Tecumseh
By Tidia & MOG, May 2006
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Chapter 10/18
Dean let out a low whistle as he and Sam exited the Impala and stared
at the vehicle in front of them. A cup of E-Z Mart coffee warmed Dean’s
hands despite the overcast weather. “Damn. When they said their RV was
in the hotel parking lot, I didn’t think they meant the entire parking lot.”
Taking up 40 feet of the Ramada Inn’s back lot was a Fleetwood
Providence 39L motorcoach. A compact satellite dish peeked up from the
roof and a conservative logo colored a portion of the passenger’s side
panel.
In a gray, blocky font, the letters ‘RIP’ were boldly painted. Beneath
them - ‘Rational Investigations of the Paranormal - Explaining the
unknown since 1993.’
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think you can even touch one like this for
under two-hundred thousand.”
“Forget the price, how do they afford to keep gas in it?”
Sam knocked lightly on the door but Dean waited only a few seconds
before calling out and knocking again.
“Hello?” He pulled on the handle but was not surprised to find it
locked. “Here, hold this,” he said, passing his coffee to his brother
while reaching into one of the inside pockets of his leather jacket.
Sam shook his head the second he saw the familiar zippered case
containing Dean’s lock picks.
“No. No, no, no, no, no. Dean, we just talked to them on the
cell fifteen minutes ago.” He
looked towards the hotel, hoping the owners of the mammoth rig were not
around. He stared again at his brother, who was busy working on the
lock of the side door. “Would you cut it out! I mean it.” He rubbed the
bridge of his nose and muttered to himself. “God, why couldn’t I have
been born an only child?”
Dean flashed him a grin. “Then you woulda been even more boring than
you are now.”
Sam glanced around furtively. “They’ve got to be close by. You can’t
just walk in.”
Dean smiled again. “Nah, it’s really easy – watch.” The tumblers of the
lock clicked and he returned the picks to his jacket before plucking
his coffee from Sam’s hands, opening the door and heading up the stairs.
His voice floated down from inside, taunting Sam. “Oh man, we are so on
the wrong end of the right business.” He leaned down to look at his
brother. “Come to the Dark Side, Luke.”
Sam watched as Dean disappeared from view. The curiosity was too great
for him and he took one quick look around before joining his brother.
The interior had a feeling of controlled chaos. Reference books and
magazines filled any space not taken up by electronics. A love seat and
two recliners had several overnight bags and silver-colored aluminum
equipment cases laid out on them.
Where the original 46-inch wide sofa once sat, there was now a
workstation, with three Dell laptops haphazardly stacked next to a
docking station and a 21-inch, high-resolution, digital, flat panel
monitor. A postcard of Mulder and Scully was taped to the wall above
the monitor. Next to it hung a photo of several men ranging from early
20’s to mid 30’s, seated at a bar table with a lot of beer bottles and
Penn Jillette & Teller.
Sam scanned the titles of some of the books and periodicals stuffed
into a bookcase. “European Journal of Parapsychology, Skeptical
Enquirer, Physiological Effects of Infra-Sound, Gauld’s Mediumship and
Survival….hey, here’s a classic - Corninda’s 13 Steps to Mentalism. At
least they seem to have a decent balance of belief and skepticism.”
Dean spoke up from the kitchen area. “They’ve got a damn nice coffee
pot too.” He read the logo aloud as he peeled the flimsy, plastic lid
from his to-go cup and topped off his coffee with a steaming,
deliciously scented blend. “Technivorm MoccaMaster CD. Never heard of
it, but it looks expensive.” He shook his head and mumbled to himself, “Definitely on the wrong end of this
business.”
“Nice setup,” commented Sam, “no doubt about that.” He picked up a
TriField Natural EM Meter from a shelf. “These things retail for about
220 dollars.”
“Hey, we’ve been getting by just fine,” Dean replied, feeling liked his
homemade detector was being insulted.
Sam shot him a look. “Oh, so you can comment but I can’t?”
“Older brother prerogative,” answered Dean.
Sam rolled his eyes and put the meter back on the shelf. Dean decided
it might be a good time to hustle his brother back outside before Sam
started to complain about their meager existence.
“C’mon. That is, if you think you can tear yourself away from the
books.”
Outside, they leaned casually against the Impala and waited less than a
minute before two figures, carrying a few cases and equipment bags,
exited a side door of the hotel. As they got closer, Sam and Dean
recognized them as two of the men from the bar photo.
The taller of the two, a man in his mid-thirties with dark,
short-cropped hair shifted a square aluminum case to his left hand and
greeted the Winchester boys.
“You must be Dean and Sam.” His eyes lingered over the Impala. “Sweet
ride. Hell of a lot more fun than this thing.” He hitched a thumb
toward the motorcoach. “I’m Matt, and this is our resident sound
expert, Josh Hagin.”
“Dean,” stated the older Winchester as he shook hands. “Nice to meet
ya,” he nodded toward his brother, “and Sam’s who you talked to on the
phone.”
Josh, a blonde twenty-something who fit the mold for a Hollywood
fresh-face type, rested his gear on the ground long enough to say hello
and shake hands, before moving to the RV to unlock it and rid himself
of their equipment.
Matt wrapped his open flannel over shirt tight across his body to ward
off the cold and folded his arms against his chest to preserve heat. He
pointed toward the RV. “Mind if we go in? I’m freezing.”
Inside, Josh shuffled books and equipment out of the way to allow for
sitting space. “Sorry about the mess,” he said quietly, “there really
is an organized system – it’s just a very closely guarded secret.”
Matt made a beeline for the kitchen. “Have a seat. You guys want some
coffee?”
Sam and Dean both declined as they sat on the loveseat, but quickly
went out of their way to comment on the motorcoach’s interior, as if
seeing it for the first time.
Matt dropped into a recliner. “So, you’re friends of Scarlett’s.”
Dean tilted his head and nodded, indicating a so-so kind of answer.
“Friends of a friend. A buddy of mine almost became her nephew.”
“Really?” Matt answered. His tone was noticeably ambiguous.
Dean smiled, knowing exactly what the man was thinking. “Yeah. And yes,
he does consider himself a very lucky man about the ‘almost’ part.”
Matt couldn’t prevent the soft, knowing laugh that escaped. “She’s
definitely one-of-a-kind. You said on the phone you’re doing an article
on the Wheelock Mission for one of the psi mags?”
Dean nodded. “We’re freelance, we haven’t shopped it yet; but we’re
thinking the history, the stories, that kinda thing. Scarlett said you
were there last night, but couldn’t go back?”
Matt nodded soberly. “We’re techies, man. I’ve got four people working
for me and between the five of us our education and employment
histories cover MIT, the Rhine Center, Boeing, NASA, Microsoft, and
Josh, here, spent four years as a magician’s assistant in Vegas.”
“We experiment, debunk, and figure out. But the Wheelock...we have a consultant for cases like this.” He
called out to his partner, who was in the rear of the RV. “Hey Josh,
where are Judy’s pics?”
The other man’s soft voice floated out from the back. “In the case
folder…check the red bag.”
A crimson-colored Jansport backpack rested against the loveseat by
Sam’s feet. Matt gestured toward it. “Dig through there. There should
be a manila envelope with some Polaroids.”
Sam found them floating loose in a tan folder marked ‘Ellis,
Scarlett/Wheelock Mission’, and shared them with Dean. Though no face
could be seen, the subject was obviously female. She stood in a bra and
jeans and the focus of the photos was clearly several slash marks
across the front of her torso.
“That’s Judy, our videographer. We got in yesterday morning and
interviewed Scarlett and a couple of the contractors who claimed to
have experienced things at the mission. We went in about ten o’clock
last night and did the usual frequency checks, vibration measurements,
and camera and sound set-up and sweeps.”
“Around eleven, Judy and Josh were up on the second floor, there’s a
room towards the back, and Josh says she just yelled and fell
backwards. He thought she tripped over something – till he saw the
blood soaking through her t-shirt.”
Sam studied one of the photographs closer. “They don’t look too deep.
Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Superficial cuts, but she spent the rest of the night here at
the hotel. She said it was like something hit her. Josh had a thermal
scanner that recorded a thirty-degree temperature drop at the time of
her ‘fall’.” Matt crooked his fingers to indicate quotes, and the
expression on his face indicated his true suspicions.
“I’ve been doing this stuff thirteen years and have found a lot of very
boring solutions to a lot of supposed paranormal activity….but Judy
isn’t some clueless hick, or someone trying to pull a fast one.”
“Could we interview her?” asked Dean.
Matt answered with an apologetic smile. “She was a little wigged out,
decided to fly out early.”
“Fly out?” Sam prompted.
“Next job. England. We called in our consultant for this one and
decided to go with the better paying job.”
“Better than ten grand?”
“The BBC,” Josh answered, as he came from the back of the RV while
looping up some audio cable. “Got the message last night. We’ve been
invited to go to England for ultimate ghost hunting - $100,000 prize.”
“They even sprung for First Class on the flight over.” Matt added, with
a little-kid grin.
“One hundred thousand?” Dean choked out.
Matt exchanged looks with Josh. “It would sure help get the franchise
off the ground.”
“Franchise?” asked Sam. He was really beginning to wonder if the
entire, little Oklahoma town wasn’t under some sort of strange spell
where nothing was normal, because making a decent living from ghost
hunting was not normal.
“Yeah,” answered Matt. “Home base is Denver, but it’d be easier if we
were in Florida and Nevada too. Cracker’s coming in, so if you’re
interested in an up-close and personal with the Wheelock, all you need
to do is impress the professional.”
“Cracker?” Sam questioned.
“Nickname,” answered Josh, dropping the cable in a small footlocker.
“Our psychic - flies in tomorrow morning, likes tough jobs.”
Matt pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out a business
card. “Here ya go.”
Sam took the card but Dean snatched it from his fingertips after seeing
the name. “Stacey May,” he read aloud.
“The cell on that is always good, or you can swing by here any time
after….one o’clock probably. We drive back tonight, but you can ask for
Stacey at the hotel’s front desk.”
A cell phone ring tone interrupted their conversation, chirping the
theme to ‘The A-Team’.
Matt patted the pockets of his cargo pants until he located a small
Motorola. “ ’scuse me.”
“Go ahead.” Dean replied. “Thanks for your time.” He held up the card
and the brothers shook hands with Josh before leaving.
Walking to the Impala, Dean studied the card and let the psychic’s name
roll off his tongue. “Stacey May….sounds blonde. Ooh, ‘Ghost
Whisperer’. Maybe she’s got a Jennifer Love-Hewitt thing goin’ on.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if we ever have
to investigate a haunted brothel.”
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