Archive of Our Own

The Curious Case of Agatha Wilson

Colby looked up at the multi-story apartment complex in front of him and sighed. Canvasing was never a fun task, but it was a necessary evil of every FED’s job description. Knowing that didn’t help the fact that he and David were going to have to knock on the doors of more than 400 of LA’s residents to try and get a lead on the case they’d caught.

A series of gruesome murders had taken place at this very location in the past week. Five in total, one each night following the first murder. So far there was no evidence whatsoever and the LAPD were scratching their heads. The FBI had caught the case that morning and the whole team was determined that there wouldn’t be a sixth.

At his side, David sighed. “We’d better get started,” he said.

The first two residents didn’t seem to be home. An older lady opened the door at apartment number three.

“Ma’am we’re with the FBI,” Colby introduced, holding up his badge. “Do you have a minute?”

“FBI? But…weren’t you boys just here?” the woman asked. She looked between the two feds standing on her welcome mat outside.

“Excuse me?” Colby said, clearly thrown.

“Can I ask what they were here about?” David asked, always the professional.

“They asked me about the murders that have been happening here,” the old lady answered.

“Is that so?” Colby said. His face hardened.

“Yes, don’t you feds talk to each other? They were here maybe twenty minutes ago.” The old lady seemed a bit upset. “I was in the middle of something. I’ve got a life you know, I’m not dead yet!” she ranted, “Waste of my time, asking all those strange questions.”

“What kind of questions?” David asked, “If you don’t mind.”

“They wanted to know about—about the building, how old it was, if anyone had died here recently—before the killings started,” the old lady corrected, “And they kept asking me if I’d seen anything strange, or noticed any cold spots or flickering lights—”

“Lights?” David asked, just as Colby said, “Cold spots?”

“Yes! I told them, it’s an old building, so of course it’s going to have faulty wiring and be a bit drafty. Honestly, what kind of question is that? I’ve got half a mind to file a complaint!”

“Ma’am, please calm down,” David said, “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. We’re sorry for the interruption but can you tell me who these two agents were?”

“They said their names were…. Angus and Young,” the old woman replied.

“Thank you,” David said, “And can you describe them for me?”

The old woman drew her eyebrows together in concern but answered nonetheless.

“One was very tall, longish brown hair and sideburns. The other was shorter, dirty blond…he looked more like an actor than a fed, really,” the older woman said. She seemed a little flustered. “A looker, he was—the both of them. Wish I was about fifty years younger, if you catch my drift.”

Colby cleared his throat. The older woman was looking directly at him, and yes, he definitely caught her drift.

“Thank you, we’ll call if we have any follow-up questions,” David said.

The woman nodded and retreated back into her apartment, closing the door in the two agents’ faces. Colby and David shared a look. This certainly wasn’t what they had been expecting from a routine canvas.

David called it in to the office while Colby continued the canvas. His partner looked at him when he hung up, and David shook his head. There was no record of the two agents in the FBI database. Whoever they were, they were certainly not law enforcement.

They continued the canvas, feeling more than a little uneasy. Five more residents mentioned getting a visit from their mysterious fed impersonators as well. They walked away from the fifth, thinking aloud.

“Who do you think they are?” Colby asked.

“I’ve no idea,” David said. He shook his head. “My gut tells me these guys are the ones we’re looking for though.”

“Maybe they’re trying to cover their tracks, find out what people know,” Colby offered.

“Maybe. Pretty risky if you ask me,” David replied.

“If the pattern holds, they should be back tonight to commit another murder,” Colby said. “We should head back and plan out our next move.”

“Yeah, good call,” David said. They returned to the car.

Don couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“So…you think these guys are canvasing to get the scoop on eyewitness accounts?” he said, trying to wrap his brain around it. “I mean, it sort of makes sense, but it’s not a great tactic.”

“That’s what we thought,” Colby said, “But I mean, who else could they be?”

“Vigilantes?” Meagan suggested with a shrug, “Reporters looking for a break?”

“I don’t know, something about it doesn’t add up,” Don said, “And you honestly think these could be our guys?”

Colby and David shared a look, then nodded in unison.

“Alright well, the plan was to stake the place out tonight anyway, so let’s pull some more agents in on the job and nab these guys before they kill again.”

Don looked away, shaking his head. He had his hands on his hips and seemed a bit lost.

“We’ve got a few hours until sundown. Let’s see what else we can find. I’ll check with Charlie, see if he’s got anything from the data I sent him this morning.”

Don grabbed his coat and keys from his desk and strode briskly away, off to find his brother and hopefully grab a late lunch before the all-nighter ahead.

The rest of the team scattered to their desks, digging in to the evidence with new fervor. Sundown was only a few short hours away.

The road outside the apartment complex was quiet this late at night. It was nearly two in the morning, and so far there had been no sign of activity. According to lividity reports, all the victims died around three, so there was a good chance that things would pick up soon.

A flicker of movement caught Don’s eye in the rear-view of his black SUV. An old muscle car—a Chevrolet if he wasn’t mistaken—had just turned the corner. It slowed and rolled up to a spot a few spaces down from Don before stopping and going dark. Don watched as two men got out of the car. One, the driver, looked around, his eyes stopping briefly on the SUV. Don held his breath and watched from the rear-view as the man turned to his accomplice, who said something to get his attention. The man took one last look at the SUV and then circled around to the back of his car with his partner. They grabbed a pair of duffel bags from the trunk, hitching them up on their shoulders in unison like it was something they did every night, and then started across the street to the apartment building.

Don slouched low in his seat as they angled closer to his SUV, muttering into his radio.

“I’ve got two suspects approaching the building now,” he said in a hushed voice, “They fit the description. I’m going to follow them in.”

He slid silently from the car and drew his Glock, switching the safety off before slinking across the street. The two men were already inside. Don entered the building only a couple minutes behind them.

As soon as he entered, Don heard the slow creak of a door closing. He followed it down a set of stairs leading to the basement.

“Suspects entered the basement,” he whispered into his piece. Don stood with his back to the wall as he prepared to go after them.

“Ten four, on our way,” came Colby’s voice over his earpiece.

Don opened the basement door slowly, as quietly as he could. The door creaked slightly, and he pulled up on the handle to stifle some of the sound—an old trick he’d learned as a kid sneaking out of the house. Now his teenage escapades helped him once again.

Don slipped into the basement and followed a long hallway. The dim lighting flickered as he passed. The door at the end of it opened up into a large storage room, with various sized units holding the odds and ends of the residents upstairs. Through the chicken-wire grating, Don could see the two men he was following standing in front of one of the storage units. He stopped abruptly as they came into view, scuffing his foot against the wooden trim of the storage unit he was hiding behind in his haste.

“You hear something?” A low, gravelly voice came from not far into the basement. Don watched the back of a dirty-blond head perk up and turn slightly to the side. He held his breath, cursing silently as he watched the suspect who had spoken glance around the room.

“Nobody’s there, Dean, come on,” the other man said. He fumbled for something in his bag. “Let’s just get this done and get out of here.”

“Yeah, okay,” the other agreed. His partner drew a set of wire cutters from the duffel and began cutting away at the screen to the storage unit they had stopped at. The other man stood watch while he did.

“Come on, Sammy, hurry it up,” the other—Dean—said impatiently a minute later, “Place gives me the creeps.”

“It’s just a basement, dude, chill out,” Sammy said, sounding amused.

“Shut up and hurry,” Dean snapped at him. He glanced around nervously.

Something occurred to Don. If they were the ones murdering the residents upstairs, then why were they in the basement trying to steal something?

Suddenly a loud, tinny whine interrupted the silence of the room, echoing off the unfinished drywall outlining the room.

“We’ve got company,” Dean said. He was holding something—a device of some kind—in his left hand. Don could just make out the red lights blinking across the top of it but he couldn’t see much else. Sam dropped the wire cutters in an instant and drew something else from his bag—this Don saw clearly. A shotgun. Dean shoved the device in his pocket and drew a shotgun from his bag just as swiftly, cocking it with one hand.

Somehow the two knew he was there—the device must be some sort of RF sweeper—and they were armed. Don crouched lower to minimize himself as a target, raising his gun.

He watched the two glance around, their faces hard as they searched for him. Don’s blood froze in his veins and a chill ran up his spine. Something about these two spoke of danger.

“Show yourself, you gutless spook!” Dean called out, training his gun around the room.

Don held his breath, wondering how far away his backup was. Not that he doubted his own ability, but there were two of them and one of him, and his adversaries moved like they had special training.

“Maybe it’s not going to show,” Sammy said, a line of hope in his voice. Dean gestured to the storage unit.

“Keep going. I’ll keep lookout,” he said.

The larger one leaned his shotgun up against the chicken wire and retrieved the wire cutters from where he dropped them earlier. Dean moved down the hall a little, further from the unit.

“Come out, little ghosty,” Dean called, shotgun to his shoulder.

Ghosty?

That one threw him. Don crouched lower still and ducked behind the storage unit where he was hiding, watching Dean creep up out of the corner of his eye.

His earbud screeched slightly as the call came through on his radio.

“We’re here, Don, where are you?”  Colby’s voice was deafening against the echoing silence of the large room.

Dean heard it and spun around, shotgun to his shoulder. He froze when he saw Don staring back at him, gun pointed up.

“Sam, feds!” Dean yelled. Before he could fire off a shot, Don ducked and rolled away, scrambling to his feet and rushing out into the opening.

“Stop FBI!!” Don yelled, raising his gun to the suspect.

Dean didn’t fire, just trained his gun on him and hesitated. He let out a loud curse.

“Damnit! Sam!” he yelled.

Don swiveled his head to the other suspect, but he was no longer at the storage unit. Don barely had a moment to think what that meant before something unforgiving slammed against the back of his head.

He went down hard, cheek to concrete. His suspects were fleeing, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Before he blinked out of consciousness, he thought he saw a tall gray shape appear before him.

“Don! Hey, you okay?”

Don blinked back to reality with a groan. David was kneeling beside him, hand on his arm as he helped Don into a sitting position. Don shrugged him off and sat up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bump,” he said. He slipped a hand up to the back of his head. The larger of the two suspects—Sam—had hit him pretty damn hard. “How long was I out?”

“Maybe two minutes?” David said.

“They can’t have gotten far. Go! I’m fine.”

David nodded. He and Colby ran to where Don pointed, in the direction of where he saw the two suspects fleeing.

Don got to his feet and went to examine the storage unit the two suspects had been trying to break into when he’d interrupted them. Sam had almost cut through the section of chicken wire and it sagged down from the top. One of their duffel bags was on the floor in front of the unit. Don knelt and rummaged through it. Knives, a couple of sawed-off shotguns, a box of rounds with…something that wasn’t gunpowder stuffed inside. An industrial box of salt and lighter fluid… Don’s eyebrows pinched together at that last one. Just what had those two been planning before they were interrupted, and what was so important in this storage unit?

Why hadn’t they shot him?

It was clear they were murderers…possibly arsonists. If they had been planning on burning down the building, then why had the man Dean hesitated in shooting him when he had the chance?

And what the heck was the salt for?

Don shook his head and stood. Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he swung his gun up to face it.

The same gray figure from before stood in front of him. A tall lady, dressed in dirty rags, with long, gray-white hair. He recognized her from just before he had lost consciousness.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” Don asked. The woman stared hollowly at him from behind the curtain of her hair, as if looking straight through him to the other side. “Ma’am? What are you doing down here?” Don checked his weapon and held up his hands. “I’m a federal agent, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, slipping the gun into its holster at his waist. “Who are you?” he asked.

Still no response, though the woman’s head rose a fraction to stare at him this time.

A shiver ran down Don’s spine. The woman’s eyes were pure white.

Blind? He thought, before all hell broke loose.

“Get down!” a voice shouted from behind him. Don hit the floor out of reflex and heard the shot go off. The woman screeched and then disappeared into a cloud of gray smoke.

“What the hell!?” Don blurted, scrambling to his feet. He whirled around to see the two suspects had returned to the scene.

Don grabbed his gun from its holster and trained it on the two in an instant. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” the blond one—Dean was saying. He cocked his weapon and seemed to ignore Don for the moment to speak to his accomplice. “Bitch’ll be back. Got to hurry,” he said, moving for the duffel.

“Dean, the place is crawling with Feds,” Sam said, “Maybe we should just go.”

“No dice, Sammy, we’ve got a job to do,” Dean replied.

“I said don’t move!” Don yelled. He scooted closer and rose his gun a couple inches so that they were trained in Dean’s face.

Dean looked down the barrel of the gun and scowled. “You’re gonna be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?” he said, holding up his hands. The shotgun was still in his left, held by the barrel.

“I’m not going to allow you to burn this place down, if that’s what you mean,” Don said. He glanced behind him, keeping Dean in his peripheral.

“Looking for your backup?” Dean sneered. He seemed pretty confident they weren’t coming, which had Don’s hopes dropping and the gun with it.

“What did you do!?” he yelled, snapping the gun back up.

“Dean,” Sam said, exasperated. He addressed Don next. “Nothing, we just gave them the slip,” he said, “Doubt they’ll think to look back here for us.”

Don made a move for his earpiece, but when Dean whipped up his gun he froze.

“Make a move to call for backup and I’ll blow you away,” Dean said, his voice low and level. Don had no doubt he wasn’t bluffing.

Don lowered his hand. He would have to rely on his team being smarter than these two. With the two of them now at a standoff, his gun was pretty much decoration.

“Who was that woman?” he asked instead. He was stalling a little. Sam grunted and picked up the wire cutter, continuing where he’d left off.

“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean said, ignoring his partner’s obvious reaction.

“Try me,” Don said.

“Alright, but don’t come crying to me when they lock you up in the loony bin,” Dean said. Before Don could ask what he meant, the man continued. “Agatha Wilson, landlord, died in ’68,” he rattled off, “Her husband owned the building until recently, but then he died. Seems Agatha’s returned to the job since then. She’s been ganking people who don’t pay their rent on time.”

“Huh?”

Don had to admit, it wasn’t the most intelligent of responses. His gun wavered a little in his surprise, then snapped it back up. “You can’t really expect me to believe that,” he said. The two were toying with him, telling him fanciful stories to cover up what they were really here to do.

Sam snorted. “Told you,” he said under his breath. He finished with the wire cutters, setting them aside.

“Hurry up,” Dean told him, taking his eyes off Don for just a second.

“Yeah, shut up, I know,” Sam replied.

Don relaxed a little at the tone. They may be criminals, but the way they argued was almost like—

“So, you two related?” he asked, “Brothers, I’m guessing.”

Sam stopped what he was doing for a moment to turn around and ask. “What gave us away?”

“The way you bicker,” Don said, “Reminds me of me and my brother, actually.” The small talk was all part of his training—keep the perps talking and you’ve got a better chance coming out alive, though what he was saying was the truth.

“That so?” Dean said, curiosity peaked, it seemed. “Younger or older?” he asked.

“Younger,” Don said.

“No kidding.” Dean grinned, lopsided and cocky. “Sammy here’s the baby in the family,” he said.

“Dean!” Sam snapped.

“Just find the damn thing, Sammy!” Dean snapped back at him.

Sam continued rummaging through the storage unit. For the first time, Don realized how old everything looked, like it had been there for years.

“It’s not here, Dean,” Sam said, looking a bit lost. “Maybe we missed something.”

“What are you looking for?” Don asked. His gun was still raised, but it may as well be useless.

“It’s got to be here somewhere!” Dean snapped, looking away for a minute. He seemed overly frustrated by the whole situation. “Damnit, why can’t it ever just be a simple salt and burn? Why we gotta get stuck with dead bitches and their stupid obsessions?”

None of what he was saying made sense to Don, but his anger was apparently clear.

“It must be hidden somewhere else,” Sam said, ignoring his brother’s outburst.

“I say we salt and burn the whole thing anyway,” Dean said, “Maybe if we piss her off, she’ll tell us where it is.”

“When has that ever worked?” Sam asked, exasperated. “Anyway, unless you want to burn the whole building down, that’s not really an option.”

Dean grunted, seeming conflicted.

“What the hell do we do with the fed?” he asked instead.

“I’d say tie him up, but what if she comes back?”

“Salt him?”

Don’s breath caught in his throat at that one. He didn’t like the sound of that, whatever it meant.

“Yeah, ok.”

Sam trained his shotgun on Don and Dean lowered his. They moved as one, as though they were used to this sort of thing.

They probably were, in all reality.

“Don’t be a dick,” Dean said, moving closer to Don. “And put that friggin’ thing away before you do something stupid, huh?”

Seeing as they had the jump on him, there wasn’t much he could do. Don lowered his gun.

“Toss it,” Dean said, nodding off to the side.

Don gritted his teeth but otherwise obliged. He tossed his gun off to the side, watching his lifeline skid across the floor. He really hoped his team realized he was MIA and came back for him soon.

“Hands up, I’m gonna search you,” Dean said, stepping closer. Don tensed but did as he was told. So far the two brothers didn’t seem intent on killing him, or burning down the building like he first suspected. They didn’t seem interested in murdering any of the residents here either. Perhaps he’d been wrong and they were just thieves, after whatever was supposed to be in that storage unit.

But if that was true, then what was with all the fancy weaponry? And the salt?

And why would they be trying to burn the thing they meant to steal…unless it was evidence of some kind?

Okay, yeah, that kind of fit the whole Fed impersonation from earlier.

So the old woman had proof they were the murderers and they were here to destroy that proof. Perhaps if Don could keep them talking, he might make it back to his team in time for them to regroup.

All this flitted through his mind as Dean patted him down. He found the backup pistol at his side and the one strapped to his ankle and tossed those aside too, but not before emptying the cartridges.

Then he started unbuckling Don’s belt.

Don started a little before he realized what the man meant to do with him.

“Turn around,” Dean said once he’d pulled the belt free.

Don gritted his teeth and obliged.

“It’s a serious offense, what you two are doing right now,” he said, his back to the two of them. He was attempting to keep a level of control in the situation, but in all honesty he was at these two’s mercy. “Of course, so is murder,” he added. Maybe while he was at it, he could get a confession out of them.

He heard Dean snort, as if what he just said was funny.

“For the record, we ain’t the ones that killed those people,” Dean said. “Agatha Wilson’s your murderer, not us.”

Don felt the belt slip around his wrists and pull tight. Dean looped it around as many times as its length would allow, then pulled it even tighter and tied it off.

“You really expect me to believe that?” Don said.

Dean whipped him back around, a hard grip on Don’s bicep. His face was close, and the look in his eyes was hard when he answered.

“Honestly? No, but it’s the truth.”

Dean shoved him to the floor. Don struggled a little, wanting to keep his feet and what little tactical advantage he had, but Dean forced him down.

“Knock it off!” Dean snapped, shoving Don down again. Don sank to his knees on the cold concrete, breathing hard. He strained against the bonds around his wrists to no avail.

Dean grabbed the carton of salt and poured a line of it around Don.

“Stay in that circle if you want to live,” Dean said. His voice held a steely warning as he tossed the empty carton aside and grabbed his bag and shotgun from the floor. Sam did the same, keeping his gun trained on Don.

“Now, we’re leaving, and we’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow us,” Sam said. The two started backing away.

When they were far enough away, the two turned tail and ran.

Don growled, struggling against his bonds. He had no intentions of sitting here like a trussed holiday duck. He started to stagger to his feet when something flickered off to the right of him.

Don turned to see the woman from before standing there. He froze and held his breath, then let it go a moment later, frustrated with himself. He wasn’t really going to believe those two when they said this woman was a ghost, was he?

Was it just him, or was she flickering a little?

Suddenly the woman was right up against the edge of the salt circle surrounding him. She raised her hands, and Don flinched when it seemed she would attack.

Instead she just stood there and scraped at the air, letting out a horrific howl. For some reason it seemed she couldn’t get any closer. Don glanced down. The salt. She was right up against the edge of it, and the thought was ludicrous but it seemed to be blocking her from getting to him.

The woman screeched at him for another long minute and then Don blinked and she was gone.

He staggered to his feet, dazed. Where the hell had she gone?

“Don!” David’s voice cut across the large room.

“Over here!” he yelled. He waited for the Calvary to arrive before stepping reluctantly outside of the salt circle. He didn’t know why, but he felt a shiver run up his spine when he did. If he was being honest with himself, he had felt safer inside of it.

“What the hell happened?” Colby was suddenly there too, unbinding his hands. Don shook them out, rubbing his wrists to get the circulation flowing again.

“They circled back when you went after them,” Don explained. “I tried to stop them but they had the jump on me.”

He opened his mouth to say more—to warn them about the woman he’d seen, but thought better of it.

“They were looking for something,” he said instead, “Come on, they might still be on the premises.”

“This place is huge. How the hell are we going to find them?” Colby asked.

“They kept talking about this item…seems like it was owned by some lady who used to be the landlord here,” Don said. “I figure we start wherever she set up shop.”

“I’ll take a couple agents, start sweeping floor by floor,” David suggested.

“Good, keep your guard up. These guys know what they’re doing,” Don said. He ran a hand over his face and then walked over to retrieve his gun and the clip of bullets Dean had ejected from it. “Come on, let’s go get these guys.”

Colby stuck by his shoulder on their way out of the basement. Seemed his teammate didn’t want to leave him wide open for a third time that night.

“That woman the two suspects were looking to rob,” he said, “They give her name?”

“Agatha Wilson,” Don answered, “Said she died in ’68. Used to run the place.”

“She lived here too,” Colby said, “Couple of the residents in the canvas brought her up. Our suspects were asking about her.”

“They say anything about where she lived?” Don asked.

“Eighth floor, apartment 2,” Colby answered.

“Let’s go then.”

They heard the gunshot when they got off the elevator.

Colby and Don ran toward the sound, barreling out of the elevator and down the hall. Colby was in front of him. When they reached the room, the same gray lady was standing in the doorway.

“Stop! FBI!” Colby yelled.

The woman—Agatha Wilson, if he was to believe the two brothers—turned slowly and growled when she saw Colby.

Then suddenly Colby was thrown back against the wall, head hitting it with a loud thunk. There was another bark of a gun, and then the woman disappeared.

Don rushed around the corner, gun raised, unable to believe what he just saw.

The woman had tossed Colby aside like a rag doll without laying a finger on him.

No, he must have seen it wrong. No way ghosts were real.

The two brothers were inside. Don started to rush in, but something flickered in his peripheral and he spun around, gun raised high.

The woman again.

This time Don didn’t hesitate. He emptied a full clip into her. Each went straight through with no effect.

“What the hell!?” he blurted, ejecting the magazine. Before he could reload he was thrown back. Don raised his hands just in time to take the blow as he was smashed against the wall.

“Hey, spook!” Dean was suddenly in the hallway, shotgun raised. The gray woman turned toward him and he shot her.

She disappeared.

“What the hell…” Don grumbled, struggling to his feet.

Don glanced to the side. His weapon was in reach but still empty.

Dean caught his eye for a moment, staring at him. He lowered his gun.

Then he looked to the side and called into the room.

“Come on, Sammy, find it yet?”

“Not yet!”

There was banging going on inside the room, as if Sam were tearing the place apart with a sledgehammer.

For once in his life, Don didn’t know what to do. Go for his gun—to what end? He wasn’t going to shoot Dean, and by the time he got the thing loaded, he had no doubt Dean could disarm him again. He resolved instead to check on Colby.

“How is he?” Dean asked.

Don frowned, fingers pressed to the side of Colby’s neck.

“He’ll be fine,” Don replied. “Why do you care, anyway?”

Dean seemed a bit distracted. He kept looking around, looking for something.

Or someone.

He turned back to Don with one eye still on lookout.

“Hey, I might not like you guys, but it’s not like I want any of you dead,” he said.

Something flickered down the hall.

“Behind you!” Don yelled.

Dean spun and let off a round. The ghost of Agatha Wilson disappeared.

“What the hell is that?” Don asked. Part of him felt like maybe he should call for backup, but the smarter part of him knew better. He went as far as to retrieve his gun and reload it, slipping it back into its holster.

“Salt rounds,” Dean explained. He dug in his pocket and tossed one to Don. Don caught it easily and studied it. Inside was the same white powder he’d seen in the basement when he’d rummaged through Dean’s duffel bag.

“Huh.”

He had emptied a full clip into Agatha Wilson with no effect. It seemed the salt worked, based on what he’d witnessed tonight. Don was just about to ask how it worked when Sam called out.

“Got it!”

“About time,” Dean mumbled, moving into the room. Don followed, and Dean glanced back to him. He seemed unconcerned with what Don would do at this point.

Sam was holding a thick brown leather journal in his hand. Agatha Wilson’s accounting ledger.

“Alright, let’s send this bitch to hell,” Dean said.

Sam dropped the book in a metal waste bin. He poured some salt over it and then lighter fluid. He tossed these two aside and dug in his pocket, coming out with a box of matches.

Agatha Wilson flickered back into the room for her closing scene. She rushed at Sam, seeming to realize what he was doing.

Dean raised his gun, but the ghost swatted him to the side and he hit the wall, crumpling to the floor. Sam looked up in alarm, struggling to light the matches on the fly before Agatha could attack.

Don was still holding the round of salt in his hand. He drew his gun and threw it at the ghost, letting off a shot. It hit true to its target, blasting the round open and spraying salt everywhere.

Agatha disappeared.

Sam seemed shocked for a second, then remembered his task. He fumbled with the matchbook.

Agatha reappeared, barely two feet from Don, but that had been his only viable ammo. She advanced in a flash, forcing him back with an invisible force. Don felt cold fingers around his neck when she raised her hand, but she wasn’t touching him.

Across the room, Dean was just getting to his feet. He swung his gun up.

Finally Sam got the matchbook to catch and threw it into the bin with the ledger.

Agatha Wilson let out an anguished screech and then disintegrated in a flash of fire, as though she were made of the same paper as the ledger burning in the waste bucket. Don felt her grasp release. He gasped for breath, one hand on his knee and the other at his throat.

Dean lowered his gun with a sigh.

“Thank friggin’ god that’s over,” he said, relieved.

Don just breathed, his brain trying to reconcile everything he’d just witnessed as his body recovered from the attack. His felt his legs caving when he thought of how close it’d been.

Suddenly Sam was there with an arm under his armpit.

“Woah, take it easy,” he was saying.

“What. The hell?” Don forced out, gripping the man by the arm.

“Yeah, first one’s the worse. Don’t worry, you get used to it,” Dean was saying.

“That thing—that was a—” Don couldn’t seem to get the word out, it was too crazy.

“Ghost?” Sam supplied, “Yeah.”

“What—” Don started, but Dean cut him off.

“No offense, but maybe you can have your little metaphysical crisis once we’re gone?” he said.

Don sobered up at that, straightening to his full height. Sam let go of him when he seemed okay to stand on his own. The fact that the younger brother was a full head and a half taller than him suddenly made him uneasy.

“Sorry,” Sam said, and then Don felt the butt of a gun against his head.

He went down for the second time that night.

This time he awoke in a hospital room. His head was throbbing where Sam had hit him, and his throat was sore from where—

Don screwed his eyes shut again, trying to remember the details. Everything was a bit hazy, and some of the things he was remembering made absolutely no sense.

“Hey, Don, you okay?”

Don opened his eyes to find his brother Charlie looking at him with deep concern on his face.

“Yeah, Chuck, I’m fine. Just a headache,” Don lied. His head swiveled around the room. “How long was I out?”

“Couple of hours,” Charlie replied. He seemed unduly worried about his brother’s health.

“Colby?” Don asked.

“He’s fine, he woke up when the paramedics arrived,” Charlie explained. “Mild concussion and some bruising, but that’s it.”

“Good.”

Charlie hesitated.

“Don, what happened?” he asked. His voice broke, and it told Don just how worried his little brother was.

“Look, don’t worry about it, everything worked out in the end,” Don said soothingly.

“You ended up in the hospital!” Charlie exclaimed, “I didn’t get you the data on time, and now—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Don said, “I don’t think the data would have helped on this one, okay?”

“What happened?” Charlie asked again.

Don sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

Don read the report later that day once the hospital released him. Apparently when backup arrived, the door to room 802 had been open, Don unconscious inside, Colby just starting to stir.

In the center of the room, agents had found the charred remains of what looked to be a leather-bound journal in an old metal waste bin. Forensics discovered it to be Agatha Wilson’s accounting ledger.

Their two suspects were long gone. They staked the place out the next night just to be sure, but the brothers didn’t return. It seemed they got what they came for.

Mysteriously enough, the murders stopped. No one had been killed the night of the raid, and the evidence was pointing more and more to the events being unrelated incidents. Don and his team couldn’t find a shred of evidence linking the murders to their suspects—or to anyone else for that matter. No physical evidence was to be found, and his team couldn’t make head nor tails of the whole affair. The case dried up within a week. Nothing turned up about their two suspects either. Without a last name to go by, Don didn’t have much hope of ever catching up with them.

He sighed and sank into the arm chair in the living room where his dad sat watching a game. Don took a sip of beer and sighed again. This case had him chasing his tail. All he ended up with was more questions, more missing pieces to the puzzle.

“Something on your mind, Donny?” Alan asked his son. He muted the game, knowing the look on Don’s face all too well. Something was eating at him.

“Can I ask you something?” Don asked. He hesitated when Alan nodded, seeming unsure where to start. “What do you think about…ghosts?” Don asked.

“Ghosts?” Alan repeated, surprised, “I thought this was about a case.”

“It is. Sort of.” Don let out a frustrated sound and ran his hand over his face. “Just…answer the question. Do you believe they exist?”

Alan pondered the question seriously before answering.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do.” Don’s gaze snapped up to meet his father’s. “Your mother…” Alan explained, “I swear I’ve seen her out of the corner of my eye. Mostly in the rose garden.”

“And you never thought to say anything?” Don said, “Damnit, dad!”

“Would you have believed me if I had?” Alan countered, “You boys are more alike than you realize. Neither of you believe in anything you can’t see.”

“Yeah, well…” Don shook his head, “I’m not so sure,” he said.

“What, did you see something?” Alan asked, sitting forward to the edge of the couch.

Don nodded reluctantly.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense here,” he admitted, “Much as I don’t want to believe it.”

“Huh,” Alan said, “How about that.”

“Yeah,” Don echoed, “How about that?”

Because that would mean…not only had Sam and Dean saved his life, they also solved the case.

When he thought of it like that, things actually started to make sense, crazy as it sounded.

Then again, Don had pulled the trigger on Agatha twice. It was hard to deny the glaring results of both attempts.

Don sighed. He’d write his closing report in the morning and call off the search. Last thing he wanted to do was go after the good guys.

Even if they had broken about a dozen laws and landed him in the hospital with a concussion.

Don rose and went to the kitchen. He had a few things he wanted to check out.

End