A/N: GLad to hear from some of you on the last chap, thanks so much. This next little section didn't fit well with the last chapter or the one coming up, so I thought I'd post it tonight too as a stand alone.

Chap 9

John rested his forehead on the steering wheel of the black chevy for a moment. Big breath Winchester. I need to look like a bored salesman, not a crazed father bordering on homicidal maniac. The Better Business Bureau of Greater Boman stood before him in all its rectangular grey cinder block glory. Definitely the kind of place where you'd stand out without at least an inch of dust settled on you. John knew he appeared anything but settled right now.

His brain had kicked started when Sammy gave him the name of the witch. His trip to Bowman four months ago had been brief, but he was certain several buildings in town sported the word Salem somewhere on their marquees. Combine that with the names Abigail Williams and Betty Parris and he thought he had a real chance to find Dean. Admittedly high school early American history had been awhile, but John had more reason than most to have reviewed the Salem witch trials a time or two since then. Those names couldn't be coincidence. He adjusted his stride to a shorter, timid gait. Satisfied the silver knife and ruger were well hidden, he slumped his shoulders, dropped his chin. Time to ask a few questions.

The secretary at the desk looked at the man who'd entered, another slouched middle aged salesman as bored as she was. "May I help you?"

A carefully controlled hint of his usual smile crossed his face. "I sure hope so. I, well, I kind of fouled up an account and my boss'll have my head if I don't straighten it out, you know? I really need this job and I was hoping you could give me a little background on Parris Industries? Maybe if I could go to the central office it would help save my hide." John threw in a sheepish chuckle and shuffled his feet a bit.

"Hmm, I can give you all the standard BBB pamphlets about local industry, but if you ask me, talking to the manager over at Parris Industries won't do you any good." She seemed to be warming to the topic as only a small town gossip could. Besides, on second look the schlep was kinda cute.

"Why not?"

She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Well, they had some kind of shake up a few months back. The owner died and if you ask me it wasn't some accident like papers said. The guy running it now, he's just a flunky for the parent company."

John let his smile widen a bit and leaned over the desk. If flirting got Dean back so be it. "So Parris Industries is owned by someone else?"

"You really aren't from around here, are you sugar? Everything in Boman belongs to the Salem Conglomerate, one way or another. Even the building you're standing in." She arched a coy eyebrow in the stranger's direction. Was he standing a bit straighter?

That was the connection he was looking for. Now for the cement to hold his theory together. "And who runs the Salem Conglomerate?"

"Abigail Williams. You'll never get anywhere near her office, though. I'd check with the corporate office over on Sheffield Avenue."

John picked his elbows up off the desk. "Oh, I will. Thanks so much."

"Hey, I could probably dig up a contact name or two over there." Fiddle, he was going to leave.

"That's ok, I've got it from here." John flashed his best grin on the way out. After all, he might need to ask her something again sometime.

As soon as he cleared the door, the smile was gone. This was taking longer than he wanted and he didn't know if he had the time. Didn't know if his son did. Every inch of him itched to smash something, take the ruger from his coat and empty the clip. Neither idea was likely to be useful at his next stop. He pulled the impala into the courthouse records department, fishing in the glove box for an ID that implied he had something to do with the IRS.

The bureaucrat slump replaced the Winchester swagger once more as he again found himself across the desk from someone losing a battle with lethargy. This victim of work-a-day boredom was male, however, so pompous imposition would have to replace flirting for information gathering. John flashed the badge he had selected and cleared his throat.

"I need to see the property records for Abigail Williams and the Salem Conglomerate for the last five years. We have reports of tax irregularities."

The young man shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "I really don't have authorization for that, sir. Do you have documentation with you?"

"Perhaps you're unfamiliar with the IRS? I am well within protocol to inspect those records. Although, if you have a personal interest in hiding them...."

"Of course not. You can use the table over there; I'll bring them to you." The clerk gave a sigh. Authorized or not, he was not antagonizing the Internal Revenue Service. Especially not when the guy in front of him looked like he was born antagonized.

John looked at the growing stack of leather bound registers with frustration. Dean certainly couldn't hold out if he had to read all of them. Even having Jim here to share the work would have been helpful, but there was no way he was leaving Sam alone right now. So, the corporate records or the private ones first?

Generally, a warehouse or closed office building provided a better hiding place than a house, especially if a number of people needed to come and go, as John was starting to suspect. Sam, though, had said house. So did you go with the supposition of a drugged and frightened seven year old or personal experience?

With Sam. John had been teaching his boys to observe every detail of any situation practically since they could speak. Dean was the born hunter of the pair, but his younger son was already incredibly perceptive. Sam might be seven, but he was smart and John saw glimmers of what the boy would become. If he said a house, then it was a house.

Fifteen minutes into the third register he found it. Among several others, Abigail Williams had a country estate called Gallows Hill. Guess you didn't have to be subtle if you owned the town. He didn't bother to speak to the clerk as he made his way back to his car, memorized address rattling about in his brain.

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A/N: Brownies to Woodburner! Please review - it makes me happy, lol.