middle of the childhood frenzy whirling around her, kids racing from sliding boards to swings to seesaws and back again. Linda