I said I would post the next chapter as long as I didn't have any computer problems. Well, that was just stupid - my moniter burned out yesterday.

(By the way, I'll forgive you if you end up skimming through the second half of the chapter. I was trying to get from A to B, and I took the long, convoluted way.)

The next day brought more of the "boring part," as John dubbed it.

First they interviewed the parents of Janine Larson - but that turned out to be much more depressing than it was boring. They pretended to be detectives still working on the case, and the Larsons accepted them with a mix of eagerness for new help, and the tired acceptance ofthe miserable discussion they knew from experience was coming.

Until he saw their gray faces, Sam didn't realize just how hard it was to speak with people who were still grieving, to force them to share their memories out loud with complete strangers. He immediately felt guilty, knowing they weren't who the Larsons thought they were. But if he and John were to stop whoever or whatever had killed Janine, they needed more information, and they needed to lie to get it.

He tried to put on the most sympathetic, understanding face as he could, but he was nervous it would look forced, and these two people obviously didn't deserve to see more forced sympathy. It wasn't that he was insincere, because he really did feel horrible for the Larsons - so much that his stomach felt heavy in his stomach - but as much as he tried, he felt too uncomfortable for any of his real emotions to show naturally. He was trying too hard to make up for what they were putting them through.

Unfortunately, Janine's parents weren't much help. Still visibly shaken, they lead Sam and John into the living room and told them with shaky voices that they had no clue who could have done that to their daughter.

"She never said much about her social life," Mrs. Larson said from her seat on the couch, clutching her hands in her lap. "In fact, before all this happened, I-I was worried about her. She had a great job at the bank, you know, and this cute little apartment above her favorite cafe..." She trailed off for just a moment to recompose herself, shaking her head with a sniff. Mr. Larson put his hand on her knee, and she continued. "But then she stopped seeing her friends, stopped dating."

"Do you think she started hanging with the wrong crowd?" John asked. "Maybe got involved with someone dark, dangerous?"

Mrs. Larson shook her head emphatically. "Oh, no, not Janine. In fact, every time I visited her, every time I called, she was home, alone."

"Mm, I see," John murmured with polite detachment. "What about her actions? Did she have any unusual interests? Anything you'd consider even a little bit strange?"

"No, nothing that I knew of. She didn't seem to have interest in much of anything."

Sam frowned. He had planned on letting John do all the talking, since he knew what he was doing and what questions to ask. But he found himself jumping in before John could go on. "Was she depressed?" Sam asked gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John glance sharply at him.

Mrs. Larson drew in a shaky breath and nodded. "Yes. I-I think so. But I don't know why, she had no real reason to be. I told her to go to the doctor, but she refused. She refused to do anything about it."

Sam nodded, sad but knowingly. He could understand that.

But Mrs. Larson misinterpreted his reaction, and her eyes widened suddenly. "She would never have killed herself, if that's what you're thinking!"

Aghast, Sam quickly shook his head and held up his hands. "Oh, no, I wasn't implying that at all," he rushed to assure her. He'd seen the pictures; there was no way Janine could have done that to herself. He wouldn't bring that up though, refusing to remind them what their daughter had suffered through. He hoped the graphic photos had never been shown to them.

Mrs. Larson sniffed wetly and her husband took over for her, speaking up for the first time since he greeted them. "We just want this case solved," he explained. "We were so afraid y'all have given up. That-that person is still out there, and what's stopping them from doing this again?"

"I want justice," Mrs. Larson spoke again, her voice suddenly firm despite the tears that were still lining her eyes. "I want to know why. I want them caught." She stared at John and Sam. "We need that peace of mind. Please."

Mr. Larson swallowed heavily before he added to his wife's sentiments. "I don't want no one to go through what we've been through," he said thickly. "Janine didn't deserve to die that way. No one does."

ooOOoo

"Those poor people…" Sam muttered to himself as he and John walked back to the Impala.

Their torment had been hard to take. From the moment he saw the Larsons pale faces, he couldn't force the crime scene photos out of his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about the ghastly images of the bloodied, tortured body--the body who had been someone. He couldn't stop thinking about the young, late Janine Larson and the mourning parents she left behind.

"There's a lot of evil out there, man," John remarked casually. Sam nodded silently, not replying. John seemed to watch him for a moment over the top of his car, but then he climbed into the car without another word.

Sam followed, closing the creaky car door beside him as he settled into the passenger side.

"That has to be so hard, so depressing, to face that kind of evil," Sam murmured.

"Yeah, what the hell was that about back there?" John jumped in. "Acting like you knew all about depression. I thought you were going to let me do all the talking. I mean, c'mon, you were happy at Stanford."

"Relatively speaking, I guess," Sam replied with a offhanded shrug. John seemed to want more, but Sam was too distracted. "I mean, you can't just track the supernatural down like an animal. Someone has to die before you even realize something's going on."

John just shrugged in answer, obviously unwilling to change topics.

"And it's always there," Sam persisted, gazing out of the car into the bright sunshine. "And you - you're always going after it. Going after these…monsters who carve people's skin or push them off lighthouses or turn into werewolves and slaughter little children."

He turned from the windshield to look at John. "That can't be healthy for you," he said. "That can't be a good life."

"What's going on here?" John asked, sounding annoyed. "Are you playing Dr. Phil now?"

Sam ignored him. "So that's what we're supposed to do? Track this evil down, confront it—come face-to-face with that horror—and then fight it with just a gun or a knife or-or a cup of salt?" he remarked heatedly. "And when that's over, we have to do it again?"

"You don't have to do anything," John retorted, sounding terse.

"Is that how you chose to live your life?" Sam pressed, undeterred. "Is that what you really want?"

"It's not about choice with me," John told him. "It is my life. It's just what I do."

"But how can you deal with all that darkness?"

John drew in a long, frustrated breath. "I dunno," he said irritably. "Same way cops and doctors and social workers have to deal with their own evil."

"But this…this is a little different," Sam argued, thinking out loud as he went. "You can't go home and leave your work behind. You can't even let anyone know what you're doing because no one'd believe you." He looked at him again. "Don't you just want to give up sometimes?"

He watched as John's jaw twitched and his lips pursed together. "Look, Sam--With this kind of life, you gotta be committed to it," he told him. "You need to accept it and everything it throws at you. You have to have the right nature, the right makeup or constitution--whatever. It's not for everyone."

"But it's for you?"

John nodded. "This works for me. It's what I know."

"You spend your life dealing with monsters," Sam stated slowly."You live through a perpetual nightmare. Fighting monsters."

"Sam," John said seriously. "Lots of people live their lives without even knowing our brand of evil. They never have to deal with this. They're happy. And you can have that, you can leave right now if you want to, forget all about this."

But Sam only half heard him. "Every day you discover a new evil," Sam went on. "A new horrible reality that you have to face."

"You can leave this behind, before it gets to you," John told him, looking at him."I'll understand that."

Sam returned his gaze. "Every day you find another Janine Larson."

John seemed to give up, sighing wearily. "Like I said, there's a lot of evil out there," he replied.

Sam nodded slowly. "Like this evil we're facing now," he added, turning to his head to glance back at the Larson home.

"Yep," John agreed glibly. "We get to expose ourselves to something really messed up. We get to see something disturbing and freaky and wrong."

"But we're going to stop this from happening again," Sam said, turning back to watch John's expression. "That's all that really matters, right?"

John looked at him, stunned. Then he nodded tightly and started the car.

ooOOoo

The true boring part came next. The internet had been nohelp in finding the symbols that had been carved onto the trees and across the victim, so they decided to research at the library in hopes it would have more focused information. They went into the local history section, going through old books and records on early settlers and their religions or heritages.

They spent four hours there, learning more than they wanted and nothing they needed. Sam knew that in a more relaxed circumstance, he'd actually might be interested in learning the local history. But as part of research, he quickly grew frustrated. And even he found all of the information to be dry, dense, and just too overwhelming.

Worst of all, there were no leads. The pioneers had been a mixed bunch, one that kept moving, constantly coming to and many times leaving the area around Crider. They all seemed to have a rough time settling, which meant any one of them could have resorted to magic. Sam was quickly growing discouraged as he ran out of ideas and options.

Just as he was about to declare a break, John beat him to the punch. Their eyes aching, they slammed their books shut with more force than needed and stood up on legs that needed stretching.

John was clearly just as irritated as he was, but Sam gave him credit for looking on the bright side as the two headed out of the front doors. "At least this isn't urgent," he remarked. "Whatever-it-is only kills every few years. We've got time."

Sam nodded, glad for that point. As far as they could tell, Janine's death was the first one in at least thirty years. But, he added to himself, that was all the more reason for finishing the case quickly so they could move onto something else that was more urgent.

He would have suggested they move on anyway, but the Larsons' pale faces hadn't left him yet. He wanted to give them some justice, whatever little peace he could.

The sun was bright overhead, and they squinted from the sudden light. Despite the pain in his eyes, it was a beautiful day and Sam almost hated to waste it inside researching.

John apparently agreed, because his eyes were quickly caught by a blonde who was walking along the sidewalk in their direction. She wasn't exactly a head-turner – her nose was just a little too big, and her eyes were set close together – but she was pretty enough, and Sam got the feeling that John wasn't too picky, especially in a small town.

John didn't surprise him. "Hello," he greeted with a cocky grin as she got closer.

She nodded and returned his smile with a wide, friendly one of her own. But her step didn't slow and she passed right on by them, walking past Sam's side. John huffed in disappointment under his breath.

Just as the girl was beside him, Sam heard a scuff the shoe scraping against concrete and she stumbled. He automatically reached out, snatching onto her arm to catch her from falling.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry!" she gasped, her eyes wide as he pulled her upright.

"Hey, no problem," Sam replied easily.

"I don't know how I..." She trailed off with an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. Then her arm dropped and she looked between the two men, cocking her head to the side. "I haven't seen you around before. New in town?"

John seized the opportunity to jump in. "Yes, actually, we are," he replied with a grin that showed his teeth. "I'm John, and this is Sam. Just here for a few days, thought we'd explore the sights and sounds." Sam forced himself to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The girl's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Oh, is that right?" she teased with a smile.

"That is right," John replied smoothly, matching her tone. "Maybe you could help show us around."

"There really isn't much to see here," she told him. "It's rather dull."

John was quick, smooth with his answers. "Maybe a little company would liven some things up," he remarked with a smirk.

The young woman laughed lightly. "Well, I can't promise you I'll give you a good time," she replied. "But you know what? Here's my number if you'd like to hang out sometime while you're here." John grinned in triumph as she hunched over to rummage through her purse.

"Red ink, huh?" John observed when she brought out a pen. "The color of love."

"And desire," she added as she scribbled onto a piece of paper.

John flashed Sam a quick smirk, waggling his eyebrows. Sam just shook his head, content to stand back and let John flirt.

Which was why he was taken off guard when she extended the slip of paper to him instead. Sam blinked and reached out his hand, and she pressed it into his palm. Beside him, he saw John bristle at the snub.

"Well, gotta run!" she replied with a wink before spinning around.

But Sam barely heard her. "What the hell?" he exclaimed, bringing his hand up in front of him.

His skin was burning.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sam stared at the piece of paper. It stuck to his palm by itself, a white rectangle with red writing. But before he could even try to peel it off, the white suddenly, right before his eyes, crumbled and blew to the ground.

But the red ink stayed behind. The words remained in his palm, tattooed against his skin for a brief moment before it dissolved away.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded, shoving his hand out.

"What happened?" asked Johnas he glanced at the ground. Tiny white scraps of paper blew in the wind, slowly crumbing to dust as they skipped along the cement sidewalk.

"That...that paper she gave me, it just disintegrated!" Sam said, still reeling. His thoughts raced as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. "That wasn't a phone number she gave me, it was a name...and it-it sank into my palm."

"It...what?"

Sam quickly looked down the sidewalk but the woman had already disappeared. He jogged to the corner, vaguely award of John following close behind him, but she wasn't on the side street either. She was gone.

"Okay," John said. "Tell me exactly what happened." Sam explained as best as he could, trying to describe the way the paper crumbled away, leaving just the ink behind, which burned itself into Sam's skin before it faded away. "Did you see what was written?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." John perked up with interest. "Annie Smith," Sam told him with a frustrated snort.

John deflated slightly, but he still nodded with some eagerness. "All right! That's a start," he said. "Hopefully there's only one Annie Smith in the town records..." he added sardonically.

Sam was still reeling. He tilted his head, squinting at the other man. "So...So that was her? The murderous witch we've been tracking?" She was young, and she wore jeans and a tank top – certainly not what Sam would have pictured as a witch, or an early 19th-century pioneer.

John shrugged. "You have to admit that was weird. It's a lead, if nothing else." He laughed dryly. "Boy, she picked the wrong guys to run into. At least we know she's not completely psychic."

Sam had a hard time trying to put it all together. "But...why me? And what exactly did she do to me, and--why?" he stammered, trying not to sound panicked. He didn't want to admit it, but the strange encounter left him nervous and uncomfortable. He realized just how scary it was, not knowing what they were up against.

There was a short silence as John leveled his gaze at him. His look was intense enough to bring Sam from his thoughts. "I'm not sure," he told him evenly. Sam nodded, hoping it didn't look as shaky as it felt.

"But don't be scared, all right?" he went on, tilting his head forward to emphasize his words. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sam blinked, startled by his announcement. He was also surprisingly comforted. He took in a deep breath to compose himself. "Thanks," he replied, a little awkwardly.

He swallowed, feeling compelled to continue even though he didn't want to know the answer. "You don't...you don't think she marked me as her next victim, do you? I mean...It doesn't fit the MO. It's too soon. Right?"

John looked at him and Sam knew he was carefully choosing his words. "Well, we don't know for sure what her MO is, or her reasons. We need more information."

Sam nodded in agreement, willing to accept that for now. He could worry about it later, once they had a better idea who – or what - they were dealing with. Fortunately, even his gut started to agree. As he calmed down, the initial shock from the encounter slowly leaving him, he could think more clearly.

He was incredibly thankful that he wasn't alone, that John was there with him, and he knew that was the reason his anxiety was fading. Sam trusted him.

That girl didn't seem so tough, he realized.

"Alright, say this Annie Smith is...responsible," Sam started to think out loud. "So what are we dealing with? A witch? Do we really think that girl is 200 years old?"

"Well, it's too early to say anything," John replied after a moment. "But, if the legends have any basis, it is possible that she resorted to witchcraft to protect herself, and maybe she learned how to sacrifice lives to extend her own."

Sam let out a low half-whistle.

They decided to head back to the library, this time with a little more energy now that they had a lead to follow. They went back to local history section, the room they had already spent four hours in. But they had a name to look for, and within twenty minutes they found a small entry in the records.

A Henry Smith of Virginia died in 1821 of cholera, leaving behind a widow, Anne. Three months later, her five-year-old son also died. There were many other Smiths in the records, but other than an unrelated young girl who had died as a toddler, that was the only Anne they could find.

Sam tried to imagine moving into across the country into an unknown territory, only to suddenly lose your only family. But this Anne Smith, whether she was the one they were looking for or not, lived through that.

Maybe that was enough to send someone over the edge. If she was left alone in an unfamiliar, dangerous place, she would need some way to protect herself. Otherwise, she wouldn't have lasted very long.

But the young woman they ran into – she couldn't possibly be that same Annie Smith. She was too...normal. It was hard to see her as a woman who traveled in a covered wagon almost 200 years ago.

Besides, were they really thinking that Anne Smith was still alive?

Maybe the girl they'd just met was a descendant. Carrying on the family practice, Sam thought wryly.

Then an idea occurred to him. With a sudden gust of curiosity, Sam rushed to the nearest computer and pulled up a genealogy website. In the search fields, he entered all the information they had and impatiently waited as it searched. A match came back seconds later – a Henry Smith, born in Danville, Virginia in 1795, died in Texas in 1821, married an Anne Palmer, born in Virginia in 1797, death unknown. They had only one son, George, who also died in 1821. It fit.

Which meant their Anne had no direct descendents.

Of course, it could be that the girl had no connection with the witch legend at all - but Sam had to admit it was too much of a coincidence that in their search of the supernatural, they came across a girl with apparent magic.

"All right, what all does that tell us?" John asked as Sam voiced his thoughts out loud.

Sam snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. "That I'm starting to think that girl today really is our pioneer-witch."

John nodded, obviously finding the idea less outrageous than Sam did. "Okay...So now what?"

"Wait, I'm not finished yet," Sam replied, typing in the new information. He still hadn't a chance to explore his idea. A few clicks later, he had a new result. "Look at this," he said, a slight but triumphant feeling swelling in his chest. He tapped at the screen.

Annie Palmer, born to parents George Palmer and Maria Arthurssen.

Sam allowed himself a smile of triumph. He was hoping for something like this.

"What if..." he began, gathering his thoughts together as John looked on blankly. "What if Annie – if she really was or is a witch – learned the art from her mother? I mean, she had to have gotten the knowledge from somewhere, right? It could be an ancient knowledge that's been passed down--maybe her mother told her stories of their heritage."

John frowned thoughtfully as he digested Sam's idea. "So...Anderssen, that's Scandinavian, right?"

"Yep," Sam nodded. "I bet if we look up Scandinavian or northern European sources, we'll find those symbols." He bounced his leg eagerly as a dog would wag its tail. He couldn't help but feel as though he was close to breaking the code.

"We don't know she got it from her mother," John pointed out. "What if she learned the magic somewhere else?"

"Well, then we're be back where we started. We'll just have to keep searching." Even as Sam answered, John was already typing away at the computer next to his. Despite his arguing, he obviously thought Sam was onto something.

"Holy crap..." John suddenly said some twenty minutes later. He reached into his bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages. Since they couldn't flash the crime scene photographs around in public, John had sketched them into a book in case they would need them. Sam was now grateful he had.

From his angle, Sam couldn't see much on John's screen, so he waited through several more clicks of the mouse and a-ha's from John.

"All right, get this!" John suddenly said, spinning around on his chair. He looked down at the notes he had scribbled, tapping them with the short stub of a pencil provided by the library as he spoke. "Okay, the symbols come from some obscure ancient tribe, an offshoot of the Vikings. I'm not even going to try to say the name. Anyway," he continued, clearing his throat, "the cuts on Janine's body – those were basically like labels. It's kinda a rough translation, and I think she modified or combined the symbols, but it's enough to get an idea."

He looked up at Sam to see if he understood before he turned back to his notes. "The one on her hands stands for...body, or more like the ability of the body. The physical aspects or something. The one on her stomach stands for power or force, kind of like fuel. Then over her heart is, duh, heart and spirit. And her forehead means mind."

"So, four basic elements of life," Sam summed up, sitting back in his chair.

"Pretty much, yep," John agreed. "And on the trees were markings that stood for doorway or portal, and a symbol for transference. It's all pretty straightforward, actually. Looks like your basic power-sucking spell."

Sam snorted, doubting that was the official term. But then he suddenly leaned forward. "Wasn't there another symbol on her chest?"

John nodded with a snort. "Yeah. What I thought was a crooked triangle and some type of squiggle was simply English - a rough A and S."

"Her initials," Sam remarked.

"Yep. It's a signature, a way of claiming Janine and her energies."

Sam swallowed, thinking of the signature in his hand. He tried to suppress his shiver. "So...Annie's been doing this ever since the 1820's? She performs this ritual, sucks up everything she needs, and gets to live forever?"

He thought it over before amending, "Or at least, until the person's energy is used up and she needs a new victim."

"That would explain why these rituals only happen every fifty years or so."

Sacrifice a life to save your own. Any sympathy Sam may have had for Annie Smith and her tragic lifedisappeared instantly.

ooOOoo

After their discovery, John agreed to a break, and this time they followed through. They headed to a nearby tavern, a dark, quiet place just a few blocks away. It was still too early for any serious drinking, but they each ordered a hamburger and a cold mug of beer. Sam dove into his meal, suddenly ravenous. As they ate, they discussed their next step.

Neither of them knew how they would track Annie down. They'd already tried the phonebook.

Sam suggested that since she marked him, she'd probably show up sooner or later to finish whatever she started. All they would have to do was wait.

John, however, hated that idea. He told Sam it wouldn't work, that they didn't even know if she would ever come back for him.

But Sam knew John believed she would be back for him, and that made the other man nervous. Sam's suggestion had unnerved him, Sam could tell. He wanted to go on the offensive, he wanted to do the attacking – even if he didn't know how. He was dead set against Sam acting as bait, even though thatmade the most sense. Even though that was their only option.

"Then what should we do?" Sam demanded, knowing John didn't have an answer. All they could do was wait.

It was strange, maybe even a little funny. Just an hour earlier, Sam had been the nervous one, scared and uncertain. Now their roles were reversed, and Sam was more confident and eager, ready to prepare himself for when she'd come for him - if only John would just accept it.

By the time they made it back to their hotel room, they still hadn't reached an agreement on how to proceed. John seemed angry and Sam was annoyed.

So they watched some unmemorable TV for a couple of hours and went to bed early.

And then Sam dreamed of towering trees, leaf-patterned sunlight, and a rock outcropping covered in moss.

to be continued...

Lordy, I hope that made sense. But at least that's out of the way! Now we can see some action.