Chapter 23 - Sam

Freedom Motel

Blackridge, New Hampshire

Tuesday 11 March 2008

We pull into the motel parking lot, and I park right next to the Impala. Nancy still seems uncertain about the importance of what she told me. But my mind is racing at a hundred miles an hour. I toss her keys back to her and jump out of the car.

"Dean, Dean," I say with a huge grin, running over to my brother. He seems extremely apprehensive at my excitement. I grab his shoulders. "Dean. I found out who the daughter is."

Nancy appears behind me, arms crossed. She has a confused look on her face.

"You did?" Dean asks, his interest now piqued. "How? Who is she?"

"Nancy figured it out," I say breathlessly, gesturing to her. Her look of confusion intensifies. "She figured out the legend."

"The...legend of the maid and Sherman…?" she asks. "Did you guys not know about it?"

"What's the legend, Nancy?" Dean asks.

"Well, the first part is known historical fact," Nancy says uncertainly, "I learned it from the author writing about the house."

"Author? What author?" Dean takes a step forward.

How did neither of us find out this information, but she did? It boggles the mind.

"Edward Velasquez. He came into town just a few days before the first murder of the month." Nancy gestures with one hand, her other arm wrapped around her torso. She is looking at the ground as she speaks. "He was… uh…" she snaps her fingers, "writing about notable households up and down the coast. The first person who died went to the house to get information for him. Edward didn't know they were going, and was extremely upset. He's still in town because he feels responsible. I think he's the one who called you guys here, by the way. He said your uncle recommended you two?"

Dean and I share a look. Dean is flabbergasted.

"Tell us more," my brother prods.

"Well, no one seems to agree on the legend," Nancy says, rubbing her arms and shrugging slightly, "But evidence points to Sherman Lockwood and the maid, Caroline Walker, were having an affair. Caroline was going to go public. Sherman killed her, then himself. Murder-suicide."

"So first off," I say, picking up the story, "Caroline and Sherman weren't having an affair. But there was a secret. Remember what Sherman said when we first saw him? Remember who we've been looking for?"

"The illegitimate daughter," Dean answers, comprehension dawning on his features.

"What?" Nancy looks lost.

I turn to her. "Sherman was having an affair, but with the priest's daughter, Abitha Woodbury. The two of them had a child, who seems to be the key to all of this. When we ran into Sherman's ghost upstairs, he said 'where's my daughter.'"

Her eyes widen. "Caroline was the daughter." She shakes her head and touches the gash on her temple. She winces in either pain or disgust. "Well, that changes things."

"But why would Sherman kill her?" Dean asks, "He left money to the wait staff as well as family members. Doesn't seem the type to go killing people."

"He must have already known who she was," I say, "To leave money for her and her fellow employees."

"That doesn't answer my question though. Why would Sherman kill her?"

Nancy blinks. "He didn't," she says softly. She looks up at us. "There must have been someone who knew about Sherman and the priest's daughter, and about Caroline, and would kill to keep the secret. The wait staff said that Sherman did it, but Edward gave me another possible answer. In those days, the witnesses would have to tell whatever story their boss-or someone else in a position of power-said. But the wife was in town with the priest's daughter on the night of the killings, which is why I guess they both had a rock-solid alibi."

There is a long pause.

"In the morning, we should go have a chat with this 'Edward Velasquez,'" Dean says, flipping his keys in the air and grabbing them one-handed, "See if he knows anything else." He points at Nancy with the keys. "...But for now, let's get that cut of yours cleaned up and try to get some rest."

I wake up first. Sunlight is streaming through the crappy motel curtains, revealing the true amount of dust in the air.

I scratch my head, wondering how the hell I managed to fall asleep.

Dean is slumped in one of the cupped chairs, empty mug in his hand, and the smallest bit of drool on the corner of his mouth. He is snoring slightly. I smile at him and wonder how much trouble I would get in if I snapped a photo.

I take my phone and click the camera button, laughing to myself.

I'll have to find a way to innocently show him the picture later.

Putting the phone back in my pocket, I push myself to my feet. My joints ache and my muscles are sore from sleeping on the floor, and I have a crick in my neck now. But when was the last time I actually did get a good night's sleep anyway?

I almost forgot about Nancy being here. She is curled up against the side of one of the beds. She is using her coat as a blanket, covering her head with the hood. The bandage on her forehead is just barely visible.

A bunch of notes are spread out on the floor in front of her, and she limply holds a pencil in one hand and her heavy-duty flashlight in the other. She is all tucked in on herself. Whether or not she realizes it, she was making herself smaller to protect herself. A pang of sympathy hits me in the gut, and I realize I feel the sort of love for her that I do for Dean. A sibling to protect.

This girl, this girl, prodigy of her time and adamantly spending her life debunking the supernatural, was almost killed by a ghost last night. I wish I could tell her that it was all just a dream.

But we are well past that now.

I carefully squat down and click off the flashlight. I stare at Nancy for a few seconds, wishing I could give her a hug.

Instead, I stand, and gently drape one of the motel's blankets over her.

Outside, the birds are chirping, and the barely-risen sun is already starting to warm the air, causing plumes of steam against the snow. I lean back against the wall next to our room's door, and stuff my hands in my pockets. It was an awfully long night, mostly because I was up worrying about Nancy.

Once you know, it changes you.

As soon as you lose that childhood innocence, it's gone. You spend your life looking at every shadow, wondering if it hides the supernatural.

I don't know how long I am standing out here before Dean slouches out, closing the door behind him as quietly as he can. His hair is sticking up at an odd angle and he has rings under his eyes. He is carrying the now-full mug. The dude already made coffee.

"I hate waking up early," he croaks out before taking a sip, voice filled with sleep, "But that damn chair is so uncomfortable. Couldn't take it anymore. The floor would've been better."

"Wanna bet?" I ask, stretching my arms above my head. My back pops audibly in several places. "Agh."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Fair." He takes a noisy swig.

We stand there in silence, staring out into the parking lot.

"She'll be okay, you know," Dean finally says, crossing his arms in such a way that the coffee doesn't spill.

"Huh?" I look over at him.

"Nancy." He shrugs a little. "She'll be okay."

I sigh, and scratch the top of my head. "I'm just glad we were there."

"Me too." He drinks the rest of the coffee in one, loud, long slurp. "Ah," he says, a smile on his face. He cradles the empty mug in his hands.

I shake my head.

"We should make plans," I say. "Do we come at Edward saying we're the guys he called in, that we're FBI, or that we're friends of Nancy?"

"I dunno." He chews on his lip. "D'you think Nancy will be a little more approving of our methods now?"

"Probably. But we shouldn't push it more than we have to."

"Yeah, yeah." He rolls his eyes at me before opening the door. He holds his mug up with an overly-cheerful smile. "I'm getting more coffee."

Nancy is stirring as we walk inside. The smell of crappy motel coffee is unmistakable. Dean made a whole pot, presumably all for himself. The coffee maker gurgles a bit.

"I suppose we can grab breakfast at a drive-thru," I comment, grabbing a clean outfit from my bag. "Nancy, we can swing by your hotel so you can freshen up if you want."

Nancy sits up and runs a hand through her hair. "That'd be nice," she admits. "Funnily enough, going ghost hunting and getting thrown around a dusty old house, and then sleeping on a cheap motel floor, does not leave one's outfit laundry fresh."

I chuckle.

Meanwhile, Dean refills his mug with coffee, leaving enough room to pour in some unknown liquid from his flask. Oh for the love of God, Dean.

Nancy stares.

Dean raises his eyebrows, still holding the flask.

"Do… you want some?" he asks her, holding it out to her.

I scoff on Nancy's behalf, and push past him to the bathroom to get dressed.

"What?" Dean asks me, as I close the door in his face, "I was just being polite!"

"We should probably carpool," Dean muses, "Makes the most sense."

"Why? Because you drank liquor for breakfast and can't drive?" I ask him with a glare.

He shrugs.

"Well," Nancy says, patting the Impala, "Your car has the mobile armory."

"That is true," Dean says with a smirk.

"Hey Nancy," I say, staring straight at Dean, knowing full-well how he feels about other people driving his "Baby." I dangle the Impala's keys, "Why don't you drive?" I toss them over to Nancy, and she deftly catches them mid-air.

"Sure!" She says.

Dean's face comically drops.

"She knows the way to her hotel," I remind him, patting him on the shoulder. "And by the way? I call shotgun."

"How come she gets the freaking nice hotel why we're stuck in the crappy ones?" Dean grouches, leaning his elbows against the back of the bench seat and peering out the front window with a frown.

I cock my head to see better. Nancy certainly got the nicest place in town, from what I have seen around. The place is only two stories, but the greenery is well-maintained, the signs are fresh and clean, and the place has been painted recently. Even the parking lot is nice, neatly plowed and filled with lighting for safety. There is an indoor pool, a brand new exercise room, as well as a free continental breakfast, if the advertisements on the side of the building are to be believed.

My stomach growls. We still need to grab food at some point.

"There she is," I say, pointing. Nancy has changed into boots, fresh jeans, a t-shirt, and a sensible hoodie. She has also pulled her hair up out of the way in a tight, but messy, bun. I smirk a little at the difference in fashion choice. This is a girl ready to go Hunting.

She also has a plastic bag hanging from her elbow, and keeps looking back and forth as if to see if anyone is following her, although her face is neutral.

"Hey guys," she says in greeting, getting back into the driver's seat. She hands me the large bag. "I, uh, got you some food."

I peer into the bag, where there are two takeout containers, a pile of napkins, and two packages of plastic utensils. The salivating smell of eggs, bacon, and toast hits me. "How'd you manage to get all this?" I ask, pulling one of the boxes out and grabbing a fork.

She purses her lips, looking straight ahead as she starts the car. "I stole it from the kitchen."

Dean laughs.

"I also, um," she clears her throat, "got myself a big can of salt."

"Attagirl," my brother says. He pats me on the shoulder. "She's a Hunter now!"

I give a single nose laugh.

"Where to?" Nancy asks. "I tried calling Edward but he won't pick up, and I don't know where he's staying. I can call the sheriff in a bit to ask him, but he's not in the office yet."

"We can look for Caroline's grave," Dean suggests, "Salt and burn, ask questions later."

I expect Nancy to protest, but all she does is start the car.