The MacGregors' house was easy to find. It was at the end of a long, private lane lined with cast iron street lamps and groundcover that was probably very colorful in the spring and summer. They passed a small cemetery and an oblong lake, a line of covered boats resting against the shore.

They day was warmer than the previous had been, Sam had noted gratefully when they left the motel. The sun was low in the sky and unobstructed by clouds, and it cast its golden light over the countryside. Though he couldn't actually feel it inside the car, its presence made him dread going back outside a bit less.

Dean shook his head as the road wound around a small hill, and shifted gears.

"Who needs a private cemetery? Is a rich uncle gonna complain about the view from his mausoleum at the annual séance?" He slowed as the curve sharpened. "Are these people so highbrow their rotting corpses notice the thread count in their caskets?"

"It's a legacy thing," Sam muttered, looking over Geoffrey's file again. "Family cemeteries are a mark of wealth. Sophistication. It's mostly about appearances."

"Yeah, well, I hope they've got a plastics guy on retainer. Old Geoff's not exactly casket sharp."

"About that," Sam said as Dean parked the car, "I've been thinking. Let's say for a second that this banshee's the one who went Krueger on the vics. If the scream killed them, why bother tenderizing their faces?"

"I dunno, but we better figure it out soon. This thing doesn't work on a schedule. We keep dicking around, it's gonna drop another body."

"Bobby say anything about how it chooses victims?"

"Lore's spotty," Dean said with a sigh. "Some say they choose people at random, other say it's destiny, some say only the wicked get their cards pulled by this thing. All we know for sure it shows up among believers, and some lucky bastard get his eardrums blown from hell to breakfast."

"There's gotta be some other connection. Something we're missing." Sam turned the pages of the file with frustrated speed. "We know Jennifer Tierney's mom was trying to protect her from evil spirits. Jennifer was having trouble sleeping in the weeks before she was killed. But the McLaughlin brothers are squeaky clean, at least as far as the library knows. And this MacGregor guy was some kind of banker, but I can't find anything shady he was involved in, either. They didn't know each other and they've got nothing in common apart from Irish and Scottish names."

"And the locations of the bodies don't make a lick of sense," Dean added. "The Tierney girl was found in her bed, but she the coroner says there's not a snowball's chance she was killed there. The brothers were found in the park and at a lodge, and MacGregor's body was found on a highway way the hell out of town. Why dump 'em all over?" He raised his eyebrows. "I tell you, Sammy, if I didn't know better, I'd say the killer was some psycho with a bullhorn fetish who hasn't clipped his nails in a while."

"A human," Sam mused. "Is that possible?"

"Wishful thinking. Now way anyone screams loud enough to do that kind of damage. We're definitely dealing with a monster."

"Do we even know how to kill this thing?"

"I almost forgot about that," Dean said with mock cheer. "The only thing that can kill a banshee is the sound of its own voice. We got to lock it in a room with an echo, basically. Bobby says we can trap it with a salt line or an iron chain, since it's a spirit."

Sam snorted. "That'll be good to know for when it falls into our lap, because at this rate, that's the only way we'll ever catch it."

"Chin up, little brother," Dean said, looking ahead and nodding. "Erik Northman here might know something useful."

A young man of about twenty came jogging toward them. He was slight of build and very tall, and the cut of his honey-blond hair gave it a halo-like appearance in the early light. He wore a black V-neck sweater and tight black jeans, a silver chain hanging from his pants.

And a crucifix, Sam noticed.

He pressed a few buttons on a keypad and the enormous gates began swinging inward. Sam and Dean climbed out of the car and slammed the doors, approaching the gate. The young man sauntered forward to greet them, extending his hand.

Dean took it.

"I'm Agent Kubrick," he said, "and this is my partner, Agent Stanley. We're here about-"

"My uncle Geoffrey," he completed. He looked them over with a mild sneer on his face. "I'm Ian. My aunt Charmaine's waiting inside for you."

Dean's head snapped back at the look on Ian's face, but he had already turned away and begun walking. They started after him, hurrying to keep up as Ian walked briskly a few yards ahead of them, leading them up a gradual hill to a house.

"Nice digs," Sam said under his breath, surveying the place. The MacGregors had at least two acres of front lawn cut by a stone path to their porch. The stone wasn't the cheap kind, either, Sam noticed; a few of his wealthier friends from Stanford had had kitchen counters topped with this stuff.

"Looks like death isn't all these people have in common. Didn't you say those brothers were wiping their asses with silk napkins, too?"

"Yep."

"Was the Tierney girl well off?"

"No. She'd just gotten some big promotions at work, which probably meant more money, but nothing in this league."

"Hm."

"What?"

Dean shook his head.

They stepped onto the porch. The house was three stories tall and built in a style Sam could only think of as 'castle chic.' There were four square towers on the corners of the house, and the stone façade continued all the way to the roof. He half expected to see torches burning along the top, but it seemed even the architect of this place thought that was too on the nose.

Ian opened the door – which appeared to be purchased from somewhere like Lowe's or Home Depot, Sam noted with amusement – and closed the door behind them.

"She's in the study," he said in a low voice, gesturing at a room to his right. "She's probably drunk off her ass, so enunciate, huh?"

"Will do," Dean said.

Ian took off up the stairs, banging the old photographs on the wall so that they swung back and forth like pendulums as he disappeared around a corner.

"Sweet kid," Sam said.

"Leader of tomorrow."

They angled their heads into the study.

The room was a palette of black and white, and most of it was covered in leather. The walls were barely visible under the hundreds of paintings and portraits, and the hardwood floor gleamed in the firelight. A woman sat in a chair – black leather, of course – with her legs crossed. She wore a tailored gray wool skirt and black leather boots, with a pale blue sweater. Her red hair was pulled back into an elegant ponytail and she was smoking a cigarette, tipping the ashes into a small glass tray on a table beside her.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare. It's rude."

Her voice was low and commanding, and she had a distinct southern twang. Sam got the distinct impression that she was the one with the money. Geoffrey probably got his job through her, he reasoned. He rose through the ranks at in his field too fast to have worked his way up.

Dean cleared his throat and smiled wanly, stepping into the room. Sam followed.

"Good morning, Mrs. MacGregor," Dean said, holding a hand out to her. She shook it gracefully. "I'm-"

"I know who you are," she said.

I sincerely hope not, Dean's expression said.

"Ian told me you'd arrived." She paused, looking down at the fire. "Sit."

Dean looked uncomfortably at him. Sam shrugged, and they sat in the two free chairs across from her.

"I suppose you'll want to unearth all our deep, dark secrets. All the sordid details of our family life. Makes for good newsprint and water cooler stories, I don't doubt." She'd set her cigarette down and picked up a glass. Sam could smell the scotch from where he was sitting.

"Not to be rude, ma'am," Dean said, "but sordid details and deep, dark secrets are the kind of things people get clawed to death over. I know it's not easy, but we'd appreciate your cooperation."

She rolled her eyes and took another sip, wincing as she swallowed. "Is that how he died then? Clawed to death." She smirked and took a long gulp of scotch. "It's ironic."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"

"Let's not mince words, gentlemen," she said. "You've got a maniac to catch and I've got a funeral to plan. Geoffrey was kind enough, and I won't deny that I loved him, but the man's dick dribbled at the mere thought of fucking a woman who could leave a mark."

Sam spluttered at her words, but Dean chuckled approvingly. "Your nails are pretty short, Mrs. MacGregor."

"Long nails are for whores and drag queens." The fire flickered. "And murderers, it seems. I keep mine nice and neat, just like my mama taught me."

"So Geoffrey outsourced for talent, did he?"

"Dean-"

But she was laughing. "That he did. To tell you the truth, I didn't mind so much. I'm a very vanilla girl, and Geoff was good to me, as far as that went. If he banged a waitress with a mean set of acrylics while he was away on business, well…let's just say I wish my first marriage had had problems so easy to solve." She shook her head, still smiling. "Geoff and me were alright, you know? We both loved golf and murder mysteries, and he was the only man I ever knew who didn't tell me not to cross my legs in front of company. You know what I mean?"

"Uh…"

"Of course you don't," she said.

Sam wasn't sure how to respond. He hadn't expected to hear a wife approve of affairs and wasn't sure how to proceed, though Dean was enjoying himself. She poured him a glass of scotch and Dean took a long gulp, nearly choking. That sent her into another bout of laughter.

"Jesus," Dean said. "I tip my hat to you, miss. I've been bested."

"Oh, dear lord," she said when she finally calmed down. "You'll have to forgive me. I don't often drink so much, and I've been less than ladylike, I know."

"Eh, propriety's overrated," Dean said. "I wish everyone we talked to was this open. You wouldn't believe what we've had to do to drag information out of people…"

She pressed her hand to her chest and smiled coyly. "Should you really be sharing all this with me, Mr. Fed?"

Dean winked. "You seem like the kind of woman who can keep secrets for her country."

Sam cleared his throat.

"You mind if my partner here takes a look around upstairs? I know the locals already went over it with a fine-toothed comb, but fresh eyes can't hurt." The smile Dean gave her made Sam want to avert his eyes. "Besides, it'll give us some more time to talk without Miss Muffet here to gasp at every curse word."

Sam cut his eyes at Dean, who ignored him, keeping his eyes on Charmaine MacGregor.

She laughed again. "No problem at all, Agent." She nodded at Sam. "Do your worst."

"Thank you," Sam said awkwardly, maneuvering around Dean to get back to the hall.

He stopped in the doorway and looked back in on them. They were both grinning like loons and sipping scotch, and Sam could feel her loosening up even further. She'll spill all the guts she has within the hour, he thought. His annoyance at Dean's dismissing him faded as quickly as it had come, and he couldn't help but smile. Dean was genuinely enjoying himself with her, ulterior motives or no, and Sam was glad for him. How much longer did he have to enjoy anything? It might be the ultimate den of iniquity, but Sam doubted they served beer in hell.

Or scotch, for that matter.

Geoff and Charmaine MacGregor had a predictably large bedroom. They had dropped the leather motif and opted for a much softer look with rich browns and reds. The walls were a warm tan, like the carpets, and there were so many pillows on the bed that it was a wonder none fell off.

God, I miss having an actual bed, he thought, opening drawers. Memories of his life at Stanford came crashing back with an irritating persistence. His room there had been small, true, but it had been his, and he'd returned to it every day, usually with Jess. Having a home base had been so nice after being on the road for his entire life, and he had savored every moment of his time there, perhaps knowing in the back of his mind that it wouldn't last. He wondered if Merida had a house, and what kind of bed she had in it…

Focus, he admonished himself.

The drawers contained nothing out of the ordinary, so he moved on to the closet. Apart from some run-of-the-mill porn mags and a very strange doll, there was nothing in there to write home about, either. He was feeling along the bedroom walls for hidden panels when Ian spoke, scaring the shit out of him.

"You guys have a warrant?"

He whirled around, sighing when he realized who it was.

"Anybody ever tell you you shouldn't sneak up on a cop when his back is turned?"

Ian leapt onto the bed, his chains jingling. "Nope. No cop's ever been here before. But you didn't answer the question, did you?"

"We're working with the local authorities. We don't need an extra warrant." Sam hoped the kid believed that.

"Mmm." Ian folded his hands behind his head. "So. Auntie tell you about Uncle Geoff's side piece?"

"She mentioned his…other women," Sam said, resuming his search of the room. "Though it's nice of you to be concerned. I can see you're anxious to find out who killed your dear uncle."

"He was an okay guy. Took me in when my mom went to rehab. Again."

Sam paused. "Sorry."

"Whatever." Sam listened to Ian take a deep breath. "So are you gonna tell Jennifer's mom?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think it'll help anything." His sarcastic tone was gone. Sam was glad; sincerity suited him much better. "It'll just make her even more sad."

"Tell her what?"

Ian sat up, suddenly suspicious. "I thought you said my aunt told you about this?"

Sam walked over to him. "She told us he got it on with a few girls on the side, when he was out of town. Some kind of fetish."

"Oh, right." He seemed embarrassed and got up. "Well, forget I said anything-"

"Hey, hey." Sam took him gently by the arm. "Don't be like that. We're trying to catch a murderer, here, Ian. Don't hold out on me."

In considered Sam for a moment, then closed the bedroom door. "Okay," he said. "But don't tell her I told you. She might not even know, so…so just don't say anything about it."

Sam held up his hand. "Scouts honor."

Ian crosses his arms, looking all of fifteen years old. "Jennifer Tierney, that girl who died? My uncle had a thing with her."

"Define thing."

"They were head over heels. Not much more to say than that."

"And what didn't you want me to tell her mother?"

He hesitated.

"Ian…"

"She was pregnant, okay?"

"What?"

"Yeah."

"Did your uncle know?"

"Yeah. They were planning to run away together. Only…"

"They died." Sam wracked his brains. "Where were they going, do you know?"

"My house. It's about thirty miles away, near-"

"Where his body was found."

Ian appeared to consider this for the first time. "I guess it was. You don't think-"

"I don't know what to think." He hoped Dean was almost done with the missus; they needed to do some extreme digging. "Who else knows about this, Ian?"

"Nobody, I think. Maybe a doctor. I don't know if she told anyone, so it's hard to say."

Sam nodded. "Thanks, man. You have no idea how much you might have helped."

He moved past Ian, headed downstairs.

"Agent Stanley?"

Sam turned on the stairs. "Yeah?"

"You're gonna catch this guy, right? The killer?"

"Count on it."

Ian nodded, fingering his crucifix. "Good." He turned and headed back down the hall.

Sam made a mental note of his actions as he walked back into the study, where Dean was waiting. Mrs. MacGregor was asleep, now, and Dean was gently pulling her glass out of her hand.

"Poor thing," he said, meeting Sam in the doorway. "And so nice for a blue blood."

Sam ushered him outside. "We've gotta talk, man."

Dean rolled his eyes as they walked to the car. "Lighten up, Sam. I was just kidding about the Miss Muffet thing-"

"Not that. It's about Jennifer Tierney. She was pregnant with Geoffrey's love child."

Deans eyes widened.

"And – get this – the place where they found his body? It's right near where he was planning to run away with Jennifer."

"Wait, run away with her?"

"They were in love. Ian says they were three sheets to the wind. The wife didn't know."

Dean shook his head. "Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives," he said in a deep, resonant announcer's voice.

"There's more. The place they were running to? It's Ian's parents' house. His mother's away at rehab, and they took Ian in. I guess MacGregor was planning to use it as a place to hide Jennifer before she started to show."

The color drained from Dean's face.

"What is it?"

"I think I know how the vics are connected."

"How?"

"Before she passed out, Charmaine told me that MacGregor's real father is Shaun McLaughlin."

"Who?"

"Edmund and Ross's father."

"Holy shit."

Dean opened the driver's door. "I know. Geoffrey's mother was a tavern waitress in town back in the sixties. She hooks up with old man Shaun, but he's already hitched. So he sets her up with Terry MacGregor, they get married, she turns up pregnant, and it's all sewn up. Charmaine only knew because she and Geoff's mom were both on the sauce and were in the same AA group."

"So this means the vics really aren't random." Sam sat down and closed his door, reaching for the heater. "They're all McLaughlins. By blood, anyway."

"So, what, a banshee's after this family? Why?"

"I don't know, but…" he trailed off, eyes locked on the glove compartment.

Dean poked him. "You all right?"

"I just realized something…"

"Don't tell me Marlene's been kidnapped by Stefano on top of everything else."

Sam shook his head impatiently. "The McLaughlins. Remember how I said they'd been successful from day one?"

"Yeah? So?"

"Look what happened to MacGregor – his mother was a broke waitress. She gets pregnant with Geoff, and boom – she's married to one of the town's most eligible bachelors and by all accounts has a pretty good life. Then Geoff graduates from college top of his class and hooks up with Charmaine, who's got old south money, and voila, he's the most successful banker in the region by the time he's thirty."

"And Jennifer," Dean added, thinking. "You said she got some promotions at work. What do you wanna bet that all the luck kicked in the moment she got pregnant?"

"Luck?" Sam shook his head. "I'd say it's a little bit more than luck, Dean."

"You're right, but what else to call it? It can't be a demon deal – they're good for one person only, and they only last ten years at any rate, unless you're me."

Sam grimaced in sympathy, but they were on a roll; he could feel sorry for Dean later.

"So, what, then?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, it's ending in blood."

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