One week earlier…
Bobby Singer startled from the light doze he'd fallen into when one of his phones rang. Cursing, he wiped a hand down his face, snuffled and cleared his throat. At the third ring, he pushed himself out of his chair, finding the correct phone mid-way through the sixth ring. "Speak," he growled.
"Um, Bobby Singer?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett. Head of Five-0, a special law enforcement task force here in Hawaii."
"Impressive. That supposed to mean somethin' to me? Wait—McGarrett, you say? Any relation to Jack?"
"He's my father."
"How is ol' Jack these days?"
"My father's dead. Murdered six months ago."
"Well now, son, I'm sorry to hear that. Jack and I only crossed paths a few times, but he was a good man."
"Yes, sir, he was."
Bobby cleared his throat. "And is—he—the reason you're calling this number?"
"You mean, is my father's ghost haunting me? No. Frankly, I'm not sure I really believe in any of this…crap."
"So, that leads me to ask again—why are you calling this number? I know you didn't just find it in the phone book."
"No, sir. Awhile back, I found a packet of what I thought was crazy stuff that belonged to my dad. Your name and number were in that packet."
"And?"
"And I've got a problem, which leads me to think that that stuff maybe wasn't so crazy after all."
"Go on."
"One week. Five deaths. Kapiolani Park. No determinable COD."
"And you're seeking my involvement why?"
"Honestly, I don't know. Other than to say it seems these people died in some unearthly way."
"How so?"
"They're sucked dry. Practically mummified."
The voice on the other end of the phone hesitated. "And?" Bobby urged.
"They died screaming."
"Lemme call you back."
TBC…