THREE

Sam accepted the fast ride back to the motel, but it was still two hours of hasty phone calls to police and more intricate dodging of driving licenses and IDs on the way.

As Mirri's SUV pulled up in the parking lot, she turned and put a hand on his arm.

"Now Sam," she said quickly. "If you need something, call me. I have errands in this part of town. I can be here for you," she said reassuringly.

"Thanks Mirri," he said earnestly, before freeing his arm gently and sliding out of the vehicle.

He dragged himself and his duffle through the front door of the motel, looking round and finding Rosalea behind the counter. She looked up, spotted him, and dropped everything. She ran round the counter and into him, hugging onto him tightly.

"Oh Simon," she moaned, and he hugged her back.

"Look, Rosalea, can I go to the room first? I just want to check his stuff and hear your story before I get to the police station," he said.

"Sure," she said hurriedly, pulling back from him and patting his arm, avoiding his eyes. "Come on then."

She led him round to room eight, finding the police tape across the door. She unlocked it and lifted the top strap, letting him open the door and walk in first. He went to the two beds, looking round.

At first glance nothing appeared to have moved. But something bugged Sam as he walked to Dean's bed, looking over the duffle tossed carelessly on top, the empty beer bottle on the side table, the open box of half-eaten Chinese take-out next to it.

"He hasn't slept in the bed," he pointed out, looking down to find the TV remote on the right hand side of the bedcovers.

"No, he… he came back to pay for the room. He was lucky, he caught me just as I was coming off my shift," she said, curling hair round her ear and looking anywhere but at Sam.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, looking back round the room. Something about the room still irked him, but he couldn't yet place what it was. He turned in a circle, sniffing and thinking.

"I live on-site, so we went back to my room instead," she said.

"What time did you get off work?" he asked, wandering to the TV, feeling suddenly that something had moved.

"By the time I'd totalled up and handed over to the night girl it was about eleven forty-five," she said. "We ordered a pizza and took that to my room. We thought about getting beer, then just decided not to bother."

"And then?"

"And then…" She sniffed and put a hand across her mouth, closing her eyes. Sam crossed the room quickly, putting his hands to the outside of her shoulders.

"Look, Rosalea, I'm sorry, but I have to know what happened," he said gently.

"I know… I'm… I'm sorry," she managed. She swallowed and straightened. "It was about… it must have been the wee hours of the morning, cos he went out to get more uh – more uh –"

"Pepsi?" he offered, deliberately innocently. She nodded.

"Yeah, something like that – we've got a few vending machines down the hall. Anyway, the night lights were still on in the hallway, so it must have been round five." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Then… when he came back… He was cold, so cold… But he just grinned at me like a little kid, happy to be back in the warm…" She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. "So I… He got back into bed and then there was this big crash and then everything was noise and broken doors and wood was everywhere and–"

"Alright, alright," Sam said quietly, putting his arms round her securely. She held onto him, controlling her tears. Then she pulled herself away, looking at him confidently.

"He had this gun, this big gun with a white handle. It must have been under the pillow somewhere and I never knew. He pushed me off the bed, and I fell down the side. I was between the bed and the wall, and I could hear the gun firing and this awful, awful hissing and shouting."

"Was it him shouting?" Sam asked quietly.

"I don't know!" she stressed. "It was so noisy! I just sat there with my hands over my ears, trying not to scream!"

"Ok," he soothed, putting his hands up in surrender. She sniffed and pulled her long hair from her face, controlling her anger at her own actions.

"I heard it had stopped, so… so I looked over the bed. Dean was gone, the gun was gone, and there was blood on the floor…" She bit her lip, pausing before she looked up again slowly. "He… he can't be dead, he just can't be. He was so… funny… and strong and… alive," she breathed.

"And then?"

"And then… I must have sat there like an idiot for a while, cos the next thing I know the police burst in. They take me away to the station and tell me one of the customers, who they now think is my 'boyfriend', is lying dead in the morgue and they think he's been attacked by a bear! They didn't even pretend to be nice to me," she hissed angrily.

"Alright," he breathed, "alright. But they wouldn't let you see the… the body?" he asked.

"No, cos I was stupid and told them you'd been with him but you'd gone out. I said I didn't know when you'd be back or where you were – and then I looked up your contact number on the booking form. Dean had filled both your numbers in," she sniffed.

"That's Dean, always thinking," he sighed. "Ok, look. I already called the police and said I was going in. I have to go to the morgue. They want me to ID the body," he said.

"ID the body," she muttered. "Oh God, how did it come to this? Why did you two stumble into my motel anyway?" she asked herself lamely.

"Rosalea, listen," he said firmly. "It's not him, and we're going to clear all this up," he said with a confidence he didn't feel.

"Why do you say that?"

"Cos like you, I don't believe he could die. And I don't believe he'd leave me by myself. He doesn't even trust me to fill the gas tank on his car," he said flippantly. She smiled slightly, wiping her face.

"Ok then," she allowed quietly. "Can I come with you?"

"If you want," he nodded.

"Good. Come on then, Simon."

"Oh, by the way," he said quickly, "my name's not Simon. It's Sam," he said.

"Sam," she repeated. "Yeah. You look like a Sam." She looked around the room slowly. "Let's go then."

He crossed to the black jacket on the bed, picking it up. He let his fingers run over it slowly, feeling himself swallow and hope he was more sure about his convictions than he had ever been. He felt in the pocket and pulled out the Impala keys slowly. He jangled them in his hand, watching them move.

He had better be alright, he thought vehemently.

They walked up the steps to the police station, Rosalea holding onto Sam's arm firmly. They walked to the desk and Sam pulled out a fake driving license, showing it to the desk sergeant.

"Ah… Simon Kirke? I'm here to ID a body," he said quietly.

"Oh yeah," the short man said brusquely. "Wait here." He turned away from them deliberately, talking over a radio. The turned back to them. "Right. Friend of the stiff, were you?"

"Could you be any ruder?" Rosalea demanded angrily, and the policeman waved his hands at her.

"Look I have to ask these questions, lady," he said, apparently unmoved.

"I'm the deceased's brother," Sam said loudly, and the man looked at him.

"Lucky you. Follow this officer, and no screaming, shouting or little-girl theatrics. Please," he stressed, casting an obnoxious look at Rosalea.

She fumed at him, taking Sam's arm and pulling him away from the desk. They looked at the taller female officer behind them. She nodded politely.

"I'm sorry about him. Please come this way," she said politely, and Rosalea walked after her, Sam picking up the rear worriedly.

They walked down two staircases before reaching the pathology room.

"Excuse me," Sam said quickly, before they saw any doors, "but where was he found?"

"Oh, you haven't been told?" the officer said, surprised. "He was… I'm afraid he was by the side of the road. There was a gun on the ground nearby, we assume he had tried to shoot the wild animal that attacked him."

"What kind of wild animal?" Sam asked immediately.

"From the height and the… the wounds he sustained, we're going to go with a bear," she said carefully.

"Really? A bear? All the way out here?" Sam asked.

"Looks that way. We can't think of anything else it would be," she said gingerly. "I'm sorry for your loss, I really am, but if you could come this way and help us to verify that it is Mr Rodgers, we can speed things up," she added apologetically.

"Yeah," he bit out, following her on down the corridor and then stopping outside a large door.

"Please," she said, opening the door and waving them in.

Sam walked in first, holding a shaking Rosalea's hand and walking up to the only pathology gurney in the room that was occupied. Rosalea's grip on his hand intensified as they stopped and looked at the table. Something big was under the bright white sheet, the form of it unmistakeable.

"Ok. Are you ready?" the officer asked gently, walking up to stand on the opposite side. "You don't have to say anything, if you want you can just nod," she added.

Sam nodded once, then swallowed. "I understand," he said quietly.

She lifted the white sheet back slowly.

Sam stared; he couldn't help it. The short, dark blonde hair, the pseudo Kirk Douglas chin, the stubble, the freckles… it was all there.

Confusion and Surprise battled for control of Sam. Confusion had the edge, but then was completely trounced by the abrupt arrival of Relief.

"But… that's not him," he gasped, marvelling at the man's likeness to Dean. "It's not him!"

Rosalea opened terrified eyes and looked down at the cadaver.

"That's not him," she said, confused.

"Are you sure?" the officer asked, equally confused.

"Officer, that man is not my brother," he said clearly. "I'd know my brother, and that's not him!"

A technician wandered over from the other side of the room slowly, his long white coat swishing around.

"I'm sorry son, but sometimes people can look different after they've passed away, so to speak," he said kindly, and Sam turned to look at him.

"Oh trust me, I know that," he said, relieved. "But really, that's not him." He turned and looked back.

"Well, a driver's license for one Paul Rodgers was found on the ground near him," the man continued. "It says born 1979, six foot one, blonde hair, green eyes, a hundred and eighty five pounds. Sure fits that description."

"Yeah, but a description like 'blonde, heavy-set, biceps the size of Baltimore' could describe hundreds of men his age!" Rosalea protested. "God, I was really convinced he was dead! How could you make a mistake like that!"

"Rosalea, alright," Sam said quickly, turning to her and holding her by the arms. "Calm down. I know you're relieved, but that doesn't tell us where he is now," he reminded her quietly. "Or why he hasn't tried to call us."

"Oh," she said, letting herself sag. "Yeah, you're right."

Sam let go of her, turning again to look at the body.

"So if he's not Paul Rodgers, who is he?" Sam asked himself.

"If he was Paul Rodgers he'd have my sympathies," said a voice behind them, and everyone turned to look. It was a police officer, tall and weedy but with a bigger badge than all the others. "Considering poor Mr Rodgers has been the victim of credit card fraud. Would you know anything about that, Mr Kirke?"

Sam's mouth opened and he did the only thing he could.

"Not at all, officer," he lied politely.

"Good. Then you won't mind coming upstairs and telling us what you were doing alone in a motel room with our missing Mr Rodgers, before you left after just one hour. Would you?" he said humourlessly.

Rosalea fumed in indignation and moved to push past Sam, but he grabbed her arm.

"Rosalea," he warned. She looked back at him, then at the policeman.

"Anytime you're ready," the officer sighed, gesturing to the door.

Sam and Rosalea walked out, leaving the mysterious dead man on the slab.