Page 24

Up close, without the distraction of the crime scene, I could see just how unnatural the injuries were. The burns weren't just around the eyes; they extended inward, the eye sockets charred black as if someone had taken a blowtorch to them. But the surrounding skin showed minimal damage, no sign of the expected radiation pattern that external heat would cause.

“The burns originated internally?” Cade asked, voicing my thoughts.

“That's my working theory,” Dr. Cohen confirmed, using a probe to indicate the pattern of tissue damage. “It's as if the heat source was behind the eyes, burning outward. There's no evidence of any accelerant, no entry wound for an injected substance, nothing that explains this pattern of damage.”

“Cause of death?” I asked, swallowing hard against the acrid taste in the back of my throat.

“Cardiac arrest, technically,” she replied with a shrug. “But this?” She gestured to the burns. “No idea. Never seen anything like it. The brain tissue shows extreme thermal damage, concentrated in the visual cortex and spreading outward.”

Cade leaned closer, examining the damage with clinical detachment. “Was there any damage to other sensory centers? Auditory, olfactory?”

Dr. Cohen looked impressed by the question. “Minimal impact to other areas. Whatever this was, it specifically targeted the visual processing systems.”

“Almost like it came in through the eyes,” I muttered.

“That would be my assessment,” she agreed, “though I have no scientific explanation for how such a thing would be possible.”

Cade straightened, stepping back from the table. “What about toxicology?”

“Still pending,” Dr. Cohen said, “but preliminary tests don't show any common drugs or toxins. No alcohol in his system, despite coming from a bar.”

As she continued detailing her findings, I found my attention drawn to the victim's face. Even in death, even with the horrific damage, the expression of terror remained frozen in his features. This wasn't just a killing; it was an execution, meant to inflict maximum suffering before death.

“Not just the eyes,” Cade murmured, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “Something deeper. Like it was erasing what he'd seen.”

The suggestion sent a chill down my spine, but I couldn't argue. There was a lingering emptiness around the body, an absence that went beyond the mere cessation of life. I'd felt it enough times to recognize it—the distinctive void left when something supernatural had fed on more than just flesh.

“Time of death?” I asked, forcing myself back to the practical details.

“Between 1 and 3 AM,” Dr. Cohen replied, pulling her surgical mask down. “Rigor mortis was just setting in when he was found at 4 AM.”

We thanked the doctor for her time and headed back upstairs, both of us silent until we reached the privacy of the Impala.

“So our victim leaves the bar around midnight, talking to someone no one else can see,” I summarized, starting the engine. “Then shows up dead in an alley a few hours later with his eyes burned from the inside out.”

“And whatever he saw during that conversation, someone wanted it erased,” Cade added, staring thoughtfully out the windshield.

“You think it might be connected to the gate? Something that came through?”

“It's possible,” he admitted, his voice unnervingly calm given the subject matter.

“We need more information,” I decided, pulling out of the hospital parking lot. “Let's find a motel, go through that security footage, see if we can spot anything.”

The neon signof the Sleepy Pine Motel flickered erratically as I pulled into the cracked asphalt lot, the 'vacancy' portion buzzing with electrical uncertainty. The place was exactly the kind of establishment that had become familiar territory during my hunting years—cheap enough not to question cash payments, discreet enough not to ask why two men needed only one room.

It smelled like stale coffee and regret. Perfect.

Cade went to check us in while I gathered our equipment from the trunk. By the time I'd shouldered our duffel bags, he was returning with a plastic key fob, tossing it to me without comment.

The silence between us stretched, heavier than it should have been. Six months ago, this would have been filled with casual banter, theories about the case, maybe an argument about where to get dinner. Now there was just . . . nothing. A void nearly as palpable as the one surrounding our victim's body.

Room 108 was predictably dismal—two queen beds with faded floral bedspreads, a particleboard desk supporting anancient television, and carpet that had seen better decades. I dropped my bag onto the bed nearest the door, my usual spot. Some habits never changed, even when everything else had.

“Right,” I said, breaking the silence that had followed us from the car. “What the feckin' hell are we dealing with here?”

Cade sat at the small desk, already opening his laptop and inserting the USB drive from the crime scene. “Something that doesn't just kill—it erases. Burns them from the inside out to destroy what they've seen.”

I watched him for a long moment, the blue light of the screen casting harsh shadows across his features. He looked fine. Acted fine. Moved with the precise economy I'd come to expect from him since his return. But there was a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that told me this case was affecting him more than he was letting on.