"Rush" - Chapter Seven, Part Two
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Chapter Seven, Part One here.
They brought the mine-owner back to the hotel, sat him down in the parlor and jimmied open the Markhams’ liquor cabinet. Then they gave him a stiff shot of island Scotch to warm him up and stave off shock.
There wasn’t much Steve could tell them, given what little he remembered: a large miasma of blue cloud, a man’s threatening voice, icy hands on his throat. Then, somehow, a broken lamp sparking across the rug, and tendrils of hungry flame eating at papers and wood everywhere.
“It was the same spirit-big guy, miner’s clothes, right? You’ve got to remember something else, Steve,” Sam prodded. “Something special about what he was wearing. Something he did, something he said.”
Dean was kneading his leg gingerly, trying to ease the ache out of it without much success. “You said you heard his voice. What did it sound like? Sammy, this guy last night say anything besides ‘Hartson Mine’ when he attacked you?”
Sam was about to say no when Steve suddenly sat upright, looking at them wide-eyed.
“Accent!” he blurted. “He had an English accent!”
The brothers exchanged glances, Sam nodding now.
“That would make sense,” he said. “After the first years, most of the miners here were from Cornwall. Could be one of them who’s haunting the North Cedar.”
Steve bobbed his head vigorously. “I’m sure it was Cornish, because he even said something kind of English-sounding.”
Dean snorted. “What, like ‘God save the Queen’? ‘Manchester United’? What?”
“No, no-something like…” The mine-owner paused, frowning in concentration, and Sam shot Dean another look.
“Dean, we’ve figured all along it was one of the miners who died at the North Cedar who’s causing the trouble,” Sam said quietly. “Without a name, or some more information, we’ve still got nothing to go on. Did you find anything at the museum today? Besides Grace, I mean.”
Dean twitched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I found out that museums can be dangerous places, Sam, depending on who’s in ‘em,” he replied snidely, and Sam reared back just a little.
“What are you talking ab-“
Steve had a tight grip on his glass of whiskey, his face screwed with effort as he dredged up the memory. “’Leland,’” he muttered in an odd tone, apparently an attempt to recreate the accent he’d heard. Both brothers leaned forward with interest. “’Leland Hartson, you owe me, and isn’t that half grand?’”
He looked up in triumph. “Yeah! ’Isn’t that half grand’! That’s an English expression, right?”
Sam was disappointed at the revelation, getting nothing from it, but he saw Dean’s expression grow suddenly thoughtful, his lips pursing, brows drawing close.
“Dean?”
His brother flashed a sudden, amiable grin. “Steve, you can’t do accents for shit. Think a second-it was Irish, not English, wasn’t it?”
Steve blinked, reflecting, then nodded slowly. “Yeah-yeah, Dean, I think you’re right. It was Irish. How’d you know that?”
The hunter’s grin turned smug as he flicked his eyes at his little brother. “’Cause last night this same sonofabitch told you the North Cedar was rightfully his mine, and tonight he let you know he thinks your great-granddaddy should’ve paid him more than five hundred dollars for it.”
Sam’s agile mind quickly put the pieces together. “Five hundred dollars is half a grand,” he said, and Dean shot him with his finger.
“Yahtzee,” he said.
“William Clancy,” Steve breathed, staring briefly into his whiskey glass, then from Dean to Sam and back again with bleary eyes. “It’s Bull Clancy, right?”
“First time,” Dean affirmed, his grin fading when he caught sight of Sam’s face and the deepening frown on it.
“But why?” the younger man said. “Dean, we saw Clancy’s monument out at the Founders Cemetery. Guy didn’t die until 1883, and he sure as hell wasn’t penniless-headstone said he made a fortune off the Inishmurray mine. Why would he be after Steve down inside the North Cedar?”
“Sam, do you memorize things just to piss me off?” Dean asked with a growl. “I don’t know, all right? Maybe he’s just a cranky old bastard.”
“It just doesn’t add up.”
Steve took another hit off his glass of whiskey while Dean watched every one of the wheels in his little brother’s head whir into life, turning briskly while the line between his eyebrows got even deeper.
Finally, Sam heaved a sigh, vexed.
“I don’t know, man. So what if Clancy wasn’t happy with what he got paid for the mine? That doesn’t explain why he’s so angry with Steve, or why he’s haunting the Forty-Eight. He didn’t die there, nobody murdered him, and where’s he been all this time, anyway? There’s got to be something more we don’t know.”
“You think? C’mon, Sammy-what does it matter?”
“It matters because I want to know, Dean. If Clancy had such a beef with the Hartson family, shouldn’t he have haunted Leland? I mean, shouldn’t Steve’s whole family have had grief from this guy? Seriously, Steve-you’ve never heard stories about the ghost of Bull Clancy, right? Right. See? It doesn’t make sense.”
Steve put his glass down on the coffee table with a clunk and cleared his throat.
“Well…” he began, and the Winchesters exchanged a meaningful glance before giving Steve their full attention.
“Yes?” Dean prompted, just a hint of ice in his voice.
Steve looked everywhere but at them. “You know how I said I don’t go down into the Forty-Eight any more?”
“You did,” Sam said, getting it immediately. “You did go down there, until something happened to scare you away. What was it?”
Steve made a little face, trying to figure out where to begin. “It took me a while to come back to Rattlesnake after my dad died. I mean, what was I going to do with an abandoned gold mine, right? But then I started thinking about tourism-about family-friendly adventure travel, you know-and how perfect the whole friggin’ Mother Lode is for that. I could make the mine a destination, and Rattlesnake could come back to life.”
Swiping a hand across his mouth, Dean shot Sam another glare. “Any time this century, Steve,” he growled. “Could you just cut to the chase?”
“What happened in the Forty-Eight?” Sam prodded more gently, although he was uncertain Steve was paying attention to anything more than his own story.
“I knew the lower drifts had been reclaimed by ground water, but everything above the Forty-Eight was dry, and that was perfect. Both adventure-wise and historically, I mean--the Forty-Eight's where Leland found the biggest, richest lode in practically the entire state, and once you’ve seen one drift, you’ve seen them all. So I didn’t need to worry about people going any deeper than that.”
Dean fidgeted in his chair, opening his mouth to speak but subsiding impatiently when Sam cut him off without a word. Let Steve get it out at his own pace, his brother’s admonishing glance said clearly, and although Dean rolled his eyes in response, he settled back with a huff, fingers toying absently with the Velcro strap across his thigh.
“So once I decided, I went down in," the mine-owner continued slowly, his voice growing bleaker with every word. "First time I'd been down there since high school, I think. I had a big flashlight and a bottle of wine with me, and when I got down to the Forty-Eight, I toasted old Leland. You know, I said I was going to follow in his footsteps; make the mine pay off again just like he had done.”
“What exactly did you say, Steve?”
Sam’s tone was empathetic and encouraging, and this time, Steve looked up at them, hollow-eyed and plainly understanding now the terrible error he had made.
“I gave a toast to the pioneer spirit that had given rise to the North Cedar and to the Hartson family fortunes,” he told them with dismay. “I said, ‘May that spirit continue with me as I bring the North Cedar back to what she once was, the gem of the Mother Lode.’ Then I suddenly started to feel something happening, like something-I don’t know, like something awful was being born down in the drift. It seemed crazy, you know? But I got really scared, and I just-I got out of there as fast as I could. I mean, I hadn't been talking about that kind of spirit...."
Dean chuckled dryly. “Yeah, well. Ghosts aren’t big on semantics.”
“It’s all right,” Sam said to the downcast mine-owner. “Now that we know who it is that's been haunting you, we can take care of it. Come on-it’s safer for you if you’re with us.”
The Winchesters stood suddenly, Sam shrugging back into the jacket he had discarded earlier while Dean leaned down to tighten the locking mechanism on his knee-brace. Even befuddled with whiskey, Steve could clearly see that they were preparing for action.
“Salt?” the older brother said, his voice brusque and business-like.
“Trunk,” the younger replied. “Lighter fluid?”
“New can with the shovel. Matches?”
“Right pocket. Let’s roll.”
“Where are we going?” Steve asked, mystified by the brothers’ rapid give-and-take.
“Founders Cemetery,” Sam responded easily, but the answer didn’t help the bewildered man.
“What are we going to do out there?”
“You’re gonna sit in the car and not see or say anything,” Dean told him, grabbing up the bottle of Scotch to return it to the liquor cabinet before pointing a reproving finger. “And, Steve-in the future? Dude, you’ve gotta be more careful about who you pick to be your drinking buddies. Unless it's us.”
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The ache in his knee wasn’t so bad, now, but Sam had still pressed Dean to take more painkillers; had still driven the Impala all the way down the narrow lane with Dean in the back keeping anxious lookout for encroaching branches; had still refused to allow his older brother to do any of the digging after they left Steve in the car and strolled almost casually into the Founders Cemetery, to disinter William “Bull” Clancy and send him on to the great hereafter. Or wherever.
Sam kept up a spirited monologue the whole time he dug, any remaining pain in his injured arm or the knot on his head apparently forgotten as he flung dirt from the gravesite, talking virtually nonstop. Relegated to guard-duty, Dean planted his ass on a cool granite headstone beside Clancy’s tomb, casting a dark shadow in the bright moonlight and listening with growing consternation as his brother chattered on about winzes and stopes and placer and troy. Snakes, too, for some reason, and coyote holes and drifts-before long, Dean began to regret not taking the drugs.
He hadn’t seen Sam this hopped up on something in a long time. Certainly not since their dad had died.
But Sammy’d been like this when he was a kid, Dean remembered idly, watching the pile of dirt grow higher beside the deepening hole; he’d get some bug up his ass about dinosaurs or the rainforest or something, and then he’d stuff his brain so full of information that there wasn’t anywhere else for it to go but to spill out of his mouth. Once, when he was seven, Sam had gone on about Australia for two solid weeks, until Dean nearly couldn’t take it any more. Convicts and aborigines and marsupials; that song about Matilda-it was like the kid just couldn’t shut up. Their dad had finally put an end to that particular episode with his usual diplomacy: a growled curse, and his index finger stabbing the air sharply. “Sam, not one more word,” he’d ordered, and that had been it for Australia.
Dean grinned at the memory, because Sammy hadn’t stopped for long. The next week, his topic of obsession had been how condor chicks imprint on hand puppets, and the week after that it was Katrina Thompkins, the best dodge-ball player in second grade.
Leave it to Geek-Boy to get excited over a big hole in the ground. Not like it was the Grand Canyon or anything, for cripe’s sake….
“…nearly five and a half…million ounces before the Hartsons… closed it. So the North Cedar had, like…the third richest lode in the state, according to Erica. She’s…got an amazing grasp of the details,” Sam said with the next five shovelfuls, and Dean suddenly recognized the real thread running through his brother’s lecture.
Erica.
Maybe he’d been wrong about Sammy scoring earlier, and maybe he hadn’t. Dean shifted against the headstone, smiling thoughtfully, letting the spate of Sam’s words wash over him like a warm tide as he listened to the gentle, rushing murmur of his little brother falling in love.
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The salt-and-burn had gone off without a hitch, and after getting Steve safely back to his own place, the Winchesters had returned to The Baron Hotel and turned in.
Despite the exercise in the cemetery, or maybe because of it, Sam remained stubbornly awake, unable to drift off, thoughts tumbling in his head, flitting past without leaving a lasting impression, just a vague feeling of excitement and dread. They were an odd combination, and finally he gave up on sleep entirely, rising from his bed and quietly taking care of business in the bathroom, then dressing in the dark.
Dean slept slack-jawed and undisturbed not five feet away, perhaps the aftermath of Elko, still, plus the painkillers Sam had finally forced on him once they had returned from salting and burning William Clancy. It had taken the older Winchester all of five minutes to crash, and Sam knew from experience that Dean was likely to be out for hours.
He scribbled a hasty note, which he propped on the night-stand where his brother could easily find it when he awoke. Double-checked the salt-lines and the EMF meter, just to be sure, then eased silently out of the room and the hotel.
The sky was just beginning to pearl with sunrise when Sam slid into the Impala and started her up, heading out of Rattlesnake, down the hill over roads dusted yellow with pollen, and out of the Mother Lode.
He ran into commuter traffic several times during the drive, but he still hit Palo Alto in early mid-morning. Two-thirds of the way through the spring term, their hands full of books and coffee cups, students made their way to labs and lectures past trees bursting with green and kiosks fluttering with colorful handbills announcing the upcoming annual arts and crafts fair.
Sam found a place to park, then began the long amble across campus. It hadn’t changed-he hadn’t been gone that long, after all-but Stanford existed now in a world entirely separate from his own. There were still people here he knew, yet not a one of whom knew the real him. The bereaved son. The hunter. The man with demon-spawned visions who seemed fated to become something even more different than any of them could possibly imagine, unless he could change his destiny.
Despite his thoughts, his feet found their way unerringly to the library where he and Jess had spent so many hours together, flirting, studying, wooing one another. The building was unlocked, and Sam hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold, shutting away the darkness to concentrate on the task at hand.
He didn’t recognize the student worker at the check-out desk, so he moved directly to the stairwell, climbing two steps at a time to the third floor, then back through the stacks to the study carrels at the east wall. Found their spot. Tried to picture just for a moment the Sam and Jessica who had existed in that space, in a time now irretrievably lost. Ran one hand through empty air the way he’d once run his hand through her hair, drawing her close to steal a kiss.
For an instant there was an odd feeling in his chest, tightening and then letting go, but then he let go, a long sigh escaping him. There were no ghosts here, he was certain, nothing to keep him any longer, and Sam turned to leave.
He spent another two hours revisiting their old haunts, not rushing, giving himself time to let the memories come and be recognized. Be dealt with. His cell had buzzed a couple of times, but Sam hadn’t answered, letting each of Dean’s calls go to voicemail.
It was funny, he reflected, how Dean had been such a pivotal part of him going to Stanford, and then no part of Stanford at all. Not the lecture halls, nor the coffee carts, nor the intramural soccer field, the rathskellar; certainly not Jessica-with one glaring exception and the odd phone conversation or drive-by, Dean hadn’t been any part of Sam’s college life, until the very, very end. So Sam felt no guilt about not answering his brother’s calls, choosing instead to quietly retrace the steps he’d once made here, a spirit echoing the events of a past life that no longer existed.
He drifted along the pathways and corridors, past knots of chattering collegians, solitary students hurrying to class or coffee, couples enjoying a bright spring day in the tender throes of young love. He had wondered distantly if he might see someone he knew, but the people he passed were all strangers to him, and it seemed as though they didn’t see him at all. Maybe they didn’t, Sam thought, because he was no longer a part of the picture; he no longer belonged. Maybe he never really had.
He saved the hardest for last, and because he knew it would be hardest, and knew it would be last, he went back to the Impala first. Once his final task was accomplished, he could drive away quickly, and never look back.
The route he drove by rote took him past what had once been their restaurant. Buonfonte’s was a little Italian place with nothing much in the way of ambience other than the requisite red-checked tablecloths and Chianti-bottle candlesticks, but the chef made an awesome scampi, and Jess had once vowed only to die if she could take some of it with her.
Sam had taken her there on their first official date, and afterward the young couple had celebrated all their milestones at Buonfonte’s: birthdays, the end of finals, moving in together, Sam’s LSAT scores.
It was where he had planned to propose to her, of course, when the time came.
Except that now it was gone.
Sam slowed the car, coming to a stop in mid-street and hunching over the steering wheel to peer in disbelief out the side window at the sports bar now occupying the restaurant’s old space. Neon signs advertising a variety of beers lit the windows; an electric orange poster board announced happy hour daily from four to six, with well-drink prices slashed.
Maybe he should have expected it, but somehow-his lip curled with a bitter smile. Somehow he’d thought they’d always have Buonfonte’s.
There was a honk behind him, and he startled, then shifted gears and continued up the street, taking a left at the stoplight and driving three more blocks down a residential street until he came to the building where he and Jess…
Where he and Jess…
Where Jess…
Sam allowed himself to leave the thought unfinished. Instead, he pulled in next to the fire hydrant (and a tip of the hat to that irony, he decided mirthlessly) and got out, surveying the street, the repair job done on their old apartment after that awful night.
His cell buzzed again, but he ignored it, opening the car door with a squeal and climbing out. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the sidewalk and went up the steps onto the porch, fingers brushing past the row of mailboxes, stumbling momentarily on the one that had been theirs. He didn’t look to see the new name.
Up the stairs, then, fourth riser in the second flight still creaking like always, and down the hall. It was quiet behind some doors as he passed, but as he neared their old place, he could hear rap music coming from inside, heavy bass pounding. Even at late morning, he could smell the unmistakable aroma of pot wafting from the front room. A number of stickers papered the door, advertising radio stations and skateboarding, and someone had carved “Fuck You Jason” into the upper panel.
And that was the end of it.
Eyes on the door for what he knew would be the last time, Sam paused, then nodded shortly to himself before he turned and walked away. There was no need to look back, ever again.
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He was back on the highway when his phone buzzed, and this time he picked up.
“Where the hell’s my car?” Dean growled angrily, and Sam felt a smile tug at his mouth.
“It’s with me.”
“Where the hell are you?”
Despite his tone, Sam could hear the concern and relief in his brother’s voice; knew what Dean was really asking: Sammy, are you okay?
Or perhaps, Is it really you? It hadn’t been all that long ago that Dean had woken to find Sam gone, taken by a demon who had used him viciously. Most of that fallout was over, but how long would it be before either one of them truly forgot?
Sam took a long breath. “I’m on my way back, Dean; I’ll see you in a couple of hours. There was something I needed to do.”
If Dean had been no part of Sam’s Stanford life, he was certainly the most important part of Sam’s life now. They’d hit plenty of rough patches since his brother had come for him that Halloween night, and God only knew what lay ahead of them, but of one thing Sam was certain: he and Dean were in it together for the long haul.
There was a brief silence on the other end, and Sam believed he could actually hear Dean thinking, sorting through all the possibilities of what Sam might have needed to do without telling his older brother first.
Smile broadening, Sam moved the Impala into the fast lane and picked up speed. “Dean, I’m on my way home. I’m gonna swing by the mine and pick up our pay from Steve, and I’ll see you soon.”
He ended the call, then brought up the fresh contact on the display screen and thumbed the button, settling himself more comfortably into the driver’s seat while he waited.
“Hey, Erica-it’s Sam,” he said when she answered. “Listen, once you’re done up in Rattlesnake this afternoon, would you like to go to dinner?”
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TBC. Have faith…thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed.
Chapter Eight here.