"Take me home," Constance said again.
"No," Sam said, and the mournful face twisted into a glare. The lock buttons on the doors popped down; Sam scrabbled at the one on the driver's door but it wouldn't budge. The Impala lurched into motion and Sam twisted to face forward again, grabbing the wheel and trying to steer, but it twisted under her hands independent of anything she did. After a moment she abandoned it to work at the door button again.
After a few minutes of futile effort Sam gave up. It took a little longer to register that they were still going the way she'd originally been headed-towards Breckinridge Road, where the Welch's old house sat empty. Sam wasn't sure what good that was going to do her, if she couldn't get out of the car to dig up the body, but at least it was progress of a sort. She'd told Deanne where the body was; Dee could even be there now, digging. Constance sat in the back seat, prim and sad again, flickering occasionally.
Sam didn't know whether that counted as a good sign.
It didn't take very long to reach the Welch house; the car stopped not far from the front porch. The awning over it leaned drunkenly and most of the glass was missing from the windows. The Impala's engine cut out and the headlights flicked off.
Into the silence, Sam said, "Don't do this." In the rear view mirror, Constance flickered.
"I can never go home," she said, and her voice was sad, but under it there was a thread of something else.
Sam opened her mouth, wondering what was going to come out, and said, "You're afraid to go home." She turned in her seat, but Constance wasn't in the back; instead she was in the passenger seat, staring.
"I'm so cold," she said. Sam shook her head.
"You can't kill me," she said. "I'm not one of your men."
"It doesn't matter," Constance said, and reached over to lay a hand on Sam's chest, flickering out as she made contact. For a second Sam just stared, and then the pain hit her and she shouted, pulling her hoodie away from the sudden burns where Constance's fingers were touching her; Constance was visible again, staring, and something horrible flashed behind her face. Sam tried to get a grip on Constance's wrist, but there was nothing really there.
And then the window shattered, crumbles of glass exploding into the back of her head. Constance startled and the pain in Sam's chest lessened. There was the sound of a shot and Constance glared out the window. Sam turned her head enough to see Deanne approaching, squeezing off another shot as she came. Finally Constance vanished and Sam took the briefest of seconds to catch her breath.
Her hand fumbled for the keys and found them, turned them and the Impala started with a growl. "I'm taking you home," Sam said, hoping like hell that this was the right thing to do-because if it wasn't, she had no idea what to try next.
She caught a flash of Deanne taking a step back from the path of the car before the hood hit the side of the house with a splintering crash. The weathered wood gave under the impact and the Impala smashed into the living room; Sam let up on the gas as the car shook to a halt. She heard Deanne's footsteps coming through the wreckage.
"Sam! Sam, are you okay?" Deanne called, and Sam shook the cobwebs from her brain to answer. "I think," she said, turning enough to meet Deanne's worried eyes.
"Can you move?" Deanne asked.
Sam almost laughed. "Yeah. Gimme a hand though." Deanne was opening the driver's door when there was a flicker of motion and they both looked up.
Constance stood in the wreck of the living room, holding a framed photo in one hand. It showed her, and two smaller blurs that Sam assumed were the children. The children she'd killed in her rage at her husband. Deanne helped lever Sam out of the car and Constance seemed to notice them; her expression turned hard and angry and she let the photo drop. A side table scooted across the floor and pinned them both against the car; Sam grunted in pain and tried to push it away, but it was just as bad as the steering wheel had been.
Behind Constance, water began to pour down the stairs; she turned to look at it, and the bit of her expression Sam could see went scared and still. Beside her, two small shapes flickered into existence: a boy and a girl, both under ten, holding hands. They were drenched, and they looked up at Constance with creepily blank faces. When they spoke, it was in unison.
"You've come home to us, Mommy."
Constance flinched back, and suddenly the children were behind her, their arms around her waist. Constance screamed and flickered, she and the children blurring, and in a surge of energy Sam could feel in her bones all three of them collapsed into water that splashed onto the floor.
The pressure on the table let up. Sam and Deanne shoved it away and took a few cautious steps in the direction of the spreading puddle.
"So...I'm gonna say this is where she drowned her kids," Deanne said.
Sam nodded and said, "That's why she couldn't go home. She was scared to face them."
Deanne flashed her a grin and said, "You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy." She patted Sam on the shoulder, managing to hit one of the burned spots and Sam laughed rather than gasp.
"Yeah, wish I could say the same for you," she said, letting her relief color her voice. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?"
"Hey, I saved your ass," Deanne shot over her shoulder. She stopped a pace from the Impala. "I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car?" She turned to give Sam a serious look. "I'll kill you."
Sam couldn't help it; she broke into real laughter. After a second, Deanne grinned.
*.*
In the end the worst damage was one dead headlight, and Deanne conceded that she could let that go with just a little maiming. They got gas at the station on the edge of town; Sam paid so Deanne wouldn't risk showing her face. Once they were on the road Sam spent a few minutes spreading out a US map. She found herself humming along to "Highway to Hell" as she struggled with the coordinates, until she finally had an idea.
"She just had to use polar coordinates," Sam grumbled. Deanne shrugged, tapping her fingers on the wheel.
It took a few moments to get the map flat enough to lay the ruler over it, but the vast expanse of the Impala's dashboard had just enough space. Sam traced the line lightly.
"OK, here's where Mom went. It's Blackwater Ridge, Colorado."
Deanne nodded and said, "Sounds charming. How far?"
Sam glanced at her, but she was staring ahead. "About six hundred miles," Sam said slowly.
"Hey, if we haul ass we could make it by morning," Deanne said. She sounded casual but Sam could hear the tension under it. She paused for a second before she said, slowly, "Dee...I..." She trailed off.
"You're not going," Deanne said flatly. She didn't seem angry so much as resigned.
"The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there," Sam said, hating that she felt the need to justify herself.
Deanne nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, whatever." She glanced over and Sam didn't know what she saw in her face, but Deanne nodded again and turned back to the road. "I'll take you home."
*.*
The rest of the drive was silent except for the music.
When they pulled up in front of the apartment building, Deanne didn't turn off the engine. Sam got out, but once the door was closed she turned and leaned through the window.
"Dee—call me when you find her?" Deanne nodded, and on impulse Sam continued, "And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?"
"Yeah, all right," Deanne said. She even smiled a little though it faded quickly. Sam hesitated for a second, and then straightened up. She got less than half a step before Deanne said, "Sam."
She turned back. Deanne was leaning over the passenger seat to be able to meet her eyes. "You know, we made a hell of a team back there," she said, and Sam smiled.
"Yeah," she said. After that there didn't seem to be anything else to say, so she hefted her duffel onto her shoulder and headed for the door.
*.*
Deanne waited until the door shut behind Sam before she put the car in gear. She drove slowly, turning over her options. Probably best to get a motel room for the rest of the night, follow up Mom's coordinates meant in the morning; she was dead on her feet and all too familiar with the dangers of driving while tired; if she'd had Sam to talk to she could have made it, but alone she'd drive off the road.
She was most of a block down when her watch suddenly gave a despairing chirp and died. The music broke up into static. Deanne's eyes jumped to the rear view mirror, and all along the street the lights on their poles were flickering and sputtering out.
There were no other cars visible. She threw the Impala into the tightest turn it could handle.
*.*
The apartment was dark and quiet when she shut the door behind her. "Jess?" she called. "You home?" There was no answer, but on the table where they kept keys and bills was a plate of cookies, with a note that said Missed you, love you! Sam smiled as she picked one up and dropped her bag next to the table. Jess could cook, and more importantly didn't feel it was unmanly to do so; it was one of the things she loved about him.
Once in the bedroom she could hear the shower running, so she sat heavily on the bed, her eyes falling shut. It had been an awfully long couple of days, and she was going to need all the sleep she could get to be in good shape for her interview. Tempting as it was to wait till Jesse got out of the shower, it was probably smarter to just go straight to bed…or rather, to sleep.
Sam flopped over onto her back, thinking as she did that this was a damn fine way to end up falling asleep in her clothes. Something fell onto her forehead. She reached up to rub at the spot, and another joined it. It felt wet. Sudden terror washed through her and her eyes snapped open.
Jesse was pinned to the ceiling above her. He was awake, alive, but there was a slash across his belly that dripped blood. Sam thought clearly, I must be dreaming.
"No," she said, in a tone that she would later remember as being almost conversational. And suddenly Jess burst into flame.
From somewhere she heard something breaking, someone calling, but that didn't matter; what mattered was Jess. Jesse who loved her, who didn't care that in heels she was taller, who baked cookies and left notes and had a little velvet box in his coat pocket that she hadn't meant to find.
Jesse who was dying, right there above her.
The heat pressed into her face like a solid object. Sam cast about for something that would let her get close enough to reach him, but the building was old and the ceilings high; standing on the bed wasn't going to cut it. The dresser, maybe she could pull the dresser over-
Hands closed on her biceps and yanked her back. Over the roar of the flames she could hear her own voice, calling Jesse's name, and she fought to get back to him.
"Sam! Sam, no!" someone said, but still she twisted, because she had to save him and ever moment she was further away. The flames lit the hallway in pitiless detail.
Then she was through the ruined door-gonna lose the security deposit on that one, she thought crazily-and the relative quiet and cool was like a slap. Sam sagged against the hands, and they loosened tentatively. "Sam? We have to keep-" She lunged for the door, almost breaking the grip, and someone cursed and something hit her in the side of the head and nothing made sense for a long time.
*.*
It was after dawn when the fire fighters presented her with her duffel bag. It had survived, they said, by being close to the front door. Sam tried to muster a smile in thanks, though she was pretty sure it didn't come out well. They talked to her some more, but the words only occasionally strung together into sentences. After a while someone handed her a cup, so she clutched it between her hands. It was pleasantly warm. The fire fighters stopped trying to talk to her.
"Drink some of that," Deanne said. Sam looked up from where she sat on the rear of the ambulance. "You're in shock, Sammy. Drink it. It'll help." She didn't really want to, but to make Deanne feel better she took a sip. It turned out to be coffee.
Deanne sat down next to her. She leaned into her sister's side, and Deanne put a careful arm around her shoulders. "Jess," Sam said, and heard her voice waver.
"They haven't found his body yet, Sam," Deanne said. Sam nodded, and turned her face into Deanne's shoulder to hide the tears.
*.*
She let Deanne do most of the talking. It was clear that the police wanted her statement as a formality; the sympathy on their faces was almost too much to bear. Finally, as Deanne was wrapping up the loose ends of cell numbers and motel rooms, Sam went over to the Impala and popped the trunk. She shuffled a few things around, picked up a shotgun, and let her hands go through the familiar routines of loading; it wasn't any use, but it steadied her. As she was finishing, Deanne came to stand by her. Sam met her eyes, and tossed the shotgun into place.
"We've got work to do," she said, and slammed the trunk shut.