Chapter 5: Buffalo! Continuation 3
The girl was in shock, and the brothers were acting like it was ridiculous. Sam announced that he knew this girl: "You're a neutral Indian tribe, aren't you? The one who lived here until he was carved by the Iroquois? The neutral had a shamanistic culture, but that didn't save them. That's where you got the rudiments of magic. Why did you decide to harm people with your gift... Where is your sanctuary?
First, the girl waved her head, tense at every mention of her ancestors, then Sam promised her that they wouldn't hurt her if Magda's acne disappeared. He said something strange, like no witch had ever bragged about it before. And then the girl took them somewhere.
I didn't go, I had enough upheaval already. Witches, Indian shamans, hand-held ball zippers. I've known for a long time that I'm going crazy, but still I don't have the last detail to get off the road, and I'm not in a hurry to find it.
There was a strange noise coming from somewhere else, but I wasn't paying attention to it. The guys came back twenty minutes later and headed straight for the exit, muttering about amateurism and inability to even tie bags. Sam left the upset girl who was following them: "You'd better grow flowers, you're good at it. I tried to talk to my brothers, hinting that I was starting to collect strange things around me.
- And you know what the strangest thing is? - Sam noticed as if he was walking, but I realized that he was very interested in this question. - Hackie didn't look at you like you weren't in the room at all.
Dean looked at me as well, but I just shook my shoulders. Why pay attention to me, the Winchesters are, and who am I?
Except Sam made a mistake - the girl noticed me. When we got into the car, I let myself look back at the little Indian witch's house. She was standing on the doorstep looking right at me. And on her face, with her eyes wide open and her mouth closed with her hand, there was endless horror.
Chapter 6.
31 October, 19.17
And here we are, after all, in Buffalo.
We did not talk the rest of the way here. I thought for a long time whether I wanted to know what was going on or not, and gradually I started to get greased. I looked at the road as if through a fog, even though the rain was long gone. No wonder all the men we met by the side of the road reminded me of Scott. The last time he was standing at the signpost, with his backpack on his shoulders, he took a long, black look at our car.
Buffalo seemed very Portland-like to me. I rarely went downtown there, except at night, and the suburbs looked exactly the same. I even saw the building, a copy of the squat that our company occupied last summer. No comparison to Dallas. Dallas is straight streets, pipes and dust. There are so many trees in Buffalo that the city seems green. Seriously, there's a park in the park.
The funny thing is that the president was also killed in Buffalo. William McKinley, the 25th president, came to see the Pan-American exhibition and paid for it with his own brains. He was killed by some anarchist, who then got an electric shock by all the rules.
Unlike the Dallas, the Buffalo people buried their dead president long ago and were not going to resurrect him. They still liked Kennedy better, I think.
We didn't drive through the streets of Buffalo for long, because Mom worked at the Holiday Inn, which had a nice website with an internet travel plan. It's just a pity that when we called this hotel and tried to find out if any of their employees were Sharon Waters, we were always told that the internal rules forbade calling or giving information about employees on the service phone. F...k them.
Half an hour before we arrived at the hotel, I started to think about what I would do when I found Sharon. By the time we got to the Holiday Inn, I had already starved almost all my nails. In reality, with color-changing lights on the facade, the hotel looked even cooler than in the picture.
I couldn't even go into that hotel to say my mother wasn't there either. It was like I had some kind of radar in me that was tuned in to her. I refused to go inside, saying that my sneakers wouldn't let me get past the doorman anymore.
The brothers went there on their own, but soon the disappointed returned - Sharon quit. But they gave them her home address - contrary to Winchester's information, she didn't live in a hostel.
This house, a four-storey house with rows of identical windows, without any balconies, hanging over the sidewalk, gave me hope. She could live here. It was the right place for her.
And I wasn't wrong, like the old man who opened the apartment door told me. Mom really lived in this house a month ago. But then suddenly I packed up and left. She said she would go home. She didn't leave her address, she still didn't get any letters and didn't plan to write to anyone.