"Rush" - Chapter Eight, Part Two
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Chapter Eight, Part One here.
The front door of The Baron was locked when Sam tried it, and Dean had the only key. If he knocked, his brother might not hear; he couldn’t call, either, because he’d used the last of his cell’s charge confirming dinner with Erica, so his phone was dead.
Vexed, Sam put his hands on his hips and turned until he was facing the street, glancing casually across and down Eureka to see who might be watching. Finding no one on the sidewalks at mid-afternoon, he reached into a pocket and removed the kit where he kept the lock-picks, easily extracting the right tool and slipping it into the key-hole. Two twists and a jiggle, and the door snicked open.
Sam put the kit away and stepped inside quietly. If Dean was here, he was supposed to be researching their next gig; more often than not, that meant he was napping, and maybe Sam could sneak up on him-surprise him a little, get his heart pumping.
The young hunter pushed the door closed and stepped softly across the lobby toward the back hall, noting again what a great job the Markhams had done making the place seem authentic, restoring it to what was ostensibly its former glory. It was quiet, now, but somehow the old hotel didn’t feel quite empty, and if he were prone to imagination, Sam thought he’d be able to picture the people who had made The Baron their home or way-station, back in Rattlesnake’s heyday-the miners and madams, business tycoons, thrill-seekers and those just passing through-bringing the place to life.
He tiptoed the best he could down the hallway, leaning an ear against the door of their suite but hearing nothing. No TV, no snoring…he turned the handle cautiously, then threw the door open, stepping inside with a bold grin which faded as soon as he saw that the room was vacant.
Oh, well.
He plugged his cell phone into the charger next to Dean’s bottle of OxyContin, then made for the bathroom, kicking aside a pile of damp towels on the floor so that he could get to the sink. He’d had a shower in the dark hours of the morning, right after they’d gotten in from the salt-and-burn, but a pass of his hand over his chin told Sam he could use a quick shave.
He unzipped the kit that held his toiletries, digging inside for the electric razor, figuring when he couldn’t find it that his brother had borrowed it again without asking.
“Damn it, Dean!” he said without much heat, but his voice was loud inside the otherwise-empty suite.
From the floor above him came a sudden thump, the kind of light thud a cat might make jumping down from a table or a bookcase.
Sam froze for just a moment, catching his own eyes in the mirror over the sink. Then he moved swiftly out of the bathroom and through the suite, snagging the Taurus from the back of his jeans as he went.
He was down the hallway in moments, through the lobby and up the stairs moments later. Now the feeling inside The Baron seemed almost menacing, and as Sam hit the second-floor landing and sidled along the wall to the hallway, he called out loudly.
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer, of course, and no further sound from anywhere. Sam drew in a deep breath, checking the safety on his gun as he stepped into the corridor.
“Dean? You up here? You better speak up now, man.”
But it wasn’t Dean, Sam knew. There was a sense of something hiding just out of eyeshot, and the young hunter briefly considered heading back downstairs to pick up some salt to go with the flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. Instead, he walked cautiously down the hall, stopping at each door to test the handle, finding each room locked until he reached the last one.
Delilah Reardon’s room.
Sam paused, listening intently, feeling beyond knowing that something was holding its breath just on the other side of the door.
“If you’re there,” he said, voice rough with threat, “I’m coming in.”
The gun was in his right hand, up by his ear, and he grasped the door-handle firmly with his left.
It was locked.
Sam blinked, certain that someone was inside; had somehow gotten into the hotel and made their way up to Delilah’s room, and…
He raised his brows, feeling his forehead wrinkle.
Right?
He listened again, but the whole atmosphere was different now, and he was starting to feel a little foolish, particularly when he rapped his knuckles against the door’s upper panel, seeking permission to enter.
“Hello?”
Again, there was no answer. No one on the other side hiding, holding his or her breath. No sound at all except for Sam’s own aggravated huff. Buildings made noises, whether they were new or old...
He jiggled the door-handle twice more, to be certain, then checked the safety on the Taurus again and tucked it back into his jeans, heading quickly downstairs and back to the suite. He was running late now, with no time to shave even if Dean hadn’t swiped the razor, but he slapped on some cologne before grabbing his cell out of the charger. Battery was still low, but it would have to do.
Sam made sure The Baron’s front door was locked behind him, then slid into the Impala, starting it up and letting the engine idle while he waited for a small school-bus loaded with a couple dozen kids and a handful of adults to pass by. Then he turned north on Cedar and headed for the mine.
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It took a while for Grace to stop trembling, but when she did, Dean had to ask.
“Could it be the kids? Attracting Quon-Jin, I mean. I hate to say this about someone from your family, but he did kill a little girl. Think about it-class was here yesterday when that one kid said she saw some guy over in the corner, right next door to the joss house; then today-“
The curator shuddered. “That would be awful, but it makes some sense.”
“Yeah.” Goddamn freakin’ pedophile ghost needed to go, right now, Dean thought, then pressed a quick kiss into Grace’s hair. “Why did he have a pool-stick?”
She raised her face to his, puzzled. “A pool-stick?”
“Yeah. You said the man you saw had a cue in his hands.”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, under the circumstances, but Grace giggled, a hand flying to her mouth to suppress the tiny sound.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, but he laughed, too, at her unexpected reaction, and that made it all right.
“What’s funny?”
“How we say one thing, and people hear another. I meant that he wore his hair in a pigtail, not that he had a pool-stick. The words just sound the same.”
“Ah.” Dean let his eyes travel to the picture on the far wall, the one of Quon-Jin’s hanging, thinking for a moment. “After they lynched your great-granddaddy, what happened to the body?”
Her response was instant and matter-of-fact, if short on detail. “It was desecrated, and then the mob burned it. The race-riot started almost right away.”
“They burned all of him?”
Grace pulled away from him, the puzzled frown back on her face. “What do you mean?”
Dean hoisted himself off the loveseat and crossed the room to the image on the wall. “Take a good look, Grace. What’s missing from this picture?”
She joined him, examining the print closely, not getting it until he tapped a finger on Quon-Jin’s head.
“Where’s his queue?” Dean asked succinctly, only a touch of emphasis on the last word.
Grace gave a tiny gasp of surprise as she peered at the dark, uneven tent of chin-length hair obscuring the hanged man’s face. “I always thought that was a hood! Junjei, they cut off his pigtail to dishonor him!”
“So where’d it go? Grace, I know this doesn’t make a lick of sense, but there’s a reason I’m asking. The only way Quon-Jin can still be here is if there’s something holding him here. Most likely, it’s something physical, some part of him. You said they burned his body, but what about that hair, huh? Is it possible-“
Her eyes widened suddenly. “Yes! Oh, that makes perfect sense! A note in my great-grandmother’s diary said that they took his remains to the temple, but I never understood that-if they burned his body, how could there possibly be any remains? But…oh.”
As quickly as it had risen, her voice dropped suddenly. “I’ve spent my whole life in the shadow of that temple, Dean. If Quon-Jin’s queue were there, I would have known.”
Dean shook his head, unwilling to surrender. “It’s there, all right,” he said with certainty. “Without his queue, ol’ Q-J wouldn’t still be hangin’ around.”
He blinked at the unintended pun, then rushed past it, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“My guess is that it’s buried in the cellar somewhere. Grace, give me the keys.”
“What?”
“Give me the keys to the joss house, and don’t go in there again until I tell you.”
“Why?” she asked, big-eyed. “What are you going to do?”
Dean stared coolly at the picture once more, eyes flicking over it, taking in every detail.
“I’m going to end your ancestor,” he told her. “He won’t be scaring anybody any more.”
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Dean was pretty positive that Grace wouldn’t have given him the keys at all if she hadn’t still been in shock from what she’d seen in the Chinese temple. She sure as hell wouldn’t have let him take the blunt-nosed shovel from the display of antique mining tools, so he didn’t ask, didn’t order, just picked it up and took it with him when he headed out the museum door.
“Oh!” she said when she saw what he held, but her protest died unspoken.
“Stay put,” he directed. “I mean it.”
Dean hobbled back to the joss house, tossing the shovel inside and then locking the solid iron outer door from the sidewalk before heading up the street again toward The Baron. Grace was at the window watching him, and he raised an admonishing finger at her, mouthing “Stay!” as he passed by. She nodded once, but the frown on her face was a clear indication of her growing concern.
Sam had the Impala, of course, and most of their arsenal with it, but the weapons duffel was still at the hotel. Marching determinedly up Eureka, Dean laid his plans as he went.
They were simple enough, the same plans he’d made a thousand or maybe a hundred thousand times before-Kill that evil sonofabitch. Just because it wasn’t creative didn’t mean it wasn’t going to work. Added benefit? He was going to enjoy doing it.
He wrenched open The Baron’s front door, and there was a series of thumps on the staircase as he strode through the lobby, the sounds of someone ascending quickly at his unexpected entrance. Although no one was there, Dean spoke anyway, jaw set as he passed the landing and the reception desk.
“I don’t have time for you right now, sweetheart, but maybe later-after I get rid of your ghost-buddy Quon-Jin.”
The thumping stopped, or maybe he just didn’t hear it any more as he limped quickly to the suite and found the weapons duffel, finally taking a moment to curse at the renewed ache in his leg, leaning heavily against the wall to ease the stress on his knee.
After a few seconds, he grabbed up the salt-gun and a fistful of extra rounds, stuffing everything into his jacket, adding a vial of holy water to his pocket for good measure. Then he slammed the suite door behind him and headed back out through the lobby.
“Stay out of my room!” Dean barked in the direction of the staircase, and then he was out on Eureka Street again, on his way to the joss house.
Grace was on the sidewalk this time, watching as he hobbled toward her, and one look at his face was all it took to make her step back into the museum doorway.
“I’ll let you know when it’s safe,” he told her sternly, not slowing.
“Dean-“ she started, subsiding quickly when his scowl darkened. “Be careful.”
He unlocked the outer door and entered the stone building cautiously, swinging the heavy painted iron closed behind him. There was no interior lock, and Dean figured maybe that had something to do with the joss house now being a historical exhibit as well as a working temple. He chewed briefly on his lower lip as he withdrew the shotgun from inside his jacket, racking in a load, suddenly wondering how he was going to keep tourists from wandering in by accident while he took care of business.
Or Grace, for that matter, which would be no accident.
After a moment he turned to the altar, keeping an eye out for any sign of Quon-Jin Chin’s spirit, but the EMF meter had stayed quiet and the temperature pleasant. He was surprised but pleased to see the stub of red candle sitting in a lily-shaped bowl amongst the items offered to honor the Chin family’s ancestors; Dean grabbed it up, then limped swiftly back to the front of the joss house.
He put the salt-gun down on one of the little tables and removed an educational placard-something about the Chinese who’d worked the mines and the railroads back in the day-from its display stand. He dropped the laminated poster-board face-down beside the gun, working quickly with the candle stub in one hand and his lighter in the other.
Nice!
He waved a hand over the results to cool the wax before flipping over the placard and melting what little remained of the candle stub into a small pool on the front. Then Dean hurried to the exterior door, swinging it open.
He found himself unexpectedly face to face with a trio of startled white-haired women, wearing casual clothes and toting cameras. They had clearly been preparing to come inside.
“Oh!” said the one with the tour-book in her hand, her drawl evident even in the single word. “Is it open? It doesn’t look open. Can we go in?”
Dean flashed her a very fake smile as he slapped the front of the placard onto the front of the iron door, holding it there until the softened wax had a chance to harden completely.
When he removed his hand and the placard stayed put, the phony smile became real.
“Sorry, ladies,” he said, tapping a finger against the sign he’d just made and posted, probably breaking all sorts of laws about vandalizing state-owned buildings, not to mention historic temples. “Chinese holiday today-we’re closed.”
Then Dean stepped back inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
He picked up the shotgun again and waited another thirty seconds while the tourists dithered outside, talking about getting something to drink, then heading for Nevada City. Finally they moved on, and Dean took a deep breath, moving to the center of the room, facing the altar.
“Quon-Jin Chin!” he shouted. “I’m here for you!”
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TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed.
Chapter Nine here.
Some personal notes about this chapter here:
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A/N: When my parents built our home in the wooded foothills of the Sierra Nevada, the surrounding area was quite undeveloped, with only a few other families in the general vicinity, and none within shouting distance. It’s different now, and with some time having passed, my mother recently recalled how quiet it had been in those days, particularly when we kids were off at school and she had the house-the whole neighborhood, really-to herself.
“I’m pretty sure Indians lived here once,” she said.
Duh, I thought. In fact, there is a tiny ‘Indian burial ground’ at the end of our road, although a fairly contemporary one, and I grew up with a couple of classmates whose family members are essentially the last survivors of the local tribe-the brothers seemed extremely shy, and each rarely spoke much with anyone other than his identical twin. Or maybe I didn’t listen enough-anyway, I never did know whether they were Maidu or Miwok, or some other clan altogether.
Still, my mother’s comment seemed an odd one for her to make.
“Why do you say that, about the Indians?” I asked.
“I think I heard them,” she replied. “Back when we were still the only house out here.”
“You heard Indians?” I’m sure I sounded skeptical, because…well, because I was. “Mother, the Lasters didn’t live anywhere near here, and I’m sure they spoke English. You did not hear Indians.”
She’s a stubborn woman, my mother, and she hastened to defend herself.
“Yes, I did. I heard voices, when there wasn’t anyone else around, nobody living nearby. And they weren’t ‘white’ voices, either. I heard a child crying, too-several times. I even went outside to look for it.”
I was beginning to get the picture, although it was an unbelievable one. My mother-a genteel woman raised as a strict Southern Methodist who has never shown the slightest interest in anything remotely supernatural-was talking about Indian spirits as though not only did they exist, but that they had, in a way, communicated with her.
“Mom.”
It wasn’t really the spirits that were beyond my ken, but my mother’s revelation; I was kind of flabbergasted, and I rationalized furiously. “You heard the wind. And you didn’t hear a kid crying-we were the only house out here, so how could there have been a kid? It was an animal or something. A cat yowling.”
She was undeterred and a little miffed. “Where’d it come from, then? I raised the four of you and I’ve had cats. I know the sound a child makes when it cries, Lin. What I heard was not a cat.”
“So, it was-what, Mom? What exactly are you saying?”
“Exactly what I did say,” she replied, and that was the end of the conversation.
Ultimately, I surrendered, as a good daughter should. My practical, church-going, no-nonsense mother has heard Indian spirits and at least one unhappy child where no child could possibly be, and I won’t doubt her any more.
So, in the Markhams’ historic hotel? That was never a cat.